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matthewtkachuk · 8 months

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bad at love

Breaking your brother's only unspoken rule—don't date his teammates—has never been an issue in your adult life. Until now.

pairing: jt compher x reader

warnings: angstttt, smut, a minor car accident with mentions of injury (broken bone/concussion), and the usual (alcohol, swearing, etc. etc.)

word count: 4.9k

a/n: hiiiiii @comphy-and-cozy i'm your super secret fic exchange writer! sorry this is a day late and a dollar short. one of these days @wyattjohnston is going to perma-ban me from participating in exchanges. until that date she remains my ever loyal editor. mad thanks to @thomasschabot for reading it first and telling me they loved it even though they're contractually obligated to do so and for physically being there when the fic idea popped into my head <3

It’s not the first time you’ve shown up at your big brother’s house with a face full of tears and a couple bags full of all your worldly possessions. Despite your best efforts and well intentions—if you had to guess—it likely won’t be the last.

It is the first time you’ve done so with him being a married man, and so it’s your sister-in-law whose comfort you really seek and are expecting to pop up behind the slowly opening door in front of you.

Unfortunately for you, and for the poor soul you really don’t know that well, it’s not Kenzy who opens the door but the over-the-summer pick-up from Colorado.

If it had been any of the other, more tenured of your brother's teammates, you might have been waved inside with nothing more than a sympathetic glance and an unspoken ‘again?’.

Instead, JT’s look of utter confusion has quickly evolved into something more akin to a quiet rage, and you’re reminded that he is a big brother himself. The look is familiar to you, having inspired a similar one on Dylan’s face more times than you can count.

It’s been a really fucking long day, and you don’t have the emotional bandwidth to have any sort of reckoning with some guy you barely know in your brothers drive way.

JT’s in the middle of some sort of sentence that begins and also ends with “What—” as you none too gently push past him in order to finally gain entry to the house.

The mix of sympathy and feigned disinterest that greets you on the faces of your brothers teammates who occupy the large sitting room has your stomach rolling uncomfortably. It seemed like the entirety of the Detroit Red Wings were always around to witness your spectacular failures. What must they think, watching you disappear with the next great love of your life, only to reappear once again with bags packed in a manner of months?

You could hazard a guess at what your brother thinks, the variants of ‘I told you so’ that live and die on his tongue without ever leaving his lips. He wraps you up in an infamous Larkin hug that serves to fix a tiny crack of your broken heart, and so you revel in it like you used to revel in the comfort when the pain you felt was because of falling off the monkey bars when you were a kid.

But, he has a house full of hockey players to entertain and Kenzy has a glass of wine with your name on it. Dylan returns to the living room and you slide out to the back porch with your sister-in-law, briefly catching the eye of the one who let you in. You don’t see the telltale signs of judgment reflecting back at you, but maybe something else entirely.

Outside you pour your soul alongside the Malbec. Curled up on the wicker chair under a blanket you tell Kenzy about Owen and the promises he failed to keep. She oohs and ahs at the appropriate times, commiserating without belittling you.

By the end of the night your heart—and the bottle of wine—feels a little lighter. There’s a little less shame as you make yourself at home in the spare bedroom that might as well permanently be yours.

Owen visits you in your sleep, breaking your heart again and again until his face morphs into one with a ginger beard and kind eyes.

Those kind eyes become a fixture in your post breakup life. If he’s not hanging around your brother's house, he’s bumping into you at the local coffee shop you frequent when you’re in Detroit. If he’s at neither, he’s obviously at the games you attend in support of Dylan alongside Kenzy.

At Dylan’s, you barely speak to his teammates and friends beyond simple pleasantries. At your coffee shop, it starts at small talk but grows to be considerable conversations that dip just below surface level.

It’s at Little Caesars Arena where he really endears himself to you though. Warm ups are arguably your favorite part of the games you attend. You like to look out at the signs, from the heartwarming to the obscene—picking out your favorites and giggling about the latter with your sister in law.

Dylan’s always been really good about tossing kids pucks, and his big bleeding heart only grew larger when he got the red C strapped to his chest. Some of the other guys, even some of the so-called vets are less good about it.

JT’s just like Dylan, maybe even a little kinder hearted. He takes the time to read the signs that are meant for him, never turns down a trade for a puck and even gives a stick to a kid whose sign says he came all the way from Denver to watch him, his favorite player, play in Detroit.

It warms your heart.

So much so you don’t even notice you’re staring until Dylan’s slamming himself into the boards in front of you to startle his wife. She rolls her eyes and calls him a name not worth repeating while you try to pretend like you weren’t just fixated on his teammate.

The thing is Dylan has never outright said his teammates are off limits. Not since you were a teenager making eyes at his USNTDP teammates anyway.

The memory keeps you from looking JT’s way the rest of the warmups, but once the puck drops your eyes can’t help but wander.

Wandering appears to be your specialty, considering you’ve gotten yourself lost in the underbelly of the arena.

Your first mistake was leaving Ken’s side—she was your ferryman, guiding you down the River Styx, and without her, you were lost in Hell.

Were you overdramatic? Maybe. Were you lost with no hope of getting out? Still overdramatic, but definitely a possibility.

The walls begin to look the same, and you’re half worried you’ve accidentally fallen into a back room or something stupid when you stumble upon the one who caught your eye earlier.

‘Stumble upon’ is a gracious way of saying you absolutely smack into him and fall on your ass.

He hauls you up effortlessly with one hand and your skin burns beneath his grasp.

“What are you doing?” you both say in near unison before he laughs.

“I was getting my shoulder checked out, what are you doing all the way over here? Are you lost?”

Regardless of what he was doing, JT obviously has more of a reason to be found wandering the halls of the arena. And he’s right, you’re most definitely lost but you play it off like he’s crazy.

“Me? Lost? No, I know exactly where we are,” you bluff.

JT’s eyebrows raise and he nods slowly. “Which is…?”

Well, he’s called your bluff but he also gave you a key context clue. “Near the athletic trainer, obviously.”

He laughs again and it has your cheeks feeling hot.

“Okay fine, maybe I’m a little bit lost and maybe I was contemplating how I’d be trapped down here forever before you knocked me over.”

“I’m sorry, but you ran into me.” You roll your eyes and begin to argue, but he doesn’t let that happen. “Doesn’t matter, I can help you find your way out.”

You swoon dramatically, only half joking as you reply “My hero.”

Now that you’re no longer focused on navigating your way out of Pan’s Labyrinth, you’re free to focus on your close proximity to JT. Based on the way his eyes dart between meeting your own and staring at your lips, you assume he’s just as aware.

Is this not what you’ve been wanting since you knocked on Dylan’s door? But that’s part of the problem, and you’re sure JT is thinking the same. Not only is your brother his teammate—and you’ve always been off limits to your brother's teammates to your chagrin growing up—but he’s JT’s captain, too. There’s a million ways this thing could go wrong and blow up in both of your faces.

You could get caught, and be forced to sit with Dyl’s disappointment. You could hurt the one person in your life who consistently showed up for you and loved you and cared for you.

Not to mention you could risk it all for nothing—could crash and burn spectacularly as you were wont to do. Could fuck it all up with not only your brother, but JT too and be left with nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d gone behind your brother’s back, but you had a sneaking suspicion things would be worse than they were when you were 15 to his 16.

Ultimately you decide fuck it, because what’s life without a little risk?

Tentatively, you slide your hand over the rough beard covering his jaw. When he doesn’t flinch or move away from you, you lean in closer.

He’s not pulling away, but he’s also not moving closer, letting you make the first move.

It’s probably a terrible fucking idea, but you’ve never been accused of being someone who makes good decisions when it comes to romantic partners.

The first press of your lips to his is cautious, barely a brushing of your mouths, just to get a taste. Quickly you become a woman obsessed. Unable to get enough, the kisses turn frenetic, bordering on sloppy.

He reciprocates in kind, his mouth hot and heavy on yours while his hands grasp and pull and hold. His very essence consumes you, taking over all of your five senses and pulling noises from you that you didn’t know existed.

If your arm burned from his grasp earlier, your entire body has caught fire.

You’re unaware or probably more accurately uncaring of your public nature, despite your earlier hesitance. Now you just want more and more and more of JT, as much as he is willing to give and maybe even a little more.

He seems to be on the same page, entire body wrapping around you and pulling you deeper and deeper.

Unconsciously your hands begin to pull at the waistband of his pants and it’s then that the two of you finally separate.

You’re worried you’re going to find regret in his eyes and excuses on his tongue, but he’s just looking at you intently.

“Not like this,” he says. “Not here.”

“I don’t want to wait,” you protest, but he shushes you with his mouth.

“It’ll be worth the wait.”

And worth the wait it is.

It's sexy at first. Clandestine meetings in dark hallways, sneaking in and out of JT’s apartment that’s on the same floor as Jake Walman’s, covert texts and quiet phone calls where you get off on the sound of each other's voices.

It doesn’t take long for you to want more, though. To fantasize about not just what his calloused hands can do to your body, but what it would be like to hold one in your own while walking down the street. To show up at a home game and have everyone know you were there to support not only your brother, but JT too.

It’s a fantasy that is only stoked by the comfort you feel walking around JT’s apartment in just his t-shirt with his number on the shoulder. By nights spent together at his dinner table, on his couch, in his bed. By sweet texts and stupid memes and random photos of things that made him think of you.

You don’t dare speak your desires out loud though. For fear of JT not wanting the same thing or for fear that he would, you’re not quite sure.

It’s a tough situation to be in. One where you’re worried you're heading to a fork in the road that has JT on one side and your brother on the other.

You have no delusions about the two paths eventually forging back together again, know that you’ve come dangerously close to that intersection marked with a big fat caution sign.

Probably you should speak to JT, get on the same page about where you’ve been and where you’re going. Following that, assuming he secretly yearns for the same thing you do, you should probably then come clean to Dylan.

Probably you should do a lot of things, but unfortunately what is done in the dark always comes to the light and sometimes it happens quicker than you can make your mind up.

A road win presumably has JT in a good mood. He’s texted you letting you know he’ll be home before midnight, requesting your presence in his bed.

It’s an easy yes, considering you’re already in the aforementioned bed. It’s nice to get out of Dylan’s house, of the suffocating feeling that you’re intruding in someone else’s home, on someone else’s life.

There’s really nothing particularly sexy about the way he finds you, but his eyes darken upon finding you curled up in his bed just the same. You’re not attempting to recreate a sexy pose from a boudoir photo shoot, and one of JT’s shirts and a pair of boy shorts aren’t exactly fancy lingerie.

That doesn’t stop him from dropping his bag dramatically and stripping from his dress shirt and pants.

“Awfully presumptuous,” you say as if the very fact that you’re in his bed in not much more clothing than he is.

He shrugs, “Not presuming anything. I’m fine if you just want to sleep, but I’m sure as shit not going to sleep in those dress pants. Bad enough I had to sit through a plane ride like that.”

His tone is teasing, but the implication that he would be just as fine falling asleep beside you as anything else pretty well takes all the fight out of you.

“C’mere,” you say instead of a catchy comeback, lifting the covers and inviting him into his own bed.

He wastes no time sliding in beside you and curling up around your body. “Hi.”

You snort and hide your face in his neck. “Corny.”

“I’ll show you corny,” he says, but you shush him by pulling his face closer to yours until your lips brush.

“Thought I was presumptuous,” he says upon breaking the kiss.

You roll your eyes—“Shut up.”—and kiss him again.

He doesn’t manage to keep his mouth shut, but at least this time it’s to slip his tongue into your mouth.

The temperature of the room rapidly increases—between the weight of his body covering your own and your body’s reaction to his fervid kiss, you feel the need to lose at least one item of clothing.

“I need—“

Luckily he quickly understands what you’re trying to accomplish by pulling at the hem of your shirt, lifting off of you long enough to assist in removing it from your body.

He makes a noise of appreciation at the bare skin revealed to him before diving back into your lips, this time with one hand cupping your right breast.

Appreciative noises of your own build in your throat when that hand slides down your body to dip into your underwear. It’s teasing touches at first, until you reciprocate by cupping him through his boxer-briefs.

Finally you both shed that last remaining layer, uncaring of where they end up in the bedroom. There’s a brief pause while he rolls on a condom and then he’s entering your body like it was made for him and him alone.

There’s no rush about his pace, just gentle thrusts and soft moans and sweet praises.

Sex with JT is so good, better than with anyone else you’ve ever been with. He’s the very opposite of a lazy, selfish lover. It’s like your needs and your pleasure come first, and you certainly do too.

The positioning of your bodies is so intimate, bodies close, mouths slotted over each other with intermingling breaths.

You worry you’re getting too caught up in that intimacy, possibly running in a direction not quite warranted and so you seek to depersonalize it a touch.

“Let me,” you say softly while gently pressing a hand against his shoulder, indicating you want him to lay on his back. He moves willingly, even helping you climb atop him.

It feels just as good with you on top, and the bit of distance between your upper halves means you can breathe a bit better.

It’s easy to get lost in the feeling, to tilt your head back and focus on your movements and the feel of his bruising grip on your hips.

Feeling the pressure build in your stomach, you slide a hand down your abdomen to where your bodies meet while the other grasps your breast just for something to hold on to. The added friction to your clit is pulling you closer and closer as you move on top of him.

He’s staring up at you with lust filled eyes, mouth open in a mix of awe and pleasure. A look of almost disbelief on his face. His hands are still on your hips, now helping the movement of your body on his when your body lights up like the fourth of July with your orgasm.

It’s hard to keep moving while in the throes of pleasure, but it’s like JT can read your mind, gripping your hips and thrusting up into you until he finishes too.

Your whole body tingles as you collapse on top of him, relishing in the feel of his arms wrapping around your body. Leisurely you kiss for a minute, until your heart rate returns to normal and you feel like you’re not likely to fall over when going to the bathroom to clean up.

When you return, you’ve slipped on one of his shirts once again. There's a soft look on his face as you crawl into bed beside him. It only cracks when you quietly whisper, “should we order pizza?”

“I think you’re the girl of my dreams,” he laughs.

The room is quiet, filled with only the sounds of your breathing and occasional kissing as you wait for the delivery.

Finally the doorbell rings. “I got it,” you tell JT and pull on a pair of discarded sweatpants before pulling the drawstring so they don’t fall.

You don’t bother to check the peephole, certain it’s your food which turns out to be a giant mistake.

Not only is it not your pizza, it’s also the last person you want to catch you with sex hair in oversized clothing that obviously belongs to the guy you’ve just had sex with.

Dylan’s mouth has dropped so far down it would be comical if it wasn’t also horrifying.

“Dylan I–” you start to explain yourself but pause midway through. How could you even begin to explain?

“I can’t believe this.” He shakes his head, hands curling at his side. “Actually no, I can’t believe this from JT, I can definitely believe this from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snap.

Your brother laughs sardonically, “Well you’re not exactly known for making the right decisions when it comes to relationships.”

JT exits his room, no doubt lured by the loud voices and the lack of food. “Hey man, come on, let's talk about this like adults.”

“Like adults?” Dylan is incensed in a way you’ve never seen before. “Now you want to talk about things like adults? The time to talk was before you started sleeping with my sister behind my back.”

“I’m sorry you found out like this–” JT continues to try to defend himself, defend you while you stand there speechless.

Dylan interrupts, “Sorry I found out or sorry you got caught?”

JT goes to respond but Dylan cuts him off again. “I trusted you dude. I told you she was off limits, and not only did you ignore me, you went behind my back.” He then turns to you. “And you? My teammate? Seriously? You couldn’t have chosen literally any other douchebag to treat you wrong?”

That snaps you out of your stupor. “JT doesn’t treat me bad!”

A different kind of look crosses your older brother's face then. “Well when he does, don’t come running back to my house and crying to me.”

Dylan slams the door and you sit in the quiet of the room for a minute with your ears ringing.

The reality of the situation hits you.

“I can’t stay there, God not only am I a fuck up but I’m homeless too.”

“You can always stay here,” JT offers and it really bothers you that you can’t tell if he wants you to, or if he’s just offering because of his hand in the most recent blow up of your life.

“I’m pretty sure his baby sister shacking up with his teammate he doesn’t want her with isn’t exactly going to win me any favors with Dyl,” you reply.

“Well I’m pretty sure he’d rather you be here than living on the street.”

Ordinarily you think that would probably be true but the look on his face when you opened JT’s door is seared into your mind. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

In the end you do move your things into JT’s apartment. Kenzy is the accomplice to your crime, helping you pack your things while the team has practice, wrapping you in her arms and telling you that he just needs some time.

“He loves you,” she says.

You’re not so sure.

That’s probably overdramatic. You’re sure he loves you, and you sure hope he forgives you. You’re just worried that this time you’ve both done and said things you can’t take back and you’re not sure how things will move forward from here.

It’s not all bad though.

Living with JT is surprisingly easy, even right one might say. You fit directly into each other's lives like perfect puzzle pieces. His strict routines of practices and morning skates and games—both home and away—allow you the space to complete your own work on your own time. Cooking pregame meals together and curling up beside him when he takes his pregame naps quickly become some of your favorite activities.

You dance around the feelings talk, never quite broaching the subject. But it can’t feel this right if it’s all one sided, all in your head, right?

He’s even kind enough to let you drive his SUV even though the price tag makes you nervous every time you’re behind the wheel. You’re not a bad driver, as evidenced by the fact JT lets you drive the Audi, but you are possibly on this side of over cautious as a result of a bad car accident in high school.

Three home games after your fight with Dylan and approximately zero words or text messages exchanged between the two of you, you find yourself in the passenger seat.

“I could have taken the bus,” you protest weakly, almost knowing exactly what JT’s response will be.

“Over my dead body,” he laughs, eyes flickering over to you before focusing on the traffic in front of him. “Just pick me up after practice or text me if you’re still out and I’ll find a ride.”

“I’m not gonna leave you stranded at the arena, of course I’ll be there after you’re done.”

It’s oddly domestic, kissing JT across the console and then sliding into the driver’s seat that he vacates. You wait as he grabs his gear and walks away, you do really love watching him walk away.

The moment is cut short by catching a glimpse of your brother's vehicle. He’s not in it, obviously already inside the arena, but the sight of it makes your stomach clench all the same.

Thoughts of Dylan and his disappointment and worry that he’ll never forgive you flood your mind the entire drive. So much so that when the next light turns green, you let off the gas without realizing that there is a larger SUV running the red.

It all happens so fast. The screeching of tires, the crunching of metal, the pop of airbags going off and then a blinding pain in your wrist.

In the end, you’re pushed into the wrong lane of traffic, the other vehicle damn near in the passenger seat you occupied only fifteen minutes ago. There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and you offhandedly wonder if this is what it feels like to get boarded.

“Are you okay? I’m calling 911.” The words sound like they’re underwater, and it takes you several seconds to realize they’re being spoken to you. Turning your head to the side, you try to get the words out to say you’re fine, but you’re blocked by the airbag that has gone off near your head.

Emergency services come quickly, a perk of living in Detroit you suppose. Embarrassingly, it takes the jaws of life to peel off the driver's side door to get you out. A cop takes your statement and then you end up in the back of an ambulance. Despite your assurances that you’re fine, one raised eyebrow from the female paramedic and the idea that you’ve probably broken your wrist has you agreeing to the ER visit.

It’s then that someone asks you if there’s anyone you want to call. Heartbreakingly, your first thought is Dylan and your second thought is you’re not sure he’ll pick up.

Your third thought is JT and his SUV that you’ve probably totaled.

One of the paramedics helps you dial the equipment manager’s number, the one you were instructed to only ever use in case of emergencies. If ever there was a reason…

When he picks up the phone, you have to explain that you’ve gotten into a tiny fender bender and if you could please speak with JT and yes I mean JT not Dylan.

“Are you okay?” JT all but demands when he picks up the phone.

“I’m totally fine,” you fib, and then concede based on that same female paramedic once again raising an eyebrow. “Okay so I might have broken my wrist but–”

“Which hospital are you going to?” he interrupts.

You tell him, but try to say, “It’s okay you don’t have to–”

He interrupts again, “I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up quicker than you can ask how he’s going to get there without the car that you’ve wrecked.

True to his word, he’s sitting on a chair in your hospital room when you return from getting an x-ray. He stands abruptly upon your entrance and takes the three strides to stand in front of you before hesitating, like you’re made of glass.

You take matters into your own hands and slide your good arm around his back, careful to not jostle your injured wrist. There's a slight tremor to his body that you feel run through yours.

“I’m okay,” you say comfortingly, rubbing your good hand along his back before pausing. “Your car though….”

The tears are already starting to pool in your waterline as he pulls back.

His hands slide to cup your jaw as he speaks seriously, “I don’t give a damn about the car. It can be replaced, you can’t.” A tear slips out before you can stop it and he brushes it away with his thumb before kissing you softly. “I care about you. So much. And that phone call scared the shit out of me.”

Despite the less than stellar background and circumstances, his words have your heart leaping in your chest. “I really care about you too,” you whisper and kiss him again.

“Where is she?” you hear coming down the hall and it occurs to you that your brother is still your emergency contact.

“Did you tell him?” you ask JT who promptly shakes his head.

You don’t even have time to step back from JT’s embrace before Dylan comes crashing into the room. JT wisely pulls away and gives Dylan the space to place his hands on your shoulders and scan for any signs of injury.

“I’m okay,” you reassure him but the words feel hollow considering they’re the first you’ve said to him in more than a week. “Broken wrist they’re gonna cast and probably a concussion. Can’t say the same for the car.”

Eerily similar to JT, Dylan replies, “Cars can be replaced–”

“But I can’t,” you say in unison with him. “I know, JT said the same thing.”

It’s like Dylan remembers his teammate then, eyes sliding over to where JT stands and then back down to your slowly purpling wrist.

The room is silent except for the sounds of medical equipment and the faint sounds occurring outside the door.

“I’m sorry,” you say in unison with your brother again.

“No, I'm sorry,” he says first. “I’m your big brother and I’ve seen you get your heart broken too many times. I’m always going to worry about you but I was out of line.”

“I’m sorry we went behind your backs and I’m sorry you found out that way. We should have just talked to you, I should have just talked to you.”

“Truce?” he asks, like you’re 10 and 11 again, fighting over something silly and trivial.

“Truce,” you confirm, hissing when you knock your broken wrist as you pull him in for a hug.

Later, when you’ve gotten over the guilt of totaling JT’s barely used Audi and the cast on your wrist is long gone, it’ll be a fun story to tell at parties. About how it took an idiot running a red light for you to define your relationship with JT and to reconcile with your brother.

#nhl fic #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #nhl fanfiction #nhl fanfic #nhl x reader #jt compher fic #shelb writes

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cuttergauthier · 2 years

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Who I Write For

Hey everyone this is a list of who I write for.

If you have someone else in mind, send me an ask and i’ll let you know if i want to write for him. I’m not picky

Also if anyone would want me to start an AU let me know!

How to request

I DO NOT WRITE SMUT

New jersey Devils

Jack Hughes

Nathan Bastian

Dawson Mercer

Luke Hughes

Nico Hischier

Timo Meier

Brendan Smith

Vancouver Canucks

Quinn Hughes

Brock Boeser

Elias Pettersson

Cole McWard

Anthony Beauvillier

Dakota Joshua

Toronto Maple Leafs

Mitch Marner

Auston Matthews

William Nylander

Matthew Knies

Morgan Reilly

Buffalo Sabres

Owen Powers

Tyson Jost

Devon Levi

Erik Johnson

Jeff Skinner

Tage Thompson

Dylan Cozens

Casey Mittelstadt

Carolina Hurricanes

Michael Bunting

Andrei Svechnikov

Jack Drury

Pittsburgh Penguins

Pierre-Oliver Joseph

Ryan Graves

Ty Smith

Columbus Blue Jackets

Nick Blankenburg

Kent Johnson

Cole Sillinger

Adam Boqvist

Zach Werenski

Adam Fantilli

Vegas Golden Knights

Brendan Brisson

San Jose Sharks

Thomas Bordeleau

Tristen Robins

William Eklund

Henry Thrun

Luke Kunin

Anaheim Ducks

Trevor Zegras

Mason McTavish

John Gibson

Frank Vatrano

St Louis Blues

Jake Neighbours

Colton Parayko

Ottawa Senators

Josh Norris

Brady Tkachuk

Mathieu Joseph

Jakob Chychrun

Zack MacEwen

Tim Stutzle

Thomas Chabot

Minnesota Wilds

Matt Boldy

Brock Faber

Brandon Duhaime

Los Angeles Kings

Alex Turcotte

Quinn Byfield

Brandt Clarke

Pierre Luc Dubois

Alex Laferriere

Florida Panthers

Matthew Tkachuk

Sam Bennett

Mackie Samoskevich

William Lockwood

Aaron Ekblad

Josh Mahura

Brandon Montour

Colorado Avalanche

Cale Makar

Bowen Byram

Nate Mackinnon

Miles Wood

Detroit Red Wings

J.T. Compher

Dylan Larkin

Joe Veleno

Jake Walman

Boston Bruins

Mason Lohrei

Johnny Beecher

Jeremy Swayman

Jake Debrusk

Charlie Mcavoy

Montreal Canadiens

Cole Caufield

Arber Xhekaj

Kirby Dach

Christian Dvorak

Alex Newhook

New York Islanders

Noah Dobson

Mat Barzal

Philadelphia Flyers

Morgan Frost

Cam York

Jamie Drysdale

Joe Farabee

Tyson Foerster

Noah Cates

New York Rangers

Alexis Lafrenière

Adam Fox

K’Andre Miller

Braden Schneider

Chris Kreider

Zac Jones

Arizona Coyotes

Logan Cooley

Dylan Guenther

Clayton Keller

Nick Schmaltz

Chicago Blackhawks

Lukas Reichel

Seth Jones

Alex Vlasic

Connor Bedard

Tampa Bay Lightnings

Brandon Hagel

Anthony Cirelli

Seattle Kraken

Brandon Tanev

Jamie Oleksiak

Philipp Grubauer

Will Borgen

Dallas Stars

Wyatt Johnston

Jake Oettinger

Rope Hintz

Craig Smith

University of Michigan

Luca Fantili

Rutger McGroarty

Nick Moldenhauer

Phil Lapointe

Jacob Truscott

Tyler Duke

Marshall Warren

Frank Nezar

Ethan Edwards

Michigan State University

Red Savage

Isaac Howard

Maxim Štrbák

Ohio State University

Joe Dunlap

Cam Thiesing

Davis Burnside

Caden Brown

Matt Cassidy

Minnesota University

Luke Mittelstadt

Jimmy Snuggerud

Ryan Chesley

Oliver Moore

Brody Lamb

Boston College

Cutter Gauthier

Will Smith

Ryan Leonard

Gabe Perreault

Drew Fortescue

Jacob Fowler

Will Vote

University of Wisconsin

Cruz Lucius

Charlie Stramel

Zach Schulz

Random Teams

Nick Granowicz

Jay Keranen

Colton Dach

Nathan Gaucher

+ more

AU’s

Nick Granowicz x Msu Reader

Josh Norris x Tkachuk sister

Trevor Zegras x Hughes sister

Cutter Gauthier x Hughes sister

Matthew Knies x Matthews sister

Jack Hughes x Mercer au

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flashyfucker · 3 years

Note

dylan larkin would genuinely be so good at trying to get you pregnant it’s all im thinkin about 🥰🥰🥰

bitches in heat in my inbox ONCE AGAIN??? lmao ily

yeah in a vague change of pace from my other breeding kink stuff... he'd be on weird forums looking for obscure foods that are meant to help with fertility or something and you're like "bro it's been a week of trying, can we relax" lmaooo

but also like, fucks you like clockwork tryna knock you up. twice a day, at least, makes sure you come a couple times first, every time, and he's a bit shy about his dedication to that rule at first, he's like "i read somewhere, if you orgasm first it helps, or something, i dunno.. just let me make you come." and he did see something about that, an old wives tail and probably a myth, but really he just kinda gets off on getting you off. and like... who are you to complain about that?

also lowk you have a shared note on your phones full of baby names that he scrolls after sex sometimes, just daydreamin <3

#ff.hc #cw: smut #tag: breeding #ff.asks #kaylee tag!#dylan larkin #dylan larkin smut #dylan larkin x reader #q

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tessisawriter · 5 years

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Be There For You (Dylan Larkin)

Request (anonymous): Can you do a #15 with Dylan Larkin? Maybe when you’re about to go on a study abroad or something and he doesn’t want you to leave because he’s going to miss you?

A/N: I have no idea whether UMich has a special program with the Sorbonne, but if they don’t, I’m going to pretend that they do.

Warnings: One swear word, anxiety, angst

Word Count: 927

Out of all of the goodbyes you had to say, this was by far the hardest one.

You were in the apartment that you shared with your boyfriend in Detroit, and you didn’t want to leave. The two of you were lying on his bed, Dylan with his arms wrapped around you while you pressed your head into the crook of his neck.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, Y/N,” you heard Dylan say, “You’re going to be over 3,000 miles away!”

In less than ten hours, you were leaving for Paris to spend a semester abroad at the Sorbonne. It had been a dream of yours ever since you were little to live in Paris, and for a few months at least, you would get to live that dream. But that didn’t mean it was easy to leave the person you loved most in the world behind.

You and Dylan had been dating for over two years. You met him in your economics class during your first semester at UMich, and the two of you hit it off immediately. Dylan asked you to be his girlfriend by Christmas, and your relationship survived his transition to the NHL the following year. While it was true that he didn’t move far (Detroit was only 45 minutes away from Ann Arbor), it was still tough, and the constant road games were hard to get used to. You did, though, and he asked you to move in with him this fall. While many relationships fell apart at that stage due to differences in living habits, you and Dylan had no problems living together; it felt natural. Since your relationship had survived so many hurdles intact, you were confident that it was strong enough to endure for a few months while you studied abroad.

“It’s only a few months, babe, and then I’ll be right back here with you,” you said.

“I know,” Dylan replied. “The thing is, though, I can’t even sleep when you’re not beside me on roadies; what’s going to happen when you’re gone?”

Your heart broke. You knew he didn’t mean to, but he was making you feel guilty for leaving.

“God, please don’t say stuff or I’ll never be able to leave!” you said, and you couldn’t control yourself anymore: you started sobbing into his neck.

“Shit, Y/N, please don’t cry,” Dylan murmured into your hair, trying to soothe you. “I didn’t mean to make you feel badly. I’m just going to miss you so much.”

You calmed down enough to look up at him. “I know. But you act like it’s so easy for me to pick up and move to Paris. FYI, it’s not: I’m scared out of my goddamn mind. What if I don’t find any friends? What if I have a hard time doing most of my coursework in French? I know I’m fluent but I didn’t grow up speaking the language like everyone else there…”

Dylan rubbed your back as you spilled your deepest fears. When you were finally done ranting, he said, “Feel any better?”

“A little,” you admitted. There was something cathartic about getting your fears out in the open. Once they were no longer living in your head, they seemed less scary, and sometimes, you didn’t even know why you were so anxious in the first place. You didn’t trust many people enough to open up to them, but Dylan was different. He was always different from everyone else; he made you feel at ease.

“You’re going to have no problem finding friends, Y/N. And UMich has tight connections with the Sorbonne, so if you’re having problems with the language barrier, they’ll be there to help you.”

“The latter is definitely true,” you conceded, “But I’m scared that I won’t fit in, or at the very least, that I’ll miss you too much to open up to anyone.”

There it was. Only when you said your biggest fear of them all out loud did it feel like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders.

“God, I feel like such an asshole,” Dylan said, “I should never have made you feel guilty like that.”

“It’s not about what you said before, Dyl,” you replied, “It’s just really hard for me to open up to people. When I’m around you, though, I feel safe enough to be my true self.”

Dylan was quiet for a moment before saying, “Look at me, Y/N.” You had been averting your gaze, but you forced yourself to look into his soft but steady brown eyes. “You don’t need me to open up to people. You are the smartest, funniest, and kindest person I know. I don’t know why you don’t believe in yourself the way I believe in you, but you’ve got to.”

You swallowed. This was the other thing you loved most about Dylan: even though it was hard to hear sometimes, he called everything like it was. You were using him as an excuse to fail, and you knew it.

“You’re right, babe,” you said. “Thanks for always believing in me.”

“Of course. And you know I’m just a phone call away, right? I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night: if you need to talk to me, I’ll pick up.”

“I know,” you said. “Thanks for being there for me.”

“Always,” he replied, pressing you closer to his chest. Your heart fluttered in your chest. It felt good to know that you had someone who would always be there for you no matter what.

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swissboyhisch · 5 years

Text

You know I love you right?

Pair: Dylan Larkin x Reader

Requested: Yes/No Could you do a complete Dylan Larkin fluff like he had a bad day or something

Word Count: 864

A/N: This was actually surprisingly easy to write though sorry it’s a bit short. I’m seeing my boyfriend tomorrow so that could be the reason this came to me so quickly. (Y/F/M) = Your Favourite Movie

Warnings: Pure Fluff.

THE MASTERLIST JOIN THE TAGLIST HOCKEY DISCORD

You watched Dylan missed his shot in the shoot out, meaning the Red Wings lost for the fifth game in a row. With the sound of Panthers fans and the team celebrating, you knew that Dylan wouldn’t be happy with how he played, even though he got an assist. You bid goodbye to your fellow WAGs who you were sitting with before slowly making your way to the locker room, knowing he’d want to go home straight away. You waited outside of the locker room, playing on your phone as Dylan was probably doing some post-game interviews.

Knowing Dylan would be in a bad mood, you had your best friend go to you and Dylan’s shared apartment (she has a spare key and lives in the same apartment complex) and turn on Netflix, light a few candles, pull out the couch into a bed, place many of your blankets on the couch and have your Chinese order sitting on the table in front of the couch in preparation for the two of you.

Once Dylan exited the locker room, first one to exit, you opened your arms for a hug which he walked straight into.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

He hums before following you to the car you had arrived in. You drove the pair of you home to your apartment, leading the way up to your top floor apartment. You had text your best friend just before when you had arrived to leave and take the elevator because, for some reason, Dylan liked taking the stairs. When you reached the door, you pulled your car keys out of your pocket and slipped the key in the hole, opening the door for Dylan. Dylan hummed in content when he saw the setup.

“Thank you,” He smiles, pressing a kiss to your temple before heading to your shared bedroom to change from his grey suit to a pair of sweatpants. You follow his lead and changed into one of his old MU Hockey shirt and a pair of pants. The pair of you made your way to the couch, Dylan sitting and slipping under the covers first before opening his arms for you to crawl into. You snuggled into his side after grabbing your Chinese, sharing the two combos you got.

“Use the chopsticks properly,” Dylan chirps, watching you struggle to use them.

After watching you for a few minutes, he laughs and gives you his plastic for he got with his favourite whilst grabbing the chopsticks from your hand. You blushed before grabbing the remote, flicking through things on Netflix.

“What about (Y/F/M)?” You suggest when you come across it in your Watch Again section.

He groans quietly, but loud enough for you to hear it. “We watch it last week. And the week before that. And I’m pretty sure the week before that. Can we watch something else?”

You sigh but nod, understanding where he was coming from. But after another 10 minutes of arguing over which movie to watch, he sighs.

“Let’s just watch (Y/F/M),” He gives in.

You couldn’t help but grin up at him before flicking through Netflix to find the movie again.

Throughout the movie, the pair of you cuddled, enjoying some downtime together. It was rare the two of you ever got downtime together. With your schedule and his hockey schedule, it was hard to coordinate your downtime. It was often only a breakfast together before he’s often to practise and you’re off to do your own thing then a bit of time between game and work that you see each other. But you both treasured what time together you had. Especially when it was times like these where it was just the two of you.

One thing Dylan loved about you was how passionate you could get about the things you loved, which included this movie. Dylan looked down at you mouthing the lines of the movie, too engrossed in the movie to notice he was staring at you. He knew he loved you, from the moment he saw you dancing around the house to your favourite music one morning, making him breakfast before he had to head to practise. But at this moment he realised you were his future, the one he wanted the spend the rest of his life with.

“You know I love you right?” He stated, breaking the comfortable silence.

You looked up at him with your doe eyes, “Of course I know you love me. I love you too, always.”

He smiled, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss on your lips, “Thank you.”

“For what?” You smile, giggling at his attitude.

He simply shrugs and smiles, “Everything. I’m just really grateful you chose me.”

“Because it’s not hard you’re you,” You reply, placing a hand on his cheek.

His smile widens even further before he presses a kiss to your lips before you return to your previous position. With a final kiss to your forehead, both of your attention was directed back at the tv but in the back of Dylan’s mind, he was thinking, I’m going to marry you one day.

TAG LIST:

@findapenny @mp0625 @hischierhaze @11zegras @lvrzegras @francesfarhadi @cixrosie @daisysthings

#dylan larkin #dylan larkin imagine #detroit red wings #detroit red wings imagine #nhl imagine #nhlplayerimagines #nhl imagines #nhl #swissboyhisch

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limejuicer1862 · 6 years

Text

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.

The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Gabriel Rosenstock,

according to Wikipedia,

(born 1949) is an Irish writer who works chiefly in the Irish language. A member of Aosdána, he is poet, playwright, haikuist, tankaist, essayist, and author/translator of over 180 books, mostly in Irish. Born in Kilfinane, County Limerick, he currently resides in Dublin.

Rosenstock’s father George was a doctor and writer from Schleswig-Holstein, Germany, who served as a German army doctor in World War II. His mother was a nurse from County Galway. Gabriel was the third of six children and the first born in Ireland. He was educated locally in Kilfinane, then in Mount Sackville, Co Dublin; exhibiting an early interest in anarchism he was expelled from Gormanston College, Co. Meath and exiled to Rockwell College, Co. Tipperary; then on to University College Cork.

His son Tristan Rosenstock is a member of the traditional Irish quintet Téada, and impressionist/actor Mario Rosenstock is his nephew.

Rosenstock worked for some time on the television series Anois is Arís on RTÉ, then on the weekly newspaper Anois. Until his retirement he worked with An Gúm, the publications branch of Foras na Gaeilge, the North-South body which promotes the Irish language.

Although he has worked in prose, drama and translation, Rosenstock is primarily known as a poet. He has written or translated over 180 books.

He has edited and contributed to books of haiku in Irish, English, Scots and Japanese. He is a prolific translator into Irish of international poetry (among others Ko Un, Seamus Heaney, K. Satchidanandan, Rabindranath Tagore, Muhammad Iqbal, Hilde Domin, Peter Huchel), plays (Beckett, Frisch, Yeats) and songs (Bob Dylan, Kate Bush, The Pogues, Leonard Cohen, Bob Marley, Van Morrison, Joni Mitchell). He also has singable Irish translations of Lieder and other art songs.[1]

He appears in the anthology Best European Fiction 2012, edited by Aleksandar Hemon, with a preface by Nicole Krauss (Dalkey Archive Press).[2] He gave the keynote address to Haiku Canada in 2015.

His being named as Lineage Holder of Celtic Buddhism inspired the latest title in a rich output of haiku collections: Antlered Stag of Dawn (Onslaught Press, Oxford, 2015), haiku in Irish and English with translations into Japanese and Scots Lallans.

He also writes for children, in prose and verse. Haiku Más É Do Thoil É! (An Gúm) won the Children’s Books Judges’ Special Prize in 2015.

Links:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gabriel_Rosenstock#Biography

http://roghaghabriel.blogspot.ie/ http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=gabriel+rosenstock

The Interview

Q. 1. When and why did you start writing poetry?

I think the Muse came a-courting a long, long time ago, in an age before Gutenberg, an age before papyrus, when the poet was what he always is – though the role is suppressed today – a shaman.

She keeps coming – trying to possess me fully – but she knows I’m elusive, elusive as she is. We are both Spirit, pretending to be flesh, to be real. It’s a divine play, a sport, a leela as they say in India. I also write and translate for children – mainly in Irish, or Gaelic, and this is also leelai, pure and simple!

Ireland and India have so much in common. The writings of Myles Dillon and Michael Dames are good starting points for anyone interested in exploring that connection.

Ireland herself takes her name from a tripartite goddess and I dedicated a year to her in a bilingual book inspired by the devotional poetry of India, bhakti:

https://www.overdrive.com/media/796797/bliain-an-bhande-year-of-the-goddess

I mentioned the poet-shaman. There are very few courses in Creative Writing today that teach you how to be a shaman: it can’t be taught! So they teach form iinstead, how to write a sonnet or a villanelle – five tercets and a quatrain, is it? Enjambment anybody? Poets daringly continue a phrase after a line break and expect applause.

Irish poets learn your trade, sing whatever is well made. Yeats (whom I love) has a lot to answer for. Learn your trade! Poets today are tradeswomen and tradesmen for the most part. All form, no spirit, no melody that breaks the heart.

No heart. So, the great challenge today, in my book, is to reconnect with Spirit. Otherwise, forget it.

The only way to write is to write – and read, of course. Trust the inner ear – not what the manuals tell you – trust the heart, trust language. It’s not a lifeless tool in your hands, you silly tradesman. It’s alive, it’s divine. May your poetry be a sacrifice to her!

Having said all that, I occasionally teach haiku. The way I teach haiku is simply to present the works of the grandmasters of haiku, hoping that their spirit will ”catch’ and inflame the acolyte. Many believe that Basho was the grandmaster of haibun – prose speckled with haiku – and that the greatest of the haiku masters was Buson. I cobbled together new versions of Buson, in Irish and English, a volume which also contains versions in Scots by John McDonald:

https://www.amazon.com/Moon-Over-Tagoto-Selected-Haiku-ebook/dp/B00WUXQZ54

We need more multilingual books of poetry, tanka and haiku. We need to free ourselves from the dying clutches of the Anglosphere and listen to real poetry in languages which still cherish the divine music of the spheres: one can hear that sacred music in the voice of Scots-Gaelic poet Sorley MacLean, even when he reads his masterpiece Hallaig in English translation:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzewXmgVzL4

*** ***

Haiku Enlightenment and Haiku, the Gentle Art of Disappearing are two introductions to haiku and I hope that their titles reflect the spiritual basis of haiku, something which many haikuists ignore at their peril, I regret to say; for young readers (say, 8-12 years) there’s a book called Fluttering their Way into My Head:

https://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1782010882/evertype-20

True haiku – Zen-haiku – is egoless and spontaneous and allows for ambiguity – the reader must make sense of it by drawing on her own experiences, dreams, memories and so on – and yet it’s happening in the Now (if there’s such a thing as the Now).. I’m fully aware of promoting a book such as Fluttering their Way into My Head and speaking at the same time about ego-lessness! But, you see, I don’t identify with ‘my’ books as ‘mine’. They are about as ‘mine’ as is the moon over Tagoto.

Q. 2.Ted Hughes would be glad you extol the shamanic. Who introduced you to the shamanic in poetry?

Does one need an introduction? I hold shamanism to be a vital part of my literary and cultural heritage.

http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/cg1/index.htm

I can identify with the world of Carmina Gadelica whilst the world of Philp Larkin is alien to me.

Interesting that you should mention Hughes. I advise aspiring poets to wean themselves from the dominance of English-language literature, especially when it expresses itself in WASPish terms. I know many American poets, some of whom I’ve met at literary festivals, others with whom I have a friendly e-mail acquaintance. Many of them seem straitjacketed by the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant way of walking, talking, eating, drinking, dressing – and writing! I translated a volume of poems, Cuerpo en llamas, by the late Chicano poet Francisco X. Alarcon into Irish and invited him to Ireland for the launch. He turned out to be a shaman-poet. The genuine article. We recorded the book on a cassette (built-in obsolescence?) and the opening invocation was in Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs, the language of his grandmother. I had come across Aztec poetry before, via anthologies by the likes of Jerome Rothenberg, but didn’t realize until then that Nahuatl was a living language.

During his brief stay in Ireland, Francisco gave me an Aztec name, Xolotl. I wrote a long poem of that title – in a kind of shamanic frenzy – and put it away, out of sight. Years later I looked at it again and it’s the longest poem in my selected poems translated from the Irish, The Flea Market in Valparaiso. Here’s a link to the book and a review:

https://www.cic.ie/en/books/published-books/margadh-na-miol-in-valparaiso

I’ll let the review speak for itself. Expounding further on the role of the shaman poet is best left to others. But, I’ll say this much, Paul: artificial intelligence or AI has ‘advanced’ to such an extent that robots are now writing poetry – it would almost make you join the Luddites or inspire you to form your local branch of Anarcho-Primitivists!. I think we should be reading more of John Zerzan and Paul Cudenec to fully realize what kind of world we are creating for our grandchildren. Everybody says we can’t go back, we can’t stop the march of progress. Rubbish! Of course we can go back; I don’t like military metaphors but surely a wise general knows when to retreat?

Do we want poetry written by robots? Maybe it’s just science imitating life – so much poetry, especially in English, is artificial anyway. Futurologists talk of various possible disasters down the line – caused by our relentless ‘advancement’ such as shortage of energy supplies, of food and water, melting icecaps and so on and so forth. Overfishing will result in a shortage of fish. Nobody speaks of a shortage of poetry – it wouldn’t be disastrous enough, seemingly, nor would it bother mankind very much if we speeded up the death of languages, currently estimated at one language disappearing every fortnight. It’s the survival of the fittest, isn’t it?! Is it? Is that who we are, what we are?

So what if Irish dies, if Scottish Gaelic or Nahuatl dies, if Welsh dies, if Manx dies – again! If Beauty dies, so what? Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? Well, some of us are not willing to accept such a fatalistic scenario. The World Poetry Movement, for one, has sounded the alarm. Poets are not ‘joiners’ by nature but when the future of civilization is at stake, perhaps it’s time for all poets to become focused. Jack Hirschman, poet and social activist, describes the vision of the World Poetry Movement thus:

https://www.wpm2011.org/

‘an end to war world-wide, and the creation of a world government that shares and distributes the wealth of the world generously and sensitively in the process of creating an equality that is nothing but the word Love in the eyes of everyone because it also recognizes E V E RY human being as a brother or sister. With no need of any wall separating an ‘I’ from a ‘You’, a ‘He’ from a ‘She’ …

This is a wise vision. Quixotic? Utopian? So what. We need to rekindle hope, we as citizens, we as poets.

I was fortunate enough in this my 69th year on earth, fortunate indeed to have a near-death experience. After recovering from multi-organ failure, I became conscious of the love that poured in streams at my bedside from my wife Eithne, my daughters Heilean, Saffron and Eabha, my son Tristan and conscious, as well, of the wave of reciprocated love that streamed from me to them. I was conscious, too, of the love and concern that came from friends, relations and fellow scribes.

Hirschman, above, is speaking of Love, the ultimate reality. Left-wing theorists should speak more often to us of love; it would help their cause. The author of The Wretched of the Earth tells us that his criticism of the colonizer is inspired by love, not hate.

For a long while I could not read or write. Then I asked one of my daughters would she kindly order me a copy of Palgrave’s Treasury: you see, English-language poetry was my first love, before I ‘discovered’ Irish and its potential,just as the author of Decolonising the Mind decided that African literature need not be in the language of the colonizer, French, English or Portuguese. His own outlawed language, Gikuyu, was best suited to express what he wanted to reveal. I also asked my daughter to bring me anything by my favourite author, Isaac Bashevis Singer? So, Mr Rosenstock, are you Jewish then? I used to think that my empathy for Singer’s work meant exactly that, but no, I’m not Jewish. It is the ancient art of storytelling, brought to perfection in his short stories, that makes me alive not to Jewishness as such but to humanity, in all its guises. And what of my attraction to Irish culture and to Indian philosophies, particularly Advaita and bhakti? Well, I once heard Ganesh playing Napoleon Crossing the Rhine on the uilleann pipes:

http://forums.chiffandfipple.com/viewtopic.php?t=44223

I jest. But I did have an out-of-body experience listening to piper Eoin Duignan in a pub in Dingle. Look, I don’t feel particularly Indian, German, Irish or Jewish – live Irish music and the ancient sounds of the Irish language can lift one and link one deeply to the universal spirit, the rich complexity that is the world of the senses, too; a deepening of a sense of place; a feeling for history. English carries imperial baggage with it. The scales fell from my eyes once I understood that through Irish, the literary medium of my choice, I could see and experience the world differently. Lucky Poet is a memoir by Scottish poet Hugh Mac Diarmid. It touches on some of these issues.

A year or so ago I came across an editorial in Poetry Ireland Review that mentioned at least half a dozen English poets.(I couldn’t figure out why. Was this a special edition of the review dedicated to new voices in English poetry? No.) We are still ‘looking across the pond’, i.e. to England. There is ample evidence, if you look for it, that many Anglophone Irish writers are suffering from a kind of literary Stockholm syndrome, that phenomenon described in 1973 as an extraordinary love and regard of the captured for the captor.

As an Anarchist, as an Advaitist and as an Irish-language poet, I value freedom and independence. It is the life blood of art. It may set you on a collision course against the Establishment but unless you are a Daoist poet content with herb-picking on a mountain, such a collision seems inevitable.

Q. 3. What is your daily writing routine?

I write or translate from about 10.a.m until 8pm. I suppose, ‘poet-shaman-translator’ is an accurate enough label to describe my activity. I don’t distinguish between so-called original writing, such as poetry, and translation (which I prefer to call ‘transcreation’). I see the practice of these arts as coming from the same pool of universal creative intelligence. John Minford, Emeritus Professor of Chinese, Australian National University, said something that caught my attention in Words Without Borders (Dec 7, 2018): ‘Hermits of ancient days practiced Taoist yodeling, a form of music that emulated the music of the spheres. Translation itself, the transformation of ideas and words, whereby self and the other merge into one, can be a form of Taoist practice . . .’ So, others may have ‘a daily writing routine’ as you call it I have something resembling a Taoist or Zen-Buddhist practice… maybe ‘practice’ is enough; it’s a more honest description than defining it as Taoist or Zen. It would be slightly ridiculous to call me a Taoist or anything else. I’ve admitted to being both an Anarchist and an Advaitist but really, all labels are rubbish. To paraphrase the essence of the Tao in The Taoist Way, a beautiful lecture by Alan Watts, ‘The Tao that can be labelled is not the Tao.

youtube

I translate a vast array of material for a multicultural blog: http://roghaghabriel.blogspot.ie/ I’m something of a technical dodo and must thank Aonghus O hAlmhain, blogmeister, for his work and patience. In recent years, my ‘practice’ has focused quite a lot on ekphrastic tanka and photo-haiku. The Culturium is a blog which is devoted to the arts as ‘practice’ in the meditative sense of the word: https://www.theculturium.com/?s=gabriel+rosenstock I have unsubscribed to various sites recently but two that remain are The Culturium and Poetry Chaikhana. A poet-friend, Cathal O Searcaigh, who writes mainly in Irish, gave me a volume of poems by a shaman-Taoist poet of the late Tan’g Dynasty, Li He. I began to write Taoist-flavoured poems in Irish and English, Conversations with Li He. When I get out of hospital (I’ve been hospitalized since September 2018) I’d love to continue with this project. I see a fellow-shaman in O Searcaigh and have translated him into English quite often over the years, most recently in a book called Out of the Wilderness: https://www.amazon.com/Out-Wilderness-Cathal-Searcaigh/dp/0995622523 It is not easy – in fact it is impossible – to convey the shamanic power of MacLean and O Searcaigh in English:

youtube

He is a lovely, lively conversationalist, as you can hear above. He and MacLean recite their poetry as though conscious of the fact that poetry was originally chant, the ecstatic chant – the trance – of the shaman. Alan Titley, in a discussion following the interview, joined by Frank Sewell and Art Hughes, speaks of Cathal’s work as an ‘act of reclamation’. Poetry lost its heart when it ditched chant, when the poet could no longer perform the role of shaman. Can we reclaim poetry? In the discussion, academic Art Hughes also talks about the disaster of the ‘printed page.’ Frank Sewell finds ‘strange echoes of home’ in Cathal’s references to the East. And Hughes talks about synthesis and the vision of Unity known to mystic of all traditions. It’s what Jack Hirschman alluded to previously when we touched on the World Poetry Movement. Is Jack a mystic?! We’re all closeted mystics if you ask me . . .

Q. 4. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

What’s young?! I was in my late teens when I read Speaking of Shiva, an anthology of bhakti verse edited by AK Ramanujan. I haven’t properly revisited the titles that ravished my youth. That bhakti anthology opened my heart to the Universe.

I longed to write something in the bhakti or neo-bhakti style and when the conditions were right, it turned out to be a volume in English, Uttering Her Name, addressed to a Muse-Goddess directly: my first faltering attempts at using e-mail. English was the only language we had in common. She was a poet from Venezuela whom I met at a Kurt Schwitters festival in Germany. She was on her way to have darshan of Mother Meera. I didn’t formerly ask her, ‘Excuse me, I wonder would you kindly play the role of Muse-Goddess as I have some urgent bhakti poems to compose.’ I just went ahead and wrote them, 200 in all, eventually whittled down to half that size. It took a long time to find a publisher:

https://www.amazon.com/Uttering-Her-Name-Gabriel-Rosenstock/dp/190705619X

I don’t think Uttering Her Name would have come about without the influence of the Ramanujan anthology.

Was it he who said that he inhabited that no-man’s-land which is the hyphen in ‘Anglo-Indian!’? He wrote a very poignant poem about revisiting his home and calling out ‘Mother’ but, of course, she wasn’t there. I would have liked to have known him. Very much. He was a distinguished folklorist, among other things and also wrote in Kannada, one of India’s important literary languages.

I was fortunate to hear songs in Irish as a child – not at home, mind you – and the best of them are unforgettable. One could call the best of our songs folk poetry of the highest order, superior in texture and melody to much of the poetry of our time:

https://www.youtube.com/watch? behv=8JjiLoD0ldc

Muireann Nic Amhlaoibh’s voice in the opening track is very expressive, very tender and yet there’s a glorious defiance as an undercurrent to the song that says, ‘Try out your ethnic cleansing on us, again and again, your genocidal madness; we are a people of poetry and song, imperishable song.’

The second track is in Scottish Gaelic. The songs of Gaeldom are a link to a people’s struggle, songs of love (‘profane’ and divine), exile, loneliness, companionship, laments and lullabies, songs that sing the thirst for freedom. The words are music in themselves – when sung, they wrench the heart.

Q. 5. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

The most intimate form of reading is that which one does as a poet-translator. I have translated or transcreated many poets from India and all of them speak very highly of K. Satchidanandan from Kerala. He is closely involved in many festivals and last year, in Calicut, the theme was ‘No Democracy without Dissent’

https://issuu.com/gabrielrosenstock/docs/satchi_rich_text.rtf

The poet-shaman-translator in me experienced various degrees of ecstasy when transcreating the poems of the Korean genius Ko Un:

https://www.amazon.com/Ko-Rogha-Dánta-Gabriel-Rosenstock-ebook/dp/B01FRAYDX2

My love for Cathal O Searcaigh and his poetry is well known. All three are outside of the Anglosphere, if such a thing is possible. Apart from those three, the site Words without Borders can be interesting. I’m grateful to English as a global language which introduces literature in translation to us all. I like ‘aboriginal’ poetry – the more aboriginal the better.The late Michael Davitt, with whom I co-founded the journal INNTI, has a line which says, ‘Ma bheireann carbhat orm, tachtfaidh se me’ – ‘if a cravat (or tie) catches hold of me, it will choke me.’ This is Irish aboriginalism alive and kicking! It says NO to the WASP and again NO. No thanks.

Q. 6. What would you say to who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

Write

Q. 7. Tell me about any writing projects you’re involved in at the moment.

Current writing projects: some writers are superstitious about current projects, as though they can only breathe a sigh of relief when the book is actually printed and published. Others like to trumpet their work in progress or publish extracts here and there.

Insanely prolific as I am, I usually have a number of irons in the fire. Do you know the origin of the phrase? It alludes to a blacksmith working on several pieces of iron at the same time. I remember being in a blacksmith’s forge as a child. A magical place. Lots of superstitions associated with iron, nails, horseshoes and so on. In Tibet they speak of ‘sky iron’ and I wrote a poem once inspired by that lore when I discovered that certain Tibetan singing bowls contain material from this ‘sky iron’:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbFmtpeh9so

I posted the poem on a few YouTube sites that featured singing bowls. Scroll down a bit and you’ll find it, in Irish and English. That’s a rather roundabout way of saying I’m not going to reveal current projects. To be frank, I have a number of completed projects and I’d much prefer to see them published before embarking on fresh material, such as a volume of bilingual poems, in Irish and English, already mentioned, poems addressed to the Daoist poet-shaman Li He.

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Gabriel Rosenstock Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

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onegoalhockey · 8 years

Text

Lucky Night - Dylan Larkin x Reader (Requested)

I kind of tweaked it a little bit, but I hope it’s still good.

“So your friend just doesn’t want to go anymore?” you asked your best friend, Y/F/N.

“She said she had something else come up.” Y/F/N said.

“So she’s blowing off a Red Wings game for something else? Is she crazy?” you asked with a smile on your face.

“I think so. Anyway, are you interested?” she asked.

“Duh! I’m not turning down a Red Wings ticket.” You said.

“Great, well we have to leave here in about an hour.” Your friend said.

“I’ll go get changed.” You said and went upstairs to your room.

What luck you had! Your best friend had stopped by your house to pick up her phone charger from the night before when she came over to watch The Walking Dead. While she was there, her friend Allie called her and told her that she couldn’t make it to tonight’s Red Wings game. Y/F/N didn’t want the ticket to go to waste and knew how much of a hockey fan you were, so she invited you to go. You didn’t have much time to prepare so you just threw your hair into a low fishtail braid. You got your red sweater on over a white tank top and slid on some black jeans. You went downstairs to rejoin your friend and to get your shoes on. The two of you chatted for a little while before you headed to the arena.

You had seats in the third row behind the goalie which weren’t bad at all. When you both sat down, the teams came out onto the ice to warmup. You watched the players and took a few pictures on your phone. You set your phone in your lap and watched the players skate around when you caught the eyes of Dylan Larkin. You knew who he was because all of your friends had crushes on him.

You smiled at him and felt your stomach flutter as he skated over towards you.

Dylan smiled at you and tossed a puck over the glass, making sure it was you who caught it.

You caught it and smiled over at him, mouthing a thank you.

He nodded and winked at you before skating away with his team.

Y/F/N looked at Dylan and then at you. “Did that just happen?” she asked.

You smiled and shrugged. “I guess so.” You said.

You watched the game with Y/F/N, puck in hand, and cheered for the Red Wings. They ended up winning which made the night even better. When the game ended, you walked towards the exit with your friend, talking about the game. You came to a stop when a large hand touched your arm gently.

“Excuse me miss?” a deep voice said.

You turned to see a rather large security guard smiling down at you. “Yes?”

“You need to come with me.” He said.

“She didn’t do anything.” Y/F/N said.

“Mr. Larkin requested to see her.” The guard said.

You felt your stomach drop as you looked at your friend. She gave you the go ahead and you walked with the guard.

He led you down a series of hallways and an elevator before walking you down a hallway towards the dressing rooms. Your stomach began doing flips as you saw Dylan standing in the hallway in just the bottom part of his uniform. The guard led you to him and then walked back down the hall.

“I’m glad he found you.” Dylan smiled.

You looked at him and smiled shyly. “You were looking for me?” you asked.

He nodded. “I know this sounds really cliché, but when I saw you in the stands, I knew I had to get to know you.” he said.

You smiled and bit your bottom lip nervously. “Well here I am.” You said.

Dylan smiled at you, noticing your nervous demeanor. “Listen, this is probably a little intimidating, so would you like to go get a bite to eat with me?” he asked.

“Sure.” You said and smiled. “I’ll wait here for you.” you said.

“Okay, great.” He smiled and went into the dressing room.

After a few minutes, Dylan walked back out and held his arm out for you. You held his arm gently and followed him down the hallway and out a back door. Dylan took you to his car and opened the passenger door for you. When you got in, he shut the door and walked around to get into the driver’s side.

“First of all, I’m Dylan Larkin, it’s nice to meet you.” he smiled, holding his hand out.

“Right, I guess we didn’t really do introductions. I’m Y/N, and it’s nice to meet you too.” You said and shook his hand, smiling. “I’m sorry, I’m just a little shocked. Stuff like this never happens to me.”

Dylan smiled and nodded. “I get it.” He said. “What are you hungry for, Y/N?”

“How about pizza?” you suggested.

“That sounds great.” He smiled.

Dylan drove the two of you to a local pizza place that stayed open late. The whole drive there, you both talked about yourselves to get to know each other a bit more. During your late dinner, you and Dylan learned even more about each other, and ended up really hitting it off. After you finished eating, Dylan paid for the meal and drove you to your house. He pulled into the driveway and walked you up to the door, holding your hand gently as you both continued the conversation you had started in the car.

“Well this is my stop.” You said, stopping in front of your door and turning to face Dylan.

“I had a really nice time, Y/N. I’m really glad you got to go to the game tonight.” He smiled.

“I am too.” You smiled back at him. “Maybe we could do it again sometime.” You said shyly.

“Maybe tomorrow?” he suggested.

“I’d like that.” You smiled. The two of you exchanged numbers at the restaurant, so you knew you could plan something whenever. “Thank you so much for tonight, Dylan.”

“Well thank you for coming with me.” He smiled. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” he said and leaned down to kiss your cheek gently.

You smiled up at him and nodded. “Really soon.” You said. “Goodnight, Dylan.”

“Goodnight.” He smiled and made sure you got inside okay.

You barely got the door closed before you were texting Y/F/N about what happened. Fate was definitely on your side tonight.

#Dylan Larkin #Dylan Larkin x Reader

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onegoalhockey · 8 years

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Christmas Eve - Dylan Larkin x Reader (Requested)

I hope this was cute. :3

For as long as you can remember, every Christmas Eve, you and your family would spend the night at your friend Dylan’s house. Your families were both so close, so it made sense to spend Christmas together. This year was different, and not because you weren’t friends with Dylan, it was just because your families couldn’t get together this year because everyone was all split up. Your parents were visiting family in Minnesota, and Dylan’s parents decided to spend Christmas in the Keys. Christmas was your favorite holiday, and not being able to spend it with your family bummed you out. Sure, you all did a present exchange before your parents left, but it wasn’t the same. Dylan knew how much Christmas meant to you, so he decided to surprise you with a little bit of nostalgia.

You were watching Christmas movies on Christmas Eve Day, when you heard a knock on your door. You weren’t expecting anyone, so you furrowed your brow as you walked over to answer it. When you opened the door, you smiled at the familiar face on your porch. “Dylan? What are you doing here?” you asked.

Dylan smiled and hugged you tight. “I wanted to surprise you for Christmas.” He said. “Can I come in?” he asked.

“Of course, come on in.” you smiled and let him inside. “So what surprise did you have in mind?” you asked.

“Well, I know that it’s just us this year, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have Christmas like we used to.” He smiled.

You smiled and looked at him. “Okay, and how will we do that?” you asked him.

“My parents are on vacation, so the house is empty. I thought that you and I could spend Christmas Eve over there, like the old days.” He smiled.

“Dylan.” You smiled. “That’s really sweet of you.” you said.

“Well I know how much Christmas means to you, so I wanted to make it special.” He smiled. “So what do you say?”

You smiled. “Of course, I say yes.” You said and hugged him. “I’ll go get packed.”

You went upstairs and got an overnight bag packed before coming downstairs again. Dylan smiled and took you out to his car then drove the two of you to his parents’ house. When he pulled up, you got out of the car with him and went inside. Dylan turned the lights on revealing a fully decorated Christmas tree, stocking hanging over the fireplace, and a stack of Christmas movies on the coffee table.

You smiled and looked around. “Did you do all of this?” you asked softly.

“Guilty.” He smiled. “I left the star for you to do.” He said.

You smiled and looked over at him. “So what if I had said no?” you asked, smirking.

“You can’t resist me.” He smiled over at you. “Come on.” He said and took your bags upstairs before he brought you the star.

“Thank you, sir.” You smiled and stood on your tip-toes, but still couldn’t reach.

“Here.” He said and wrapped his arms around your legs, lifting you up.

You smiled and put the star on top of the tree, then got down with Dylan’s help. “Now it’s finished.” You smiled.

“Yes it is.” He smiled. “How about dinner?”

“That sounds great.” You smiled.

You helped Dylan make the dinner that you always had, but you made the portions a bit smaller since it was just the two of you. After dinner, you helped Dylan with the cleanup and then sat down in the living room with him.

“I have something for you.” he said and went into the other room, coming back out with a present.

“What’s this? We already did out present exchange.” You smiled.

“I know. Open it.” He smiled, sitting next to you and handing you the box.

You opened the box and saw a brand new pair of skates, in your favorite color. You smiled and looked over at him. “Dylan, these are great.” You said. “Thank you.” you said and hugged him.

“You’re welcome.” He smiled. “Maybe we can try them out tonight?”

“Tonight?” you asked.

“The ponds out back.” He smiled. “I just so happened to bring my skates too.” He winked.

You smiled and shook your head. “You are incredible, Dylan.”

“I know.” He smiled.

You both got bundled up and carried your skates out to the ponds behind his house. He helped you lace yours up and then got his on as well. He helped you onto the ice and the two of you skated around for a while. You talked with him about old memories and about how things have changed, then you talked about life in general. The whole time you skated, he held your hand to make sure you were safe. After skating for a bit more, Dylan stood in front of you and skated backwards, spinning you gently, a smirk on his face.

“What are you doing?” you asked him, holding onto his hands.

“Spinning.” He smiled.

“How do I get you to stop?” you asked, smiling.

“Kiss me.” He said, pulling you closer to him.

The comment caught you off guard, so you put your hands on his shoulders gently, trying to keep your balance. “What?” you said softly.

Dylan smiled and wrapped his arms around your waist. “Kiss me.” He repeated.

You smiled and felt your heartbeat picking up. “Okay.” You said and leaned up.

He reached one hand up to hold your chin gently, and pressed his lips against yours.

You had dreamt of this moment since you were kids, and now that it was finally happening, you could barely stay on your feet. As you deepened the kiss, light snowflakes began to fall from the sky.

Dylan pulled away gently and smiled down at you. “We just made it snow.” He joked.

You smiled up at him and nodded. “We did.” You said and rubbed his cheek gently. “I’ve wanted this for a long time.” You admitted.

Dylan smiled down at you and nodded. “I have too. Lucky for us, our first kiss was magical.” He winked.

You smiled and nodded. “Christmas is pretty magical.” You said.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.” he said softly.

“Merry Christmas, Dylan.” You said back.

The two of you skated a little bit more, and when the snow started to pick up, you both headed back to the house. After some hot chocolate by the fire, you both fell asleep curled up on the couch together. You couldn’t ask for a better Christmas present.

#Dylan Larkin #Dylan Larkin x Reader

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onegoalhockey · 8 years

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First Date - Dylan Larkin x Reader (Requested)

Your stomach was doing flips as you got ready for your first date with Dylan Larkin. It wasn’t like this was the first time you were hanging out with him; you’d been friends with him for a couple of years now. You liked Dylan a lot, and when he finally got the courage to ask you out on a date, you were absolutely over the moon with excitement! He told you to dress comfortable, but you still wanted to look cute. You got on a pair of white denim shorts and a flowing red tank top. You put on your favorite pair of white flats and decided to go with a half-up hairstyle. When you were ready, you headed down the hallway to the living room where you waited for Dylan to get there. When you heard the knock on your apartment door, you felt butterflies in your stomach.

You walked to the door and opened it, smiling at Dylan who stood in front of your door in jeans and a red polo. “Hey, I’m glad you got the red shirt memo.” You joked.

Dylan smiled and nodded. “Yeah, me too.” He smiled. “You look beautiful.” He said softly.

You felt your cheeks turning pink and you smiled. “Thank you. You too.” You said and then blushed even more. “I mean…”

He smiled, “It’s okay. So are you hungry?”

“Yeah, starving.” You smiled, glad that he changed the subject.

“Great. Well let’s get going.” He said and took your hand gently.

He led you down the hallway to the elevators and got inside with you. The two of you rode the elevator down to the lobby and headed to Dylan’s car. You noticed that he didn’t have his regular car, but instead had a black pickup truck. It was a decent looking truck, and you smiled as Dylan opened the passenger door for you. He got into the driver’s seat and drove you to your favorite spot to eat in the city. He walked you inside and the two of you sat at a round booth in the corner of the restaurant. You both looked at the menu and ordered what you each wanted. When the waitress took the orders, she walked off, leaving you and Dylan alone.

“So are you nervous?” he asked.

You smiled and shrugged a little. “I guess I’m sort of nervous. I’m not nervous about being with you, I’m just nervous about being with you on a date. I don’t want to mess things up.” You admitted.

Dylan smiled softly and took your hand gently. “Y/N, you don’t have to be nervous. There is absolutely no way that you could mess things up. I like you a lot and I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.” He said.

You smiled and kissed his cheek gently. “Thank you Dylan.” You said softly.

The two of you enjoyed dinner together before Dylan walked you out to the truck. He held your hand as he drove out of the city. The two of you talked about different memories you had with each other and eventually, you ended up in a large open field. He drove the truck into the middle of the field and turned the engine off.

“Dylan what are we doing here?” you asked, smiling.

“Wait here until I come get you. Trust me.” He smiled and kissed your cheek.

He walked around to the back of the truck and started getting things ready. You looked at your lap so you didn’t spoil the surprise. After a few minutes, Dylan came up to your door and opened it.

“Ready?” he smiled.

You smiled and nodded. “Yeah.” You said.

Dylan held your hand and walked you to the back of the truck where he had an air mattress blown up in the bed of the truck. There were blankets, pillows, and some boxes of your favorite kinds of candy. “I know it’s a little cheesy, but I thought we could watch the sunset and then do some stargazing.”

You smiled and looked up at him. “You are the best.” You said and kissed his cheek.

Dylan smiled and shrugged. “I try to be. Let’s get up there.” He said.

He helped you up onto the bed and sat down on it with you. He wrapped a blanket around both you and his shoulders, and gave you a box of candy. The two of you spend the evening watching the sunset and then stargazing. You were both cuddled up with him on the mattress the whole time. Around two in the morning, you realized how late it was, so Dylan drove you back to your apartment. He walked you to your door and held your hands gently.

“I had a really nice time with you tonight, Y/N.” he said.

“I did too.” You smiled up at him. “This was definitely the best first date ever.” You said.

Dylan blushed gently and smiled. “Well thank you very much.” He said. “So I know that we’ve given each other little pecks here and there, but can I have a goodnight kiss?”

You smiled and felt the butterflies again. “Of course.” You smiled.

Dylan held your hands gently and leaned down, placing his lips onto yours. You returned his gentle kiss and felt fireworks. When he pulled away slowly, you immediately wanted to kiss him again.

“I don’t want to take things too far.” He said shyly.

You smiled and nodded. “It’s okay, Dylan. Thank you for not pushing.”

“Well I’ll let you get some sleep, I need to get home and get to sleep.” He smiled. “Thank you for tonight, Y/N.”

“Thank you too, Dylan.” You hugged him tight and smiled. “Let’s do it again some time.”

He smiled, hugging you back. “For sure.” He smiled. “Night.” He said

“Night.” You said and went into your apartment.

Best first date in the entire history of first dates.

#Dylan Larkin #Dylan Larkin x Reader

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onegoalhockey · 8 years

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Draft Day - Dylan Larkin x Reader (Requested)

Here it is! I hope you like this and I hope it was fluffy enough. :D

The day that Dylan Larkin got drafted to the Detroit Red Wings was the best day of your life, and not for the reason you would think. Even though it was almost two years ago, you still remember it like it happened yesterday. You met Dylan during your freshman year of high school, and the two of you hit it off almost immediately. You could tell him anything, and he could do the same with you. You knew that hockey was the most important thing to him, and you promised him that you would be with him every step of the way. Dylan asked you to come with him to Draft Day and of course, you said yes. That whole day was pretty crazy, but it was also an amazing day.

You walked into the large arena with Dylan and his family. You looked around at all of the other young hockey players and the NHL teams’ representatives. It was all a lot to take in, and you could tell that Dylan was nervous. When his parents went to find their seats, you walked around the arena with Dylan.

You nudged his arm gently and smiled. “How are you feeling?” you asked him.

Dylan looked at you and smiled softly. “I’m alright I think.” He said. “It’s just a lot to take in, you know?”

You nodded. “Yeah it is. Once they call your name, you’re going to feel a lot better.” You smiled.

Dylan nodded. “What if they don’t?” he asked.

You looked up at him and bit your bottom lip. You took his hand gently and walked him outside of the auditorium and into the lobby. You held both of his hands and stood in front of him, facing him. “Dylan James Larkin, listen to me.” You started.

Dylan looked at you and nodded.

“You are an outstanding hockey player, and an even more outstanding guy. People are going to see that, and some people already have. You are going to do just fine out there, and they’re going to call your name.” you said.

“Y/N, what if they don’t?” he asked softly.

“It’s a tiny chance that they won’t, Dylan. If they don’t, then you’ll come back here next year and they’ll call it then.” You rubbed his hands gently. “I guarantee that they’ll call it and you’re gonna look at me while I say I told you so.” You smiled softly.

Dylan smiled and nodded. “Alright, alright.” He said softly. “Come here.” He said and held his arms out.

You hugged him tight and smiled, feeling at home in his embrace. “You’re going to get it.” You said softly.

Dylan held you close and smiled. “Thank you for all of this.” He said softly.

“Anytime. Now let’s go get our seats.” You smiled.

The two of you went to your seats next to his parents, and sat down. While they went through the opening speeches and the other teams’ picks, you noticed Dylan getting nervous. You reached over and held his hand gently, intertwining your fingers with his. He looked over at you and smiled, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. As they began to call names for the Detroit Red Wings, you felt Dylan’s grip on your hand get tighter. After they called thirteen names, the general manager of the Red Wings spoke into the microphone.

“For our fourteenth pick, on behalf of the Detroit Red Wings, we would like to pick Dylan Larkin.” He spoke.

Dylan’s jaw dropped and he looked over at his parents and then at you.

You smiled and nudged his arm gently. “Go up there.” You smiled.

Dylan walked up with a smile on his face and received his jersey. After all of the interviews and press he had to do, Dylan walked out and met you and his family in the lobby. He jogged over and hugged each of you tightly, a giant smile on his face. When he got to you, his parents went to the parking lot to pull the car around.

Dylan smiled and hugged you tightly, rubbing your back gently. “I did it.” He said softly.

You smiled and hugged him back. “You did it.” You said. “I told you they’d call you.” you winked as you pulled away.

He smiled and nodded. “I know you did.” He said. “You were right.” He said.

“I’m always right, Larkin.” You teased, smirking.

“You are.” He smiled. “Listen I have something for you.” he said.

“You don’t have to give me anything.” You said softly.

“I know, but I want to.” He said. He took your face in his hands gently and kissed you softly.

At first you were a little surprised, but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t wanted this since you met him. You kissed back gently and put your arms around his waist gently.

After a few minutes, Dylan pulled back gently and smiled down at you. “Sorry if that wasn’t something you were…”

You interrupted him by pressing your lips against his again in a quick peck. You smiled up at him and rubbed his side gently. “It’s something I was hoping for.” You said.

Dylan smiled and rubbed your cheek. “I’m glad because I was too.”

“We better get out to the car.” You smiled.

The two of you walked out to the parking lot and climbed into the car. Dylan’s family took Dylan and you out to lunch in celebration of his draft. Throughout the entire lunch, Dylan would hold your hand under the table, and he would tease you a little more than usual. When his parents dropped you off, he walked you up to your door and smiled at you, holding your hands gently.

“Well thank you so much for everything, Y/N.” he said.

You smiled and nodded. “No problem whatsoever.” You said. “Just promise not to forget about us little people when you’re in the big leagues.” You teased.

Dylan got a serious look on his face. “Y/N, I would never forget about you. You’ve been my best friend for years. I’m taking you on this journey with me, I promise you that.” He said and rubbed your cheek gently.

“I was just kidding.” You said softly.

Dylan leaned down and kissed you gently. “You’re stuck with me, babe.” He smiled.

You smiled and nodded. “Sounds like a plan.” You said. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

He nodded and smiled. “Yes you will.” He said. “Thank you again.” He said.

“You’re welcome.” You smiled. “Bye, Dylan.” You kissed his cheek and went inside.

“Bye.” He said and smiled.

When he got in the car and rode off down the street, you couldn’t help but let out an excited screech. You immediately sent a text to your other best friend about the day, and not just about the draft.

#Dylan Larkin #Dylan Larkin x Reader

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onegoalhockey · 9 years

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The Heart Wants What It Wants - Dylan Larkin x Reader (Requested)

I’ve never done a song imagine before, so I hope you like this!

To say that you were officially dating Dylan Larkin would be a bit of a stretch. You had met him at a charity event, and kept in touch after that. The two of you would go on dates, you would stay at each other’s houses, and you were committed to each other. The only difference between you two and other couples was that Dylan refused to call you his girlfriend. You had asked him why he didn’t want to take the official title, but he never had a good reason. You wanted to be official, but Dylan seemed to want to just be friends who do couple things. Your friends and family told you that if he wasn’t willing to commit to just you, he was probably seeing other girls on the road. You didn’t want to believe that could be the case, but it had crossed your mind. One day, you finally decided to ask him.

You woke up to see the bed beside you empty. You let out a sigh and sat up, stretching. You picked up your phone and called Dylan’s number.

“Hello?” he answered after a few rings.

“Hey you didn’t say goodbye or anything.” You told him.

“I know I was in a rush to get to practice today.” He said.

You bit your bottom lip and took a deep breath. “Dylan, are you cheating on me?” you blurted out. You wanted to talk to him about this in person, but he left before you could.

“What? Why would you ever think that?” he asked, almost offended.

“You refuse to commit to just me, and you rarely act like an actual boyfriend. What am I supposed to think?” you asked him.

“I’m not cheating on you, Y/N. Who told you that I was?” he asked.

“No one told me, Dylan. I’ve just been talking to my friends and-.” You were cut off by Dylan’s voice.

“I’m not cheating on you. Just because I don’t want a silly title right now doesn’t mean I’m cheating on you. Your friends are just mad because you’re with someone and they’re not.” He said.

You rubbed your face and sighed. “I don’t want to do this Dylan, why can’t you just make it official?” you asked.

“I can’t do this right now. I need to get back to practice.” He said and hung up the phone.

You hung up and sighed, trying to fight back tears. You knew that any sane person would call it quits with Dylan and move on. You contemplated leaving, but your heart was set on Dylan. Some of his antics upset you, but you were in love with him. When you really thought about it, the only thing that you really didn’t like was the fact that he was sometimes distant and the lack of a title. Other than those things, you loved Dylan and thought he was an amazing partner. Even if your family and friends thought you were absolutely insane to stay with him, your heart wanted to stay.

It had been almost a week since the last time you talked to Dylan, and you had only seen him on T.V when you watched the games. You had been quiet and had barely left the house. Not hearing from Dylan and not seeing him took a surprising toll on you. One night, you were lying in bed watching some movies when your phone rang. Judging by the massive drop your stomach just did, you had a hunch that it would be Dylan. Sure enough, his face popped up on the screen.

“Hello?” you answered, trying to hide your excitement.

“Hey.” He said softly. “Can I come over?” he asked.

You hesitated for a moment before answering him. “Sure.” You said.

“I’ll be over in a few.” He said and hung up.

You hung up your end and threw a hoodie on over your pajama shirt. You went downstairs to wait for him, and before you could even sit down the doorbell rang.

You opened the door and saw Dylan standing there with a dozen roses. “Hey.” You said softly.

Dylan waved to you and bit his bottom lip. “Can I come in?” he asked. Something about his tone was different.

You let him in and shut the door behind him. “Those are pretty.” You told him.

“They’re for you. I know I can’t expect you to forgive me because of some roses, but I figured I’d try.” He said, handing you the bunch or flowers.

“Well thank you, Dylan.” You told him, putting the flowers in a vase full of water on the coffee table. “So what brings you over?” you asked him, offering him a spot to sit on the couch.

He walked over and sat next to you on the couch. “Us.” He said softly.

You got a lump in your stomach and nodded. “Okay, go ahead.” You told him.

Dylan took a deep breath before he spoke. “I want to say sorry for how I’ve treated you. I’m sorry for not acting like a decent boyfriend, and I’m sorry for snapping at you on the phone. I’ve been under a lot of stress with the games and I took it out on you. I know it’s not an excuse, but that’s the truth. I’m sorry for being a jerk.” He said.

You touched his hand gently while he finished his apology. “Dylan, it’s okay. I was wrong to accuse you.” you told him.

“I get it though; I understand why you would think that. I swear I never cheated on you, Y/N.” he told you, holding your hand gently.

You knew by the look in his eyes that he was telling the truth. “Okay, I believe you.” you told him. “I just still don’t understand why you refuse to be official.” You told him.

He nodded. “I did it to protect you. I’ve seen so many hockey girlfriends get hate and harassment from fans, and I didn’t want that to happen to you.” he admitted.

“Babe, I appreciate that I really do, but I can handle it. As long as I get to come home to you and as long as I know that you and the team can stand me, I’ll be okay.” You reassured him.

He looked over to you and nodded, pulling you into a hug. “How did I get so lucky to have a girlfriend like you?” he asked, kissing your cheek.

You smiled and rubbed his back gently. “The heart wants what it wants.” You told him.

#Dylan Larkin #Dylan Larkin x Reader #hockey one shots

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