#〚he must lead them well. (ic)〛

[eightmakesonebraincell]

our leaves must fall before our flowers can bloom

genre: poly hockey team!ateez x coach fem!reader, enemies/strangers to lovers, athlete!au, slow burn, fluff, angst

length: 37.6k

c/w: sweaty and athletic ateez (warning well deserved), explicit profanity, themes of corruption and rocky family relationships, trauma, hurt/comfort, injuries, kissing, boys are in an established relationship, m x m interactions

synopsis: you become the new coach of the elite men's ice hockey team, the red devils. but with both yourself and the team carrying burdens of the past, you all find it difficult to see eye to eye. as you lead them to the championships in the korean ice hockey league, you discover that teamwork and trust is not as straightforward as it seems.

a/n: it has made me incredibly touched to see so many of my readers from the essence of youth come back to support this new oneshot. thank you from the bottom of my heart ♡ and as always, this fic would not have been possible without @sorryimananti-romantic and her undying support

if someone were to ask yunho–or anybody on the team–when he feels the most alive, his answer would be the same every single time: when he is on the ice, just like he is right now.

the air of the rink is already chilly, but with the added cold of emerging autumn, each rugged lungful he takes fills his chest with vigour. only his own heavy breathing can be heard as the rest of the players’ shouts become muffled into the background outside of his helmet. he tightens his grip on his stick, muscles locked and engaged with adrenaline. his vision narrows, an opening suddenly clearing itself through the tangle of sticks and jungle of skates–a golden opportunity for him to take.

“san!” he yells.

their usual goaltender glances upwards as he handles the puck rebounding off the boards. his jaw tightens and with a practised flick of his wrist, san chips the puck over an incoming stick’s attempt to block the pass. there’s a burst of explosive power as yunho speeds up along the opposite boards to receive the landing puck, hoping to break away from the opposing team’s offensive players before he passes it off.

the flash of a blue jersey appears in yunho’s vision with alarming momentum. they lower and widen their stance, shoulder positioned in front ready to knock him directly into the boards in an attempt to steal the puck, leaving yunho with no choice but to mirror their actions. he braces himself as the opponent rams into him with more force than a usual play, and in combination with their own towering height, yunho finds himself being pushed into the plexiglass panels as he loses possession of the puck.

involuntarily, he lets out a threatening growl of vexation. there is a teasing chuckle from the other player that still has him pinned against the wall despite the continuing game, which clearly tells him that the excessive body check was deliberate. yunho has half a mind to flip their positions, knowing he could easily overpower the other. but before he can adjust his stick out of the way to make good use of his hands, the opponent playfully knocks their helmets together.

“you’re hot when you get all competitive and riled up.”

all of the tension escapes yunho’s body, because he will never not find mingi’s attempts to flirt mid-game–with his mouthguard and resultant bumbling pronunciation–to be amusing. he endearingly rolls his eyes and sighs, “have you not heard of, ‘don’t poke the bear’?”

“you’re not a bear, though,” mingi squirms cheekily on the spot, still up in yunho’s personal space because he knows the older will never be truly annoyed by his antics. “you’re just a cute, harmless puppy.”

before mingi can blink, yunho grabs him by the shoulders and pins him against the wall. yunho smirks, “and they also say, ‘let sleeping dogs lie’.”

wooyoung tongues his cheek with mischief at the sight of the two, nice and cosy against the walls of the rink. he hands his stick off to seonghwa, who is starting to remove his helmet, and skates in their direction, ignoring the dull throb in his left ankle. wooyoung only bothers to slow himself down slightly, instead letting his trajectory be cushioned by something else.

mingi lets out a pathetic noise as the air is squeezed out of his chest from the impact of wooyoung and yunho’s added weight. the latter grunts out, a little breathless, “woo, please, you’re going to knock somebody out like this one day.”

it goes in one ear and out the other as wooyoung grins up at him to state, “seonghwa scored so we lost ‘cause you were too busy making out with mister mingles here.”

yunho pushes off the wall to free himself from the sandwich of bodies and pivots on his skates to jab wooyoung’s padded chest. “you and san were doing the exact same thing just five minutes ago.”

“we’re on the same team,” wooyoung shrugs, “whereas mingi is not, so you’re fraternising with the enemy. now come on losers, captain’s wrapping up practice.”

the three of them glide along the ice to rejoin the rest of the team, where they are stepping out of the rink to sit on the benches. they remove their helmets and start unlacing their skates as hongjoong gathers the attention of the team.

“great work from everybody today, especially you, jongho. your backhand wrist shots are improving–keep it up. now just a reminder to everyone that our regular games start next week so i want you all to make sure you are stretching and cooling down properly,” he emphasises. he pointedly looks at yeosang, who has already begun to wander his way off to the changerooms, at the same time that seonghwa scruffs him by the back of his jersey and gently tugs him back to the team.

jongho peels off his blue practice jersey as he scans the arena and absentmindedly asks, “is coach still not here? it’s already the end of practice.”

“he said he had something to sort out today, but would come round if everything went well,” seonghwa answers, also craning his neck to look for signs of their coach.

from where you and coach cho are watching from the designated scouting area in the arena, the team is unable to spot you two. you had come from the final negotiations of your contract with coach cho and had watched their team, the red devils, play the last period of their game. despite it only being a friendly match amongst the team’s players, you have already grasped a sense of their playing style–it is heavy on the offensive at the expense of defence, just like how you used to play. it is fast-paced, aggressive and…prone to injury.

“let’s go meet the team,” coach cho voices, making his way out of the viewing area as you follow beside him. all the players look up from their skates that they are still unlacing or from their stretches on the floor when you two near the arrangement of benches surrounding the rink. they greet coach cho enthusiastically and you can see why from the way the older man smiles at them like they are his own sons.

“y/n, this is the team, the red devils–my pride and joy. boys, this is y/n,” he introduces. “i had to miss practice to meet up with y/n and make sure she was happy to sign on as part of the red devils.”

said team gives you disinterested glances, a complete change from the receptivity with which they respond to coach cho. one of the red-jerseyed boys, who you recognise as wooyoung, utters sarcastically, “cute, but we don’t need a mascot or cheerleader.”

coach cho chuckles lightly, “she’s your new coach.”

“hold on, you were serious about–” “–are you coaching a different team–” “–you don’t want us anymore?”

some of the boys erupt into a barrage of questions, trying to make sense of the sudden announcement, whereas the others stay quiet, flickers of flashbacks stirring up from within the depths of their memories. their coach raises his hands to settle them as he apologises, “i didn’t want to say anything before i was one hundred percent sure that things would go ahead, and i wasn’t sure whether y/n would accept the offer.”

“is it because your wife is due soon?” san interrupts.

coach cho nods, “with twins, and i want to be present to help–as a husband and a father. but that just isn’t feasible as your coach, as much as i love you boys.”

training as professional athletes takes incredible perseverance, discipline and commitment. there are early mornings, late nights, weekends and public holidays. it takes sacrifices in the form of time and relationships, especially when they must travel away from home for up to weeks on end to compete in matches. and with the start of the regular season, the intensity is only going to ramp up. as hard as the athletes train, the coach works twice as hard to make it all possible.

the team needs somebody to be there for them to ensure they make it into the playoffs, and it just won’t be fair for anybody–the players and his own family–if coach cho were to keep his position. and the team gets it, they really do, but–

“she’s the new coach?” yunho frowns in confusion. “no offence, but we’re not a bunch of kids for her to practise being a soccer mum to.”

“she was the assistant coach for the grey eagles,” coach cho discloses.

“the grey eagles? the under-21 men’s championship team?” yeosang looks incredulous.

mingi sceptically comments, “the fact that we’ve never seen or heard of her before probably tells us enough.”

hongjoong’s lips purse sourly as he tries his hardest to analyse the situation with the professionalism of the team’s captain. but with the sudden change in coaches and the same critiquing doubts as mingi, hongjoong cannot help but feel his personal judgement webbing over his mind. over the team’s entire career as an elite ice hockey team thus far–five years, now well into their sixth–the red devils have only ever had two coaches. coach cho has been with them for the longest and whilst it took the team a while to eventually warm up to him, he has been with them for almost quadruple the amount of time it took to trust him.

the team’s alternate captain, seonghwa, speaks to you directly, “if you don’t mind me asking, why are you not playing as an athlete yourself? you’re clearly our age–nowhere near retiring.”

you knew from the very start that your age would make your credibility as a coach much lower, and your answer to seonghwa will not help your case either. “i stopped playing.”

“how come?”

the trigger of memories fills your nose with a sharp stinging smell. you blankly reveal, “i chose to stop playing.” you know exactly how it sounds like to somebody else, even more so to professional athletes. coach cho has also told you of the team’s hardheadedness and strong will when it comes to the passions of their career, so you are expecting the cold receptiveness that you are met with.

your response strikes the wrong chord within wooyoung. there was a point in his career not too long ago when the choice of continuing to play or not was at risk of becoming a forced decision. the way you answer so callously with those very words that had threatened to tear his world apart has his jaw grinding and eyes darkening, and he is not the only athlete in the arena who feels similarly.

“i would rather choose to die before i choose to stop playing. ice hockey is my entire life and without it, i am not living either,” hongjoong jabs and you cannot help but clench your fists because you know exactly what he means. still, you stay quiet as he continues, “sorry, but i can’t respect a ‘coach’ who chose to stop playing.”

at the captain’s words and subsequent move to leave for the changerooms, the rest of the team also gather their equipment and follow his steps. san’s feet falter in front of you, expression hesitant until he decides to voice, “our team needs a bit of time. it’s hard for us to warm up to…outsiders, and i know it might not mean much to say this but we have our reasons. don’t expect us to blindly trust you just because you’re a coach.”

the use of the word ‘outsider’ does not go unnoticed as you nod, “of course.”

san jogs off to rejoin the others and coach cho hums, “guess some things haven’t changed. they were just as prickly to me when i first became their coach.”

you raise an eyebrow, “prickly? to you?”

“yes, believe it or not,” he chuckles nostalgically. “we’ve come a long way because i’ve been their coach for years now. but it took me a while before i was able to break down their walls.”

you briefly mull over the information, then ask out of curiosity, “what would you have done if i didn’t sign the contract?”

“begged you to rethink your decision,” he jokes with a pleased chortle. “i would have to start looking for a different coach, i suppose. you were my only pick.”

“but why me, of all people? there are so many other experienced coaches that you can choose from.”

he looks at you, eyes glinting with intuition and confidence as he simply says, “you’re familiar with their playing style. they play just like you used to.” at your silent processing, coach cho probes, “why didn’t you tell them the real reason?”

you smile wistfully, “i didn't tell them because i’m not here to gain their pity.”

some of the boys’ voices grow louder as they emerge from the changerooms, changed into fresh clothes and their kit bags slung over their shoulders. you hear one of them ask, “captain, is she really going to be our new coach?”

they step out from the facility’s corridor and you accidentally make eye contact with hongjoong, yet neither of you look away. maintaining a steady gaze directly at you, he responds with a slight glower, “maybe, but she’s only the coach by title. i’m still the captain of the team, so let’s see who everyone listens to.”

as they exit the rink’s arena, you feel a fire of determination growing inside of you. you have won over your own demons and you have won the championships before–this is nothing in comparison. whether your next words are for coach cho or for yourself to hear, it does not matter.

“i may not play anymore but i was still once an athlete, and no athlete has ever, in their career, wanted pity. i’m here to earn the team’s respect and i will win over them, especially their captain.”

you watch the swing of the glass door as it shuts behind the players, catching a brief glimpse of the trees lining the arena’s perimeter. it is the first day of autumn when you meet the red devils for the first time and outside, the leaves are beginning to change their colours.

autumn, 2018: pre-season

hongjoong believes all coaches are to be respected. it does not matter what kind of team they coach, how many years of experience they have, or whether they have built up a reputation for themselves. to hongjoong, respect for coaches is not something earned nor negotiable–it is something well-deserved and expected, as is for anybody in a position that is higher in the chain of command.

he may be the captain of their unofficial team, but hongjoong knows that the way a team can place their blind trust in the coach is irreplaceable, regardless of how much the other players rely on him too.

hongjoong watches as his boys carry out the practice drill he has set up for them. yeosang handles the puck around the cones before passing it to wooyoung, primed offensively near the goal to make a quick shot, who groans when his shot rebounds off the post. as he retrieves the disc, yeosang takes over wooyoung’s position near the goal ready to receive yunho’s pass as he starts to work his way through the cones next.

they are limited in the type of drills they can practise because hongjoong was only able to rent half of the community rink for a measly two hours. the boys are not even in proper uniform, wearing only their shin guards under their sweatpants and gloves on their hands to prevent any injuries when the centre had stated very firmly they would not be allowed in with their bulky equipment.

and yet, none of this has dampened the boys’ spirits. san teasingly brags that it is his chance to show off his skills other than goaltending, and jongho thanks hongjoong quietly for renting the rink in the first place. their understanding nods and comforting hugs make hongjoong’s heart clench, even more so as the team eagerly and diligently practise the drills in mediocre conditions but with fiery determination to prove their worth as newly-signed athletes under the kq blue birds.

this is exactly why hongjoong is driven to find them a coach–any coach: to give his boys a solid pillar they can rely on, because he himself lacks the resources and strings to pull in order to fulfil their shared dreams. he needs to keep his boys as one team, instead of scattered into other teams as extra players like a gracious opportunity for the leftovers, since kq does not yet have a coach available for the eight of them.

“captain!”

the excitement in seonghwa’s voice startles hongjoong more than the speed at which the alternate captain skates towards him. seonghwa digs his skates into the ice at the last second, stopping himself just shy of knocking the other over as he exclaims, “he emailed back!”

“the coach you reached out to?” hongjoong clarifies, eyes growing wide.

having caught wind of his signed contract as a professional athlete, an acquaintance of seonghwa’s had reached out offering to pass on the contact of their acquaintance, who apparently knew somebody with coaching experience. it was rare for a coach to take on a rookie team unless there were incredible benefits, so he and hongjoong had drafted and sent an email with little to no expectations for a reply. but seonghwa’s furious nodding is telling otherwise, and his eyes sparkle as he shoves his phone in hongjoong’s face to show him the email.

dear mr park, thank you for your interest and for reaching out with your proposal. i have looked at your athlete profiles and it appears that you all have big dreams and extremely promising futures. it would be my utmost pleasure to help you all reach your true potential by coaching your team. if you would like to arrange a meeting in person to discuss expectations and conditions regarding training, competitions and future championships prior to finalising the contracts with your company, please let me know what times and dates best suit yourself and your team captain, mr kim. i look forward to working with you all. kind regards, coach yeon

“holy shit,” hongjoong steadies seonghwa’s giddy hand to read the email again. when he reaches the last line, he starts once more from the beginning to make sure his eyes are not lying to him. then he breathes out with finality, “holy shit. am i reading this right?”

“yeah, joong. you’re reading it right.”

hongjoong is not often one to be affectionate with the others, but yanking seonghwa into a bone-crushing hug as he repeats holy shit like a mantra is the only response he is able to muster. the older laughs wetly, throat constricting with overwhelming joy and he holds onto his captain until the other pulls back.

“you tell them, okay?” seonghwa does not wait for a response before he is raising his voice to gather the others, “boys! hongjoong has good news for us!”

like puppies responding to the call of food, their heads immediately perk up and they abandon the puck and the drill to speed towards their two captains. there is a clamour of questions as they enthusiastically predict what is going to be said.

“are they letting us use the rink for longer?”

wooyoung squeezes himself in between yunho and mingi to ask, “are we getting the whole rink?!”

“no way,” san gasps, “or did our practice jerseys arrive?”

hongjoong’s eyes soften at their guesses. his boys demand so little from him when he wants to give them everything they could never even think of asking for. he glances at seonghwa, who looks just about ready to burst from his own excitement, then reveals, “we’ve found a coach willing to take on our team.”

dead silence. yeosang blinks and wooyoung’s jaw drops. jongho, who had been lazily circling around the group, comically slows to a stop, joining the rest of the boys in frozen stupor. it is only broken when yunho dares to confirm, “does this mean we won’t be rostered as extras for other teams?”

everyone’s hopeful eyes look at hongjoong. he nods, “we’re staying together and playing as our own team.”

it is obvious the moment the information registers in their minds and the implications of what it means for the team’s future starts to sink in. they explode into a flurry of movement and hongjoong and seonghwa find themselves swept up into the middle of a clumsy group huddle as shouts are exchanged, uncaring of who is listening or talking.

“are we finally playing in championships with the big dogs?”

“we’re going to play interstate?”

“oh my god, what if we get into nationals?”

“nah, fuck that boys, let’s go international! we’re going to represent korea one day and become the best team in the world.”

the amount of voices overlapping one another are overwhelming, but it is overwhelming in the way that it makes hongjoong soar up into the clouds, wings stretched to their full span and carried by the hollers and cheers surrounding him in every direction. his cheeks hurt from smiling because these are the boys that he knows and loves.

they may only be a small team of eight, but they have dreams that are big enough to fill the entire universe.

“what’s the coaches name–” “–know if they’re a good coach–” “–teams have they coached before–”

seonghwa chuckles as the boys hound them with question after question and hongjoong appeases their curiosity dotingly, “we’ll find out when we meet him–coach yeon.”

but it does not matter what qualifications coach yeon has or does not have, and it does not matter what teams he has coached or has not coached before. what matters is that he is a coach and he is willing to be their coach, because it means that hongjoong and his boys are finally taking the next step towards their big dreams. 

and most importantly, they will be in this together…as the red devils.

autumn, present: regular season

“again.”

hongjoong grits his teeth, taking up his position as centre again in the marked circle for the practice drill. even during defensive faceoff plays, he and the team are accustomed to taking on an aggressive approach. when he wins possession of the puck, the wingers–usually yeosang and wooyoung, or jongho when substituted on–quickly breakaway and move forward with him into the offensive zone.

obviously, they have other strategic plays too to switch up the predictability of their tactics, such as moving the puck towards the board whilst yeosang covers him, or by passing the puck back to the mingi in defence. but overall, their team is capable of rapidly flipping from defensive to offensive play using the aggressive setup.

the practice drill you are currently running emphasises heavily on the defence–the reverse setup play. hongjoong is to pass backwards but in the direction of the boards whilst yeosang supports and wooyoung covers the area directly between the circle and san. mingi moves towards the boards to receive the puck, and their other defenceman, yunho, assists with covering the goal.

hongjoong does admit that this play is much safer and stabler, but it is also much slower and…cowardly. his team is called the red devils for a reason and their reputation as demons on ice is not something that he is going to throw away–not following years of blood, sweat and tears to stand back up after falling during their rookie year.

when he assumes his stance once again inside the faceoff circle opposite seonghwa, who is playing the centre position as the mock opponent, you drop the puck onto the centre dot. the moment it hits the ice, hongjoong clears it with his stick towards the right boards. it doesn’t go back far enough for mingi to receive though, so yeosang makes the split decision to burst sideways to retrieve the puck, all three forwards moving aggressively in synchronisation to advance offensively once he gains possession.

you stop them, shaking your head. “again.”

it has been a week since your first meeting with the team, and with the start of the regular season, training has focused on refining their strategies. the red devils are playing in the korean ice hockey league for the second time, an annual national championship with a singular men’s division.

teams from all over korea gather in seoul to compete in regular-season games at the gangneung ice arena against the other teams in rotation. depending on the number of participants, the red devils will need to play an average of three games a week for the next five to six months. then based on the outcome of the games, if your team scores within the top thirty two, they will be able to enter the playoffs.

last year, the red devils were only able to make it to the quarterfinals before they were knocked out. but considering it was their first time competing in a proper championship–as opposed to the rookie leagues and interstate competitions they competed in during the first four years of their career–making it into the top eight teams out of over a hundred or so teams was already impressive enough.

your team’s first regular-season game starts tomorrow, so it does not matter that this is the sixth time in a row that you have stopped them during this drill. you will make them restart until they perfect the play. with that in mind, you release the puck onto the centre dot of the circle once more, but this time seonghwa wins the faceoff, clearing it to the side where jongho is waiting as his left wing. seonghwa looks at you guiltily and anticipates the word that will come out of your mouth.

you bite your tongue, having sensed the rising tension amongst the team an hour ago, but now they are almost at their boiling point. closing your eyes briefly, you try reminding yourself to think about the situation from your players’ perspectives.

their career progression rides on this championship, and with their grit and determination, they will not settle for simply beating their own record in ranking. no, they vie for first place. only the top team secures a position in the international ice hockey league, the most coveted opportunity to represent korea in the championship between the world’s best teams.

and it is during this vital time–when the stress levels and stakes are as high as they can get–that the boys have suddenly had to change coaches. not only have they lost their most trusted support and guide, they have only had one week to adjust to their new one–you. in the grand scheme of things, one week is nowhere near enough time to develop any sort of meaningful relationship where they are able to listen to and rely on you.

taking a breath, you explain, “being so focused on offence leaves your team vulnerable if the opposing team also has aggressive forwards that you can’t break through. the faceoff play needs to be adjusted for those situations, otherwise it’ll be too difficult to control the puck and it will more than likely end up in chaos. it won’t be a game of professional skill anymore, but a circus of dirty play.”

your defence-focused coaching style has worked well for all the past teams you have taught, both men’s and women’s teams. you know that the boys play an offence-focused style; you are reminded too closely of your past self every time they rush head-on into every situation. and it is exactly because of that–because you know the dangers that come with their aggressive style–that you are making them adjust their play. their career comes first and if they suffer an injury, there may not be a career left.

so you will play the bad cop if you have to. they will come to understand you one day.

san bites down on his mouthguard as he listens from his position in the goal. he is able to see each and every play unfold, better than any other of his teammates, so he knows where you are coming from. whilst he has become used to the pressures that come with goaltending, no amount of training or competitions will ever fully eliminate the sudden spike in fear and anticipation the moment the opposing team’s forwards break past yunho and mingi.

san is the team’s last line of defence and the best outcome is that a game never comes down to just him, the opponent’s stick, and his goal. it is true that his team needs to work on their defensive plays, so when the others huff in defiance and reluctantly reset their positions, san simply lowers his centre of gravity in wait for your cue to restart the drill.

“again.”

outside the arena, the echo of sticks and scraping of skates sound faintly as the first leaf of autumn begins to fall to the ground. as time passes, the rest of the leaves will also succumb to a similar fate, only differing in how. some will fall in a slow and graceful descent, whilst others…

…a rapid and spiralling whirlwind downwards.

counting the heads and finding all eight of your players seated in the bus, you nod to the driver to close the door and start driving. most of the boys have chosen to sit on a two-seater by themselves, only yunho and mingi choosing to sit together. they share a set of wired earphones, eyebrows furrowed in concentration at one of their phones, likely monitoring one of their own matches or one of another team’s.

the rest of the boys sit alone, faces grim and tight as they stare out the window. they look exactly like you used to and it hits you with a wave of bittersweet nostalgia.

the ride to the competition venue–much less for the very first game of the season–is always the quietest, air strung tight with nerves as everyone prepares themselves psychologically for the inevitable pressures that the game will bring. being able to compose and centre one’s mindset is already half the battle won, and whilst nobody says it out loud, you all know that today’s results, despite it only being day one, will set the tone for the next four to five months as they fight to qualify for the playoffs.

as you make one final sweep from the back of the bus to the front whilst it pulls away from the curb, you accidentally make eye contact with yeosang. you give him a polite smile and he opens his mouth, closes it on second thought, then decides to ask anyway, “do you want to sit here?”

it is a lie to say that you are not surprised by the question, so you stumble over your response as you stammer, “oh, okay. thanks.”

yeosang reciprocates your noise of disorientation and when he fumbles to move his bag aside that had been occupying the space beside him, you belatedly realise he was only asking out of courtesy. but backtracking now and rejecting his offer would be a million times worse and you can only try to hide the flaming heat behind your cheeks as best as you can as you sit down in the seat.

he fiddles with the straps of his bag and you can feel his discomfort reeking off his hands. in an attempt to break the ice, you glance at him, “are you nervous for the game?”

he nods, “don’t think it gets any less nerve-wracking no matter how many games you play.”

“well this is a pretty big championship. you have every reason to feel nervous,” you hum.

yeosang levels you with a look. “are you trying to make me feel better or worse?”

you do not know him well enough to be able to discern whether he is joking with you or not. opting to clear your throat instead, you point out, “you have your teammates who you can trust.”

“yeah…teammates.”

and you have me, too, as your coach, you want to say.

the hopeful glimpse in the dark of your eyes is enough for yeosang to pick up on your thoughts. he swallows uncomfortably and looks away.

we don’t know that yet.

you bite the inside of your cheek, trying once more to extend the conversation after a pregnant pause. “did you guys have a coach before cho?” either you have a shitty sense of appropriate conversation starters or yeosang wants absolutely nothing to do with you (it is likely both, but one can be optimistic), because his shoulders tense almost immediately.

“we did…just one,” he starts off carefully. you think that that is going to be the end of it, but then he adds on, “we don’t really talk about him though.”

and there it is–the end of the conversation. it is his nice way of telling you that there is no more to be said, so you sit the rest of the ride in silence next to yeosang, pretending not to let the sheer awkwardness suffocate you.

when the bus arrives at the gangneung ice arena, you hurry to alight and only then do you feel like you are able to breathe again. you plaster on a smile and notify the boys, “your first game is in two hours against the panthers. you’ve been allocated locker room 3B.”

they make their way into the centre and you trail behind in wait as they find their designated space. warm-ups will be first so they will not be needing their full gear just yet, which means it should not take long for them to change.

inside the locker room, the red devils shrug off their bulky duffle bags and change into their game jerseys, lacing and relacing their skates to ensure the snuggest fits. hongjoong alerts, “boys, time to go out and start warming up,” receiving a chorus of acknowledgement as everyone grabs the rest of the gear that they need.

before jongho places his phone into his assigned locker, he habitually taps on the screen one last time to check for any notifications and finds a single text from his younger brother, jonghyuk. he knows he should not read it, much less right before his first game, but the smaller part inside him that yearns for his family’s recognition dares to hope for something. dragging the preview down to avoid opening it, jongho reads the text.

are you just going to keep pretending you haven’t read our messages?

jongho clenches his jaw and swipes the notification away as if that will also erase it from his mind. tossing his phone into the locker, he shuts it with a harsh swing, resting his forehead against the cool metal as he closes his eyes and breathes out shakily. this game–this championship–jongho has to win; he cannot afford to lose.

“captain.”

hongjoong turns around to see jongho striding up towards him, brows furrowed and voice troubled as he questions, “are we really not going to tell coach what our game plan is? shouldn’t we work together with her?”

“jongho,” the captain sighs, “we got lucky with coach cho, but we know better than anyone else that not all coaches are like him.”

from where he has been listening in on the conversation at the doors leading out of the locker room, seonghwa’s shoulders stiffen. there is a moment of silence; the rest of the team have already made their way to the ice rink.

“what if we lose?”

it is the way that his voice grows small and timid that hongjoong realises it is not his captain that jongho needs right now. hongjoong’s gaze softens as he searches the younger’s eyes, “did your family say something again?”

he receives no answer but it tells him more than enough. “you trust me?”

jongho’s almost imperceptible nod does not escape hongjoong’s observations, so he continues to reassure, “we’ll win. my boys are the best players, you included, and we already have experience playing in this competition.” he ducks down slightly to meet jongho’s gaze, “and even if we do lose? we lose because of our own skills–not because of anybody else.”

his words tug a small smile out of the corner of the youngest’s lips, and hongjoong returns it with a relieved smile. with a nudge, he sends jongho in the direction of the door, where seonghwa pretends to ruffle his hair affectionately knowing that it will be dodged. seonghwa chuckles lightly and watches him walk off, unbeknownst to his captain watching him.

“hey,” hongjoong calls out gently, “i know what you’re thinking, but that wasn’t what i meant.”

seonghwa looks back and winces, “i can’t help it.”

“and that’s why i will keep telling you no matter how many times you need to hear it. it is not your fault–never was, and never will be,” hongjoong cocks his head playfully as he raises an eyebrow.

“same goes to you then, captain,” seonghwa returns the banter, shoulders relaxing and head shaking, “not your fault either.”

“you’re right, so let’s get the fuck out there and smash our game, yeah?” hongjoong slings his arm around the other and leads them both out of the locker room to join the rest of the boys.

what he does not say, though, is that seonghwa is wrong. seonghwa may have been the one to reach out to coach yeon, but hongjoong was the one who made the executive decision to accept and trust coach yeon.

he is not going to make the same mistake twice this time, because it is not just about protecting his dreams, his career, or those of his teammates–it is about protecting the people he loves.

hongjoong will not let them fall…not again.

winter, 2018: regular season

jongho twirls his phone in his hand, intermittently turning the screen on and off. he sits in the corner of the locker room, away from the rest of the boys as they wait for coach yeon to return from checking in and filling out their required paperwork. only several competitions later will they realise that their locker room is small, cramped and dim, but to their fresh, bright-eyed excitement at competing in a professional league for the first time, they hardly have time to critique the assigned space.

the phone comes to a stop. making up his mind, jongho taps on the screen and navigates to the keypad. dialling his mother’s number, he brings the phone up to his ear and waits with bated breath as it is left to ring.

“what do you want,” comes her curt response when she finally picks up.

jongho’s words falter, “oh, nothing…i just wanted to tell you that we’re playing our first game today.”

“game? your little team doesn’t even have a coach,” his mother patronises.

shoulders curling in on themselves, jongho hesitantly voices, “i told you last month that we got a coach.”

“i forgot,” she brushes him off, “and it must not be a very important competition then, seeing as it isn’t worth remembering.”

“there’s prize money,” he reveals. maybe if he can bring some of it home for his parents, they will recognise his efforts.

she sceptically probes, “is it national? international?”

“no…regionals.”

“is it ranked at least?”

“it’s just an entry-level competition for rookie teams,” jongho trails off, discouraged and confidence in shambles.

his mother scoffs at his answers, none of which are the ones she wants to hear. “you have no excuse not to win this competition, then. this is child’s play. just look at jonghyuk. he’s two years younger than you, yet already has his eyes on the olympics. if you lose, i don’t want to hear about it–don’t bring shame to our family.”

“okay,” jongho mumbles, but his answer is only heard by the beeping dial of the ended call…and the rest of the boys it seems, if not apparent by the sombre hush that has settled over the room and the worried lips that he sees when he looks up.

yeosang’s mouth parts, the younger’s name on the tip of his tongue, but then coach yeon enters the locker room and calls for their attention. jongho gives them a reassuring smile before setting his phone beside him on the bench and directing his gaze to their coach, grateful for the distraction. it leaves yeosang and the others with no choice but to drop it for now.

coach yeon erases the old scribbles on the room’s whiteboard and replaces it with rough markings of the hockey rink. he drags the magnets into the different zones, each one representative of a player, as he goes over the final lineup and their respective positions based on the opposing team they have been pooled against.

“stay strong on the offensive and maintain a 2-1-2 formation where possible–yeosang, i want you up there with hongjoong and put pressure on the other team. if they gain puck possession, both of you fall back to where wooyoung is and maintain 3-2.”

the three forwards nod and coach yeon touches one of the magnets positioned on the player’s bench. “jongho, you’ll come on for your shift during the second period. whoever you replace will come back in later to sub the other wing. yeosang and wooyoung, you should both be playing again during the third period.”

“yes, coach,” jongho acknowledges.

coach yeon continues on to review their game plan and hongjoong steps up to assist with detailing their different strategic plays. to jongho though, their words sound like he is listening from underwater as his mind involuntary drifts off. it is a small saving grace that his parents do not care for his match, because it means that they will not see that he is not part of the starting lineup.

for seven of the people in the locker room, winning the competition is an aspiration, but for one of them it is an expectation. and for the remaining individual, the competition in itself is an opportunity, but for an entirely different reason.

winter, present: regular season

inevitably, you find out. when discrepancies start to occur between training, pre-game meetings and the actual games, it is only a matter of time before you start to notice them.

it starts off with the uncommon plays that are simply a response to the game situation–ones that are dire and not often brought up prior to them actually occurring. during their fourth regular game of the season, the red devils are behind by two goals. the last period is almost over when they miraculously gain the power advantage after two of the opposing players are sent to the penalty box in quick succession.

before you realise what is happening, hongjoong gives his team a signal and both yunho and mingi on defence and san in the goal all rush forward to attack with the wings. you can only watch with wide eyes as they risk an empty net in the hopes of scoring two much-needed goals to even the playing field.

wooyoung manages to score one with a quick shot, but with the release of the opponents from the penalty box, their advantage is put to an end and they ultimately finish the match with a loss. you do not dwell too much on their sudden change in tactics despite the lack of communication with you, because you understand that every single game requires a different approach. sometimes, there is no time to strategise, only time to act.

but one occurrence turns into two, and two turns into several. and when, during one of their matches the week prior, jongho and wooyoung swap positions on the left and right sides of the rink as soon as the youngest replaces yeosang’s shift, it becomes quite conclusive that they are deliberately withholding information from you.

the boys are not brainless. it is not a coincidence for you and the team to discuss one game plan in the locker room only for it to completely change the moment they step onto the hockey rink.

you silently watch as the boys prepare for a faceoff in their defensive zone. they are currently playing against the incheon bears and the timing of the penalty puts you all on edge; the score is currently tied four to four and only twelve seconds are left on the clock. you had requested a time-out right as the referee made the call in hopes of stopping the momentum of the opposing team and to tell the boys to play defensively for this faceoff.

“play it safe. stall for the last twelve seconds and drag the game into overtime,” you had ordered.

the incheon bears have made a shift change with their player number four coming on for the faceoff, their right wing who has low stamina but terrifyingly accurate shots. he is responsible for most of his team’s goals and several other scoring attempts that san had only just managed to block. you are also almost certain that they will be aggressively body checking your players to make this faceoff count for them. your forwards have to play safely–not just for the sake of the game’s score.

at your defensive suggestion, san had nodded in agreement with you, “forwards need to make passes with sure lanes–nothing that can risk getting intercepted. go for the reverse setup play if you guys can.”

“we don’t need to take this into overtime,” hongjoong had started to argue, “other than number four, the rest of their offence is weak. as long as we break past him, we have an opportunity to score.”

“captain–”

the whistle blows before mingi can give his two cents, the mere thirty seconds for the time-out far too short, and the boys hurry to enter the rink again. hongjoong leans in quickly to say something to them before they disperse into their positions and mingi glances at you, almost guiltily.

you do not have the confidence that your team will listen. san may have seen the advantages in favouring a defensive play, but he is not the one who will decide which direction the puck will go when the referee drops it onto the ice. hongjoong is.

the hand of the referee raises to signal the start of the faceoff and both team’s centre forwards lower their stance. then the puck hits the ice. hongjoong’s nimble reflexes help him to snap his wrist and twist the puck away from the incheon bear’s player, wooyoung already surging ahead with explosive strides towards the other end of the rink. but just as you fear, the opponent’s left wing thunders at hongjoong with horrifying speed, intention solely to bowl him over onto the ice–not to steal the puck.

“fuck, captain!” you yell, heart leaping up into your throat as it cuts off your breath.

hongjoong’s eyes snap upwards and darken, jaws aching from the force with which he grinds his teeth together despite his mouthguard. he suddenly pivots on the edges of his skates and shifts his weight to only just narrowly miss the body check, then flicks the puck away before another player can knock him down.

he does not need to look before passing to where he knows wooyoung will be, years of synergy allowing their plays to connect seamlessly. except incheon bear’s number four has predicted their exact play, having been watching from the benches and noting your forwards’ preference for aggressive attacks.

“shit,” yunho curses under his breath, ice shaving under his skates from the accelerating force of his strides towards the puck. he is not going to make it in time. “mingi!”

seonghwa jolts up to his feet from the player’s bench, chest mid-inhale with apprehension at the captain’s pass. the puck is intercepted within the blink of an eye and with a well-timed punch turn around yunho’s attempt to regain possession, the rival team’s number four makes a shot for the goal.

it is too fast for mingi’s stick to block–arm still stretching out with desperation–and although san drops down to his knees in hopes of barricading the goal with his leg pads, the trajectory of the puck arcs higher than he had predicted.

as the puck soars past san and hits the netting of the goal, the buzzer sounds in tandem with the eruption of cheers around the rink. all around, the incheon bears swarm towards their number four in joyous celebration. mingi leans over to rest his hands on his knees from both exhaustion and defeat, and the other boys stand in similar stances as the outcome of the game registers in their tired minds.

in an attempt to cheer them up despite his own disappointment, seonghwa half-heartedly smiles at his boys as they slowly start to trudge their way off the rink. “we played well, boys. it was unlucky that our pass got intercepted, but we can do better next time.”

“good thing it isn’t the playoffs yet,” yunho tries to joke, “so we’re still in the competition.”

nobody cracks a smile and wooyoung’s face is dark, hand grabbing the walls in support to favour his left foot whilst lifting his skates over the slight ledge of the bench door. noting his slight limp, san quietly murmurs in worry, “did you tape your ankle?”

wooyoung shakes his head. “i ran out. forgot to buy some yesterday.”

“make sure you ice it tonight then, okay?” san gently supports him by the elbow to the benches so they can loosen the laces of their skates and grab their things before heading to the locker room.

you look away to flip through the notebook in your hand instead, trying to calm the shaking of your hands. ice hockey is a contact sport and you cannot protect the players from every single collision, but that last body check that hongjoong had been unprepared for still has acid pooling into your mouth. you scratch the score ‘4-5’ onto a page filled with their scores from this season thus far. a quick calculation tells you that the red devils have just as many losses as they have wins, which in all honesty, is not looking good.

this…conflict needs to be cleared with the team–with hongjoong. you cannot let this concealment of tactics and blatant changing of strategies right in your face continue any longer, because at the rate they are going, they may not even make it into the playoffs. and as you make eye contact with san, who has been staring despondently at the puck that still lies in his goal, you know that you must clear the air for the team, too. the last thing you need is for their own teamwork to fall apart because their differing opinions on your coaching starts to drive a wedge between them.

san stills when you break your gaze and glance away to pivot on your heels in the direction of the changerooms. from the way your mouth thins and neck becomes rigid, he is quite certain you are not happy—and rightfully so, san must admit. he stalls time by slipping off his bulky gloves and freeing his hands up to remove his helmet and mouthguard too.

noting that the other boys have grabbed most of their belongings, san heads off first to meet you, knowing that they will follow him soon after. he walks down the corridor easily balancing on his skates and rounds the corner to their locker room. except the sight that greets him has his feet halting and taking a step back behind the doorway.

your hand is deep in one of their bags. san is unsure whose bag it is, but the brief glimpse of the black canvas bag he caught is enough to tell him that it is one of theirs. although he is not making any accusations, he also cannot think of a reason as to why you would be rummaging through their bags.

“why are you just standing there?”

jongho’s voice startles him and he mumbles, “nothing,” before stepping through the door with the rest of his team. you are sitting on a bench in front of an empty locker now and if he did not know better, san would think that he had imagined the last minute. he glances discreetly at the bag you had been poking through and recognises it as wooyoung’s.

gingerly seating himself in front of his own locker, san waits on edge as mingi also grasps the atmosphere and sits too. gradually, the boys read the room with tactful glances and linger on their feet or on the benches. all except for one.

“what was that?” you cut through the silence with a directed question at hongjoong.

the captain continues to toss his gloves into his unzipped bag at the bottom of his locker before proceeding to unlace his skates, not once turning to look at you.

“what was what?”

you know fully well that he is aware of what you are talking about but you decide to humour him as you elaborate, “that last faceoff. i clearly told you to play defensively, but you went against it to try for a goal. and let me guess, you told the others to ignore what i said.”

“and so what if i did?” hongjoong challenges. yeosang’s wide eyes dart from side to side and yunho watches on uneasily as his captain finally turns to glare at you. “in that moment–as a player on the rink–i saw the opportunity and took it. if there is a chance to attack, then my team takes it. we don’t run away like cowards.”

the successive jabs at your athletic retirement cause a lick of phantom heat to wrap around your shoulder. your jaw grinds as you hold yourself back from biting the bait. “then i’m curious as to what opportunity you saw every time you decided to withhold game tactics from me, or every time you changed the strategy the moment you and your team stepped foot onto the rink.”

“maybe we would respect and listen to your coaching if it actually suited the playing style of our team. heavy defence may have worked for the grey eagles, but i think you need to reevaluate your abilities as a coach because it seems like you are forgetting that we are not them. forcing us to play defensively like your past team is not going to work for shit, coach,” hongjoong mocks.

you scoff to the side, questioning your own ears. it borders on a laugh, because that is his reason? you have been adjusting their playing style not only based on the situation that arises each game, but in general for their own good. earning his respect be damned, you will not stand for this.

you return the same scornful tone, “well then, captain, considering you just lost the fucking match because you were too arrogant to defend for twelve fucking seconds, i think you should also reevaluate yourself. are you acting in the best interest of your team, or are you acting in the way that best strokes your own ego? and let me remind you–if you suffer an injury, your whole team suffers with you.

“if you do not have the decency to at least tell me what you have discussed with the boys so that i can adjust the plays accordingly, then i think the shit results of your games so far speak for themselves. teams have a coach for a reason whether you like it or not…or maybe i should say, whether you trust them or not,” you snap.

running your stressed fingers through your hair, you tear your eyes away from hongjoong’s defiant eyes. the two youngest avoid your gaze, whereas yunho and yeosang simply stare at you with their jaws slack at a loss for words. the fire within you almost quenches when your eyes skim over san, mingi and even seonghwa, who are fiddling with their jerseys with guilt.

the room suddenly feels too small and too stuffy. “change. the bus will be waiting outside,” you mumble, then you leave without a further word.

nobody in the room moves in the wake of the argument, not even hongjoong, who continues to bore holes in the doorway that you have just disappeared through. yunho’s eyes awkwardly dart back and forth between hongjoong and the other boys before they land on the bench you had been sitting on.

the notebook you are always holding is still there, left behind in your haste to leave. he stands up to grab it, turning on his heels to chase after you when the open pages catch his eye. “woah,” yunho breathes out, double-taking and bringing the notebook closer towards him to read the contents. “this is insane.”

you have marked down not only their score for every single game they have played this season, but you have also tracked the statistics of who has scored, assisted, or successfully defended a shot. yunho flips back through the pages as the other boys come to crowd around him. there are logs of their major games from the past five years, diagrams of their faceoff plays and formations, analyses of their strengths in games won and similarly, analyses of their weaknesses in games they have lost.

“oh, fuck,” mingi curses when yunho flips to the more recent pages and they see that you have compiled the same details and information, only more concisely, for every single opponent team the red devils have played against this season. there is no way of seeing this–hours upon hours of hard work–and still questioning your intentions as their coach. “i think we owe coach a huge fuckin’ apology.”

hongjoong immediately furrows his eyebrows with displeasure. “are you taking her side, mingi?”

“captain,” mingi deliberately calls. it is at times like this where being the only logical thinker in the team has its merits. it may be harsh, but mingi must draw the line between their professional and personal life. this dispute must stay strictly within the bounds of their career without blurring the lines over into their romantic involvement with one another, otherwise things could get messy real fast.

mingi stares at the captain as he reasons, “this isn’t about taking sides. from a solely rational point of view, i think it may have been better for us to play safe and defend like coach had suggested.”

from beside him, san nods in agreement. mingi continues, “and i’m not just talking about today–there were a lot of times when coach’s plays might have worked out better than bulldozing ahead with offence. yeah, we’ve won a few games but we’ve also lost just as many. how many of those could we have won if we had trusted coach?”

yunho backs him up whilst gesturing vaguely between the both of them and san, “it’s easier for the three of us to see from defence, but their forwards were already close to intercepting our faceoffs quite a few times that game.”

hongjoong’s immediate thought is to defend himself, because he is their captain and their centre forward; the one who leads them into opportunities to score and win. he knows that every single time he chooses an aggressive play, it is at the risk of weaker defence. the odds have never deterred him, though, because he has always been confident in his abilities–in his team’s abilities.

but if, even now with the palpable experience of losing because of his own decision, it still does not deter him from taking risks in a situation where offence may be his downfall, then is he confident…or overconfident?

it is quiet for a moment. hongjoong swallows the urge to justify against their opinions–against your opinions–instead looking around at his team. he meets jongho’s round eyes and he remembers one of the very reasons why he is so committed to leading the red devils to the gold trophy. why, if he is becoming a hurdle instead to their victory, then he needs to change. “what does everybody else think? seonghwa?”

“we’ve been wary of y/n all this time, but the more games we play and especially after…” the alternate captain vaguely gestures in the air, “...today, we should really work with her instead of relying on ourselves. we’ve seen her notebook, too, and i think that’s more than enough for us to see that the effort and resolve she places in our team is genuine. we need to acknowledge that and apologise.”

“not even coach cho went to these lengths, and most definitely not coach yeon,” yeosang shrugs as he offhandedly comments.

spurred on by everybody else, san carefully voices the thought that has been lingering on his mind, “i think it’s time to tell her the truth. we owe her that much.”

the truth. the wounds that not even coach cho knows of.

hongjoong’s distrust in you may have initially been true to his desire to protect his boys from something like that from happening again. but he is now realising that you may have seen right through him. perhaps at some point in time, it became unwillingness to trust you, blinded by his prideful title as the demon king of the ice rink but at the expense of his team under the guise of wanting to safeguard them.

exhaling shakily, voice thick with regret, hongjoong accepts, “i’ve let you all down, haven’t i?”

“no,” yunho gently rebukes. “letting us down would be refusing to listen to us. we trust you for a reason, hongjoong.”

not just as a captain, but as everything else too.

seonghwa wraps an arm comfortingly around him. with hongjoong’s demonic presence on the ice once he is in the zone, it is easy to forget that he actually has a shorter stature than all of them. “that’s right, we trust you,” seonghwa affirms. “the next step is for us to trust our coach as well. we’re a team, but it isn’t complete without our coach.”

“and this apology isn’t yours alone to bear,” yunho reminds. “like seonghwa said, we’re a team and we all have fault in our behaviour towards y/n. if i’m honest, i had a shitty attitude and gave her a hard time at the start too,” he admits, wincing at the memory.

yunho is not the only one who grimaces as they reflect on their own actions–whether they happened when you were first introduced to the team, during your first training together, or even up until today’s game. but wooyoung, who has been quiet throughout the entire ordeal, still has a niggling doubt: one that is most personal to him in comparison to the rest of the team.

wooyoung reveals his thoughts, “but what about her choice to stop playing? i still can’t think of a good reason that i can respect her for having retired.”

“then we ask her,” mingi proposes.

jongho nods, also curious to know whether there is more to your decision than you have let on. “today, though? we don’t really want to come off as accusatory or anything. it might be good to give her some space today.”

“what’s our schedule looking like tomorrow? training?”

everyone looks at seonghwa, the most likely person to know their schedule off by heart. he does, and he scratches his head as he recalls, “no, recovery day. low-intensity cardio in the morning and…a team meeting with coach in the afternoon.”

“tomorrow it is, then,” hongjoong concludes. there are hums of agreement and the decision appears to appease wooyoung enough for the boys to start dispersing, heading to their lockers to finally start changing out of their gear.

wooyoung tosses his helmet and gloves onto the bench in front of his locker before sitting with a sharp but discreet inhale. he carefully loosens the laces on his skates, easing the left one off his foot slowly. the relief is immediate and his fingertips gingerly touch the throbbing area around his ankle. it is not too swollen, but he will need to ice it when they get back to their apartment and he will definitely need to buy more tape.

he sheds off the rest of his gear and uniform, leaving them on the bench too to air out while he takes a quick shower. as he roughly towels his wet hair afterwards, he drags his kit bag further out to make it easier to toss everything in.

“huh?” wooyoung makes a noise of confusion when he unzips the bag, hand immediately reaching in to grab the item that has caught his eye. it is partially covered by his hoodie but he would be able to recognise the packaging anywhere.

“what’s wrong?” san asks, glancing over.

the younger brandishes the brand new roll of strapping tape he has found in his bag, the frown etched across his face slowly relaxing into amused exasperation as he reasons, “i must not have seen this in my bag all along.”

san is about to snort and make fun of his inattentiveness, but a sudden thought stuns the smile off his face. it was not that wooyoung had managed to miss the spare roll in his bag. it was–

“y/n,” he quietly exhales with realisation.

at wooyoung’s questioning what?, san looks at him with upturned eyebrows. “the tape–coach was the one who put it in your bag, right before we all walked in here.”

“this…she gave it to me?” wooyoung’s face drops, remorse evident in the thickness of his voice. “but why?”

san gently squeezes his shoulder with a smile, simply answering, “because she’s our coach.” he turns to zip up his own kit bag and leaves wooyoung to digest the revelation. the boy is quiet for the rest of the time, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek as he stares ahead and absentmindedly follows the rest of his team out of the locker room.

when they exit the ice arena, they do not expect to see you. and yet, there you stand beside their bus waiting stonily with your jacket zipped up and hands in your pockets. you mentally count them off without acknowledging them as they start to store their kit bags under the bus and board. yeosang gets on first, taking a seat near the front of the bus as usual. he watches from the window as you wait for the rest of the boys.

you follow jongho up the stairs, the last to load his kit bag, and tell the driver that you are all good to leave. yeosang sits a little straighter as he tucks his small backpack further under the seat in front of him with his feet, having left the seat beside him empty. but before he can open his mouth with an offer of a seat, you have already sat right behind the driver. yeosang leans back into the cushions of his seat, unfamiliar with the sense of disappointment he feels.

the ride back from the competition venue–much less after a lost game–is always quiet, players both physically and mentally exhausted from the strain. this time, though, it is strikingly silent, but you appreciate it–need it.

you stare out of the window as the trees flicker past like a repetitive motion film. most of their leaves have already fallen off, littering the ground in a blur of tragic glory. and with the beginning of winter, the trees will soon become completely bare, bringing about the period of time when there is nothing but bleak emptiness.

winter, 2019: regular season

‘2019 ice hockey rookie stars tournament: team standings��

hongjoong stares at the printed piece of paper with seonghwa at his side, where the results of all the team’s round-robin games have been taped up onto the walls of the stadium. hongjoong does not even bother reading from the top, eyes going straight down to the bottom of the page instead.

the red devils are dead last, having lost every single one of their matches. even the korean penguins, who had nil wins either, had managed to beat them earlier today, ranking them at the lowest of all teams. it is fucking humiliating and hongjoong hates that the sport that had brought him and his boys all together, that they had immeasurable love for, is now one that fills them with shame and indignity.

nobody else but the two captains of the team have decided to look at the rankings. they had all already known towards the end of the regular season that they would not stand a chance at making it into the playoffs. and yet, hongjoong and seonghwa need to see the results for themselves. it is almost masochistic, forcing themselves to look at the fruitless results of their hard work in their first competition that has so devastatingly crushed their morality.

seonghwa picks at his cuticles fretfully and wonders whether he made the wrong decision to give up his education in pursuit of becoming an athlete. he thinks of his parents, who had encouraged him with supportive smiles and offers of financial support the moment he brought up the idea–was it all in vain?

“are you two done looking?”

both of the boys turn at the question to find a captain with his team waiting to look at the standings.

“yeah, sorry,” hongjoong mumbles before stepping aside to yield his spot. the players swarm forwards and he is pushed further back away from the list like a physical representation of his distance from the playoffs.

somebody from the other team yells, “we made it! we’re in the playoffs!” and they simultaneously break out into cries and cheers as they celebrate together.

hongjoong watches on bitterly, wishing with every cell in his body that that was him and his boys. how is he going to walk back into the locker room as their captain when all of his boys have eyes that are rimmed red and cheeks that are blotchy from despair–when there are captains like that who have successfully led their team to at least a chance at winning the competition.

the feeling of a pinky slowly hooking around his own draws hongjoong out of his pain. “let’s go back,” seonghwa murmurs, tugging him away from the still-celebrating team. together, both of them start to walk back through the hallways to their locker room. 

“aren’t we down here?” seonghwa questions, standing at the t-intersection that hongjoong has absentmindedly walked straight past.

“oh, yeah. sorry,” hongjoong apologises and begins to backtrack. his ears suddenly perk up at the sound of a voice. “wait, doesn’t that sound like coach?”

before seonghwa can respond, hongjoong has turned around yet again towards the voice in search of their coach. seonghwa hurries to catch up and that is when he hears it too.

“have you transferred the money?”

“yes, i wired you the remaining amount the moment we won,” a deeper, unrecognisable voice reassures.

hongjoong’s footsteps falter, brows knitting together and head cocking to one side. he gestures for seonghwa to slow down, pressing a finger on his other hand to his lips. both of them creep forward silently.

the unfamiliar voice probes, “your team–you’re sure they don’t suspect anything?”

hongjoong and seonghwa do not need to see him to confirm their suspicions when they hear the unmistakable laughter of coach yeon. through the gravelly sound, he mocks, “they have no fucking clue even though they’ve lost every single one of their games. they’re dumber than fucking sheep. their captain tells me everything about their plays and strategies and they never question it when i change things around.”

seonghwa clutches the back of hongjoong’s jersey with a death grip, knowing that without it, his captain will punch coach yeon’s face into a bloody mess. but as much as their coach deserves it, it is not worth the disciplinary action that will inevitably follow, likely suspension, because–

“plus, even if they do somehow find out, what can they do about it? bullshit, that’s what. they have no evidence and they’re not going to risk blowing this up and ruining their own careers instead,” coach yeon boasts smugly. “losing like that as a rookie group in their first year out is completely normal. no one will believe them, and no coach is going to want their team after that because of their ‘shitty sportsmanship’ or out of fear of being accused in the same way if they lose again.”

at coach yeon’s words, seonghwa scrambles to put them into context with his dread-riddled mind. the echoing pounding in his ears tells him that he has just heard something that was never meant to be known. he does not even notice that the voices start to grow distant as the two men begin to walk off, but hongjoong does.

the trembling grip that is still on the back of his jersey grounds hongjoong enough not to throw everything away and sprint up to coach yeon with vile words and heated fists, but he also cannot do nothing. hongjoong peers around the corner before seonghwa can counteract his movement, desperate to identify who exactly coach yeon is talking to. except the revelation has him reeling, hands white from how hard his fingers dig into his palm–a stark contrast to the deep scarlet of flames that leap forth from his murderous eyes.

because the person who is walking beside coach yeon is the coach of the korean penguins. hongjoong and his boys have not been losing because of their skills they believed to be fucking shit–coach yeon has been fucking ensuring they lose.

for money.

winter, present: regular season

you stand on the balcony of your apartment. the sliding glass doors are shut behind you to keep the heat trapped inside, but for now you welcome the refreshing cold of the winter chill as you simply observe.

below on the streets, the miniature specks of people and cars mill around as if you are watching a game simulation. it is strangely humbling to think that each and every one of the people you see are living their own lives, completely distinct to yours with different yet very real problems of their own, but in the grand scheme of the cosmos, you are all insignificant.

you wonder what concern the people holding their coffee are plagued with right now; what problem the people crossing the street are facing. you wonder, if you were to tell them of your worries and they were to tell you of theirs, would you curse or thank the heavens?

the phone in your hand buzzes. you look to see if it is from coach cho and manage a small smile of relief when the notification is indeed from him.

apologies y/n, i was busy earlier. i can call now if you still need me?

you send an affirmative reply, then slide to answer the call that comes through. “hi coach, sorry to bother you.”

“no, you’re alright. is everything okay?”

you hesitate before revealing, “...i messed things up with the boys.”

“the team?” his voice goes gentle, fatherly nature extending to you too. “what happened?”

“hongjoong and i had an argument today after the game because he keeps changing the team’s plays without letting me know, or even after we’ve agreed on something else. it was only meant to be a talk, but then things escalated and we ended up fighting. i just–i don’t know what you saw in me, coach, because i don’t think i’m fit for the boys,” you ramble. “they’re not listening to me, they probably don’t even like me, and we’re going terribly with the season.”

you take a breath as you timidly admit, “i don’t think we’re going to make it into the playoffs and it’s going to be my fault.”

“hey,” coach cho grounds you, “making the playoffs would be great, yes, but the reality is that most teams don’t. and you’re still very young yourself–this is your, what…fifth year of coaching?”

throat too sticky to formulate a response, you simply hum.

“when i first started coaching, i was older than you and it was still a steep learning curve during my first ten years. i believed that coaches deserved the utmost respect and that my opinion was final. they’re my players, so of course i should be the one laying down the laws,” he chuckles. “but growing up was realising that whilst the respect is still there, it needs to be mutual. coaching a team is not a hierarchy of ‘i command, you listen’, but a show of leadership with the captain at the front of the team–not on top of them.”

his words strike a chord within you. coaching the boys was frustrating because they were not listening to you. but it should never have been a case of who listens to who–it should always have been a reciprocated relationship of everyone listening to one other.

as if he can physically feel the guilt that is starting to settle in the pit of your stomach, coach cho draws your attention to something else. “remember what i told you when we met the team for the first time? why i chose you specifically?”

“because of our similar playing styles?” you recall.

“exactly,” he confirms, “you know best the strategies and plays that work, and what their strengths and weaknesses are, because they were also your own. you need to be a coach to their playing style, not the other way around–they shouldn’t be a player to your coaching style.”

you cannot help but worry, “what if they get injured?”

“y/n, this is where your similarities can either be your biggest flaw or your greatest asset as a coach. no matter how safely they play, there will always be a risk of injury. that is just how the sport works and you know that the best. you can teach them to assess the risk and pull back if they really need to, but ultimately, there is no way of eliminating the risk completely.” coach cho pauses, then asks, “if you could meet your younger self, would you make yourself change your playing style?”

would you? as you imagine what you would tell your past self if you had the chance to, you find that you do not have an answer. perhaps for the sake of a prolonged career, you would. but then would it be your passion and skills that are playing the game, or your fears and worries?

if you cannot come to a decision even for yourself, then it is completely unfair for you to restrain the boys within the cages of what you view as safety for their own good. harnessing the defensive skills may have been functional for the grey eagles, but like hongjoong said, you are coaching the red devils now and it is not working for them. you must come to terms that you cannot protect the boys at every opportunity–consciously or unconsciously–you need to be a coach to them.

coach cho, aware that you have come to a conclusion, asks you one final question, “have you told the boys why you retired?”

“no, not yet,” you shake your head. you already have an idea of what he is going to say to you next.

“i think it’s time for you to tell them,” he advises. “remember, y/n, sometimes you need to be vulnerable with them first before you can make things right.”

after coach cho ends the call, you do not make a move to go back inside the apartment. you stay standing on your balcony, arms folded as you lean against the handrail listening to the faint rumble of traffic and hustle of busy activity. life goes on, and so will yours; you just have to make it count.

the trees on the streets may be stripped bare and lonely throughout winter, but eventually you learn to appreciate its nothingness. it is a necessity in order to start afresh.

mingi stares at the blinking cursor that sits in the open search bar. it has been empty for the last twenty minutes since he started up his laptop, wondering whether it would be an invasion of privacy for him to look you up on the internet.

he makes up his mind. he knows that he was the one to tell wooyoung only mere hours ago that they would ask you about your decision to retire tomorrow at the meeting, but mingi supposes it would not hurt to simply see what sort of athlete you were like before.

typing your full name into the search engine, mingi hits ‘enter’ and waits for the results to appear. he combs through the first several links quickly. they all have the same information; ice hockey databases and websites that detail your age, nationality, physical stats and position, but the sections that usually list your team and agency are now blank.

mingi is surprised to learn you were also a centre forward. he scrolls down to your game logs and match statistics that span from 2014 to 2019. you have won an impressive number of championships, most notably the under-18 and under-21 women’s ice hockey league. they are both international competitions and mingi is not sure how your reputation has flown under all of their radars.

frowning, he goes back to the search engine and clicks on the next page in an attempt to find more information. it is not until he clicks yet again to the next page that he finds a low-reputed news article from almost eight years ago where you are the main subject.

‘y/n l/n, youngest player of ‘black cats’, wins ice hockey championship at the age of sixteen’ the headline reads. there is not much to the article, but it outlines your admirable achievement at your young age as a rising prodigy in the ice hockey scene. mingi agrees, since he knows that you also go on to win another international competition a few years after that. just as he is about to close the tab, there is a recommended link that catches his eye.

he hovers his cursor over it. the hyperlinked headline does not explicitly say your name, but the phrasing really only alludes to one athlete considering it is a recommended link on your article. mingi does not know whether he wants to click on it, though, because he is afraid of confirming it is you.

and if it is…then the others will also need to see this too.

“hongjoong, guys, come look at this,” mingi calls out, balancing his laptop on his forearm as he walks out into the open living room. the others look up from where they are sitting or emerge from out of their rooms at his summon.

“what’s this?” hongjoong reaches out to receive the laptop and places it on the table. his eyes skim the screen, trying to make sense of what mingi is showing them.

mingi points to the hyperlink he had been mulling over. “i think we need to look at this.”

solemnity washes over the boys as their curious gazes dull and darken, realisation of what exactly they are reading dawning upon them. all at once, their hearts clench in solidarity. hongjoong clicks on the link. the only sound that permeates the silence is the rhythmic tick of the clock on the wall. nobody talks. nobody moves.

ice hockey star announces retirement following shoulder injury june 18, 2019 star player y/n l/n, centre forward of the ‘black cats’, has announced her retirement from professional ice hockey today. her decision follows lingering issues after suffering from a rotator cuff tear during the grand finals of this year’s under-21 women’s ice hockey league. l/n has been under the ice hockey spotlight ever since her win in the under-18’s league as the youngest player on her team. she is well-known for her offensive threat to the opponents, bold playing style and unparalleled skill breaking through the lines of defence.  during the grand finals in april, l/n was body checked from the side by ‘polar bears’’ kim hyejin. although full-body checking is illegal in women’s hockey, it is not uncommon during the heat of competitions. l/n suffered a severe right rotator cuff tear and is reported to have received open surgery last month. l/n did not provide further details about her recovery, however stated that she plans to focus on her physical rehabilitation in the meantime.

the glare of the screen stares back at the boys as they finally understand exactly why you had retired and why you had come back as a coach–you were unable to fully step away from the sport you so loved with your entire life.

“coach wasn’t telling us to play defensively at all the crucial times just for the sake of the game strategy…” seonghwa grasps.

“...but because she didn’t want the same thing to happen to us,” hongjoong finishes. one of your heated remarks during your argument with him suddenly resounds in his mind: and let me remind you–if you suffer an injury, your whole team suffers with you. you had been reliving your own demons every single time hongjoong and his boys were playing aggressively on the ice. “fuck,” he mutters.

mingi leans down a little. “wait, see if there are any other articles about this.”

fingers dancing across the keyboard, hongjoong opens up a new tab. another quick search of your name with the keywords ‘injury’ and ‘retirement’ yields no further articles. mingi is certain you would have had more media coverage considering you had suffered an injury at the rising peak of your prodigious career, so he finds it strange that there is close to no information about this.

“it almost looks as if somebody had the articles purged from the internet,” mingi observes.

jongho nods with furrowed brows, “maybe y/n? but why would she go to the length to remove them?”

“i mean, wooyoung didn’t exactly go around flaunting off his injury to the media. maybe she didn’t want the attention anymore,” yeosang guesses.

yunho nudges wooyoung playfully as he comments, “no offence to you, but none of us are exactly famous enough for the media to take interest in our injuries.”

“i think the real question is why coach didn’t tell us that her injury was the reason why she stopped playing,” seonghwa wonders, “it was never really a choice like she made it out to be.”

none of them know the answer. hongjoong slowly closes the laptop, exhaling deeply, “we’ve got a lot of things to clear up tomorrow…and a lot of apologising. i’m going to sleep early. you all should too.”

with that, he gets out of his seat and disappears into his bedroom. hongjoong’s mind is heavy and crowded and he knows he is going to be awake for a while.

nobody sleeps well that night. especially wooyoung.

spring, 2023: playoffs

“what do you mean i can’t compete in the playoffs?”

“you have a fractured ankle, wooyoung. the playoffs are honestly the least of your concerns and if you keep straining yourself like this, it won’t just be the playoffs that you can’t compete in–it’ll be the rest of your life,” coach cho admonishes.

“but this is our first proper championship, coach,” wooyoung begs, “you have to let me play.”

coach cho hates that he has to say no and if he could swap ankles with his player, he would do so in a heartbeat. “this isn’t a choice. you physically cannot play. what are you going to do out there on the ice? crawl?”

“fuck, coach, you don’t understand. it was so hard for us to get to this point. this means everything to me, fuck, please,” wooyoung pleads between heaving breaths.

“i’m sorry, wooyoung,” coach cho apologises, leaving no further room for argument as the other boys divert their gazes to the floor.

hongjoong gently squeezes wooyoung’s shoulder. “the doctor said that your cast can come off in about eight weeks and if it’s looking good, you can gradually join in on any light training when it’s off-season.”

wooyoung does not care because in eight week’s time the playoffs will already be over. he knows he is being unreasonable and that there is no chance he will be able to set foot in an ice rink within the next two months. but his heart and mind are operating separately and the only thing his heart can see is the opportunity of playing in the championships slipping right out of his grasp.

he is already angry at himself for getting injured in the first place but it is not enough to quell wooyoung’s raging inferno. so he does the only thing he can think of in the moment–he spits out his anger with a venomous, “i hate you all.”

it hurts the boys more to see wooyoung hurting and coach cho speaks up on their behalf, “i would rather you hate us now than for you to hate yourself in the future because you traded decades of your career for this one playoff.”

wooyoung jerks his head away defiantly, but they know he is only trying to hide his tears. unable to watch any longer, san moves in closer and pulls the younger into his arms.

“fuck off, san. i don’t need you.”

san swallows the hurt in his chest because he knows there is no truth behind wooyoung’s words. “i know you don’t,” he offers, “but i need you. so just let me stay.”

wooyoung’s body sags as all of the fight slips out of him in the form of shuddering sobs. san embraces him tightly, as if he has picked up all the pieces of the other and only a hug can make him whole again.

“i’m sorry,” wooyoung chokes out.

san shakes his head with reassuring hushes, “don’t be. you focus on recovering and we’ll take it from here.”

like that, wooyoung’s anger is quenched and the team goes on to compete in the playoffs without him. but in the absence of anger comes other emotions, jealousy and insecurity the ugliest of them all. wooyoung despises the bitter taste in his mouth as he sits on the player’s bench outside of the rink each game, only able to helplessly watch his team advance further in the playoffs without him.

and as much as wooyoung wants them to win, he also does not want them to win, because if they can win the championships without him playing as their left wing, then do they really need him at all? he never gets to find out the answer though. they lose in the quarter finals.

wooyoung does not tell anybody about the ill relief he feels…and he vows to take that secret with him to the grave.

winter, present: regular season

the moment you walk into kq’s meeting room, a rehearsed apology for the team on the tip of your tongue, you realise that something is off. not necessarily wrong, per se; just off.

all the boys are sitting around the table as usual, though the overhead projector that is routinely already set up with video footage of their recent games has been put on standby mode. but the thing that unconsciously makes your hackles rise is the expression they all nurse on their faces, strangely familiar yet foreign at the same time. it is familiar in the sense that people have looked at you this way in the past, but it is foreign in the sense that it has never come from the boys before.

“hi, coach,” hongjoong clears his throat awkwardly, opting to look at the wall behind you instead of your eyes as if even he knows this is the first time he has ever addressed you as such. “we had a…talk last night and thought we should probably clear up a few things before we discuss the actual games.”

although you share the same sentiment as they do, hongjoong’s words put you on guard. gingerly, you lower yourself into an empty seat across from him. “i also have a couple of things to say, but you guys start,” you cue.

hongjoong glances at seonghwa beside him, who in turn gives him a miniscule shrug. neither of them know how to bring it up with you as they are afraid of saying the wrong thing. thankfully, mingi steps in, not one to beat around the bush.

“why didn’t you tell us about your injury?” he asks directly.

with mingi’s question, you are suddenly able to place their expression. the boys look at you warily as if you are a wounded animal they are afraid will run away. you loathed the expression years ago when it was from your coach, your teammates and your family–the constant treading on eggshells around you with pitying eyes–and you still loathe it just as much as you do now.

your prickles emerge and your instinctive reaction is to deny it. you have kept your injury a secret up until now for a reason and the unexpected confrontation has all of your sirens blaring to keep it a secret. but then you remember coach cho’s advice–you remember the apology you had mulled over all night–and you force your prickles to retract.

you take a breath. coach cho would not have told them about your injury, so there is only one way the boys could have found out about it. “you read the articles, didn’t you?”

mingi at least has the decency to look sheepish as he admits, “one…but there weren’t any others.”

“i thought as much,” you mumble to yourself, smiling tightly. you choose not to think about how they came across the article. “i wanted them all removed and my agency managed to pull enough connections to sweep the articles under the rug, but i should have known that in this day and age it would be impossible to get rid of any media completely.”

the question remains as to why you have chosen to keep this hidden and also–

“why did you want them removed, though?” hongjoong furrows his brows.

you have faced countless demons in the last six years. the injury itself, the abrupt end to your golden days, and the forced reconciliation with the fact that you will never be able to play again. and yet, the demon that continues to haunt you to this day is the media spotlight that chases after you as if you are a circus animal.

you are unable to look at any of them in the eye as you finally bare yourself open to the boys. “the articles felt belittling and shameful–they still do. they made me feel less as an athlete then and they make me feel less as a coach now. i worked my heart and soul to get to where i was with the skills that i had, but you don’t understand just how crippling it is for all of that to be overshadowed by an injury. it was no longer a celebration of my achievements, simply because nobody cared anymore. it just became a fucking broken record of, ‘how does it feel to have fallen at the peak of your career?’

“then when i became a coach, it didn’t matter how well my team performed or how hard they worked to win the championships. the question became, ‘how does it feel to coach after being forced to retire because of your injury?’ no matter how hard i tried, i just could not escape the hellhole of my injury.”

guilt settles in the pit of mingi’s stomach as it also does for the others. they may not have written the article, but by consuming it and searching for more, they had unknowingly joined the faceless masses of those who had hurt you.

you dig your thumbs into the flesh of your thighs to stop your voice from shaking as you continue, “the media will not care for the achievements that myself or my players accomplish when there is something even better–a sob story. but i do not need that kind of pity. not from athletes, not from other coaches, and most definitely not from strangers silently pitying my life from behind their newspaper or screen when i did not ask for any of it. i made people forget and i kept this all hidden because my career, be it as a coach or a former athlete, does not deserve to be reduced to that kind of shit.”

the raw honesty behind your words strikes the boys silent. what they thought they had started to understand about you, they are now realising was barely the tip of the iceberg. seonghwa wonders for just how long you have left this wound bleeding and untreated. he calls out for you sadly, “coach, you should’ve told us.”

when you look up, you are surprised to find wetness brimming his eyes. you feel the hot rush of emotions build up behind your own eyes but from anger, because why is he upset? what reason does he have to cry when you are the one who has suffered all this time?

your voice is biting when you respond, “and have you look down on me like everybody else? i just said, i do not need your pity–”

“it’s not pity,” a voice interrupts firmly. of all people, you least expected it to come from wooyoung. his tone stays unyielding as he holds your gaze. “we’re athletes too, y/n.”

the way he includes you in the collective–as an athlete–has your glare softening immediately, replaced by the dangerous quivering of your bottom lip while he elaborates, albeit voice gentler now, “we are hurting for you–with you. it is not pity; it is standing by your side in hopes that we can help you up if you ever fall again.”

because it is okay to fall, and you will fall; wooyoung knows that the best.

you tilt your head upwards as you desperately blink back the tears that suddenly threaten to spill. the swell of emotions that had churned in your chest had not been anger but fatigue, you realise. wooyoung’s words give you sudden clarity that you are tired–of suffering alone and in silence. you want help.

“i’m tired of hurting,” you confess quietly.

“then let us share the hurt with you.”

the dam breaks and your tears fall freely down your cheeks. it starts off with a nod so miniscule that the boys think they have imagined it, but then slowly and surely, your head moves up and down with more conviction. “okay,” you whisper.

you had always thought that you had come to terms with your injury and the end of your career, but perhaps you are still mourning your loss…and perhaps that is okay. like looking into a time-warped mirror, wooyoung sees the fight slip out of your body with a sob as you apologise, “i’m sorry.”

san wants to cross the room and wrap his arms around you if it can take away even just a fraction of your hurt. but he knows that he cannot cross the boundaries of professionalism despite the intimate nature of the conversation right now, especially when you and the team are only just starting to patch things up. so instead, he opts to rub his thumb over the knuckles of wooyoung’s hand from under the table, which has slipped into his, hoping that one day he will be able to do the same for you.

“we understand,” hongjoong answers on their behalf, “you were doing what you needed to do in order to protect yourself.”

and if you do not realise that he says those words for himself and his team to hear too, then you will by the end of the conversation as you walk away with a newfound understanding of them.

“no, not just for that,” you shake your head, roughly swiping at your tears with the back of your hand. “it ended up negatively influencing the way i coached you guys, even if it was subconscious. i let my own trauma dictate how i wanted you to play: defensively all the time whether it was needed or not. hongjoong, you were right about me not coaching your team as your team.”

you try your damned hardest to keep your voice steady so that you can look at them properly to apologise, “i’m sorry i made it so hard to trust me as your coach.”

“okay, let me stop you right there,” yunho smiles gently, sliding a tissue box in your direction. “we were pricks too, so half the apology is ours.”

“don’t call her a prick,” seonghwa whispers. his horrified expression relaxes when you break out into a wet chuckle.

hongjoong is glad that you are able to find something to laugh about even with your cheeks still damp and blotchy, and he finds his mouth curling into a bittersweet smile. you have been honest and vulnerable with them and now it is their turn.

“we have something to tell you about our past coach,” he starts, drawing your gaze to him. “not coach cho–our very first coach. we’re not trying to justify that what we did as a result was okay, but…”

“but hopefully i can understand,” you finish when hongjoong hesitates. he nods and you mirror his action with a reassuring smile to encourage him to talk.

but irregardless of what they tell you, you already know that you want to understand them, because understanding is the first step to forgiving, and you want that too.

so with intermittent comments from the other boys, hongjoong reveals to you the hidden wounds they have been nursing. and as they tell you about coach yeon, how their trust in him had been misplaced, how he had betrayed it for money at the expense of their championship, and how they had then let that become mistrust in you and your reason for retiring, wooyoung finds himself quiet so that he can steal glances at you.

he can see it now. the untameable beast within you of passion for ice hockey that has been forcibly chained down to the ground with the weight of the earth. the devastating torment that must incessantly surge through you in the most debilitating waves, tenfold any anguish he felt when he was unable to compete in the playoffs. the blemished canvas of dark and ghastly emotions that you do not let see the light of day, yet continue to coexist in hidden silence.

it is there and then that wooyoung realises you and him may be more similar than he thought–that you may actually understand him better than any of his seven boys.

you stop the drill.

yeosang gracefully turns in an arc whilst keeping the puck close to his stick as hongjoong and seonghwa dig their skates into the ice to brake before their momentum takes out the younger.

“let’s have jongho try using the perimeter of the rink instead of passing to yeosang this time. start the faceoff again,” you instruct.

the chorus of responses that you receive are zealous, even slightly teasing as the boys lower their voices with a, “yes, coach!” and give you small salutes with their gloved hands. you cannot help but snort and shake your head, waving at them to retake their positions.

practice is short today, since your team has a game tomorrow. the first half an hour consisted of running through offensive formations for power plays and you are now focusing on defensive penalty kills. your two captains and wooyoung are playing as the mock opponents, preparing your remaining wings and defenseman for a situation where they are down a player.

hongjoong seems to mull over a thought as he looks at the formation of his boys. “you mentioned the team we’re playing against has a tendency to position their forwards higher up, didn’t you?” he asks and  when you nod, he suggests, “what do you think about trying the diamond formation instead? might help close some of their shooting lanes.”

with the captain’s input, you reposition yeosang further up to form the tip of the diamond, and yunho too to cover the right point whilst jongho covers the left. mingi moves in a little closer to the goal to cover the bottom of the diamond and you make sure to point out the importance of his position.

“if the opportunity arises, we can transition into a counterattack instead with 3-1. but we’ll need to make sure we still cover the goal in case they turn it back over again–mingi, this will probably be you. support whoever has the puck from behind, but make sure you don’t go too far forward.”

mingi answers with an affirmative and yeosang passes the puck to hongjoong for him to commence the penalty kill. at your whistle, the rink explodes into action. wooyoung and seonghwa immediately split down the perimeters to open up shooting lanes for their captain, who passes the puck off to wooyoung the moment he has cleared half the rink. with a brief adjustment of the puck’s angle, he attempts a cross-ice pass to where seonghwa is free on the other side.

with astonishing speed, jongho intercepts the puck and yells, “3-1!” he continues to barrel forward with the momentum of his explosive acceleration towards the goal as yeosang anticipates a pass and yunho joins the counterattack rush to his right. the three of your players charge forwards with adrenaline as mingi covers them from behind. jongho chips the puck over hongjoong’s stick, which is immediately taken up by yeosang. without a goaltender, he finishes it off with an easy shot into the net.

the tempo and execution of the rush surprises not just you, but the boys themselves too, who are tapping their sticks together with elated excitement at the success of the play. it may only be a simulated practice drill, but you still share in the same pride and contentment that hongjoong’s face glows at you with.

he cocks his head to the side with a paired smile and you return the same nonverbal acknowledgement. corners of your lips still lifted up, you gather the boys, “let’s have a drink break.”

as the boys make their way over to the benches, removing their gloves and helmets, you eye the water bottles and make sure you have enough–five in the cooler and three on the bench beside it. san bounds up to you after grabbing one from the cooler, bragging, “coach! did you see the way jongho intercepted that puck?”

from beside him, wooyoung reenacts the moment with wild flails of his limbs and airy whooshes from his mouth, jongho watching with bashful giggles. you indulge in their animated recount and listen intently. “he was amazingly fast,” you agree.

yeosang passes an opened bottle to wooyoung before untwisting the lid to his own, commenting, “the ankle weights on top of all the training must be working.”

the boys are not currently wearing any, but you had slowly implemented the use of vests, ankle or wrist weights during specific drills. now that they have taken them off and are playing without the burden of the additional mass, you are all starting to see the gains of their hard work.

you smirk with satisfaction, “of course. if my players are going to bulldoze across the ice, may as well make them fast enough to avoid all the opponents.”

“don’t encourage her,” wooyoung elbows yeosang scandalously. “she’s going to make us wear heavier weights next practice.”

“you don’t get to complain if you don’t even wear the weights,” you quip.

he knows his injury means that he cannot wear the weights in case it places stress on his ankle, so he curses at you with no real heat just for the sake of cursing, “fuck you.”

you wink, “love you too.”

wooyoung shuts his mouth and scrunches the bridge of his nose with faux displeasure, and jongho laughs at his inability to faze you. you glance down and open your notebook to mention, “on that note, though, how do we feel about going up a few hundred grams next week?”

“i’m fine with that,” yeosang says at the same time jongho confirms, “sounds good.” most of the other boys also nod that they are fine with increasing their weights, save for seonghwa who notifies you that he is still adjusting so he will keep his as it is for now.

you jot down ticks and crosses next to their names corresponding to their answers whilst suggesting, “yunho and mingi, you can both probably try half a kilogram since your body masses are higher.”

said boys peer over your shoulder to see what their new weights would be, then yunho makes a noise of intriguement. “coach, did you write these?”

you look to where his finger is pointing to–sticky notes upon sticky notes of unorganised observations and reminders to yourself. starting to feel self-conscious, you deny, “...no,” only for yunho to swipe the notebook from out of your grasp. “hey!”

he holds it up and open above him, voice gleeful as he reads one out, “‘jongho, wooyoung and yeosang prefer water at room temperature when training–take bottles out of cooler!’”

“aw, coach,” wooyoung coos, “did you deliberately leave three bottles in room temperature for us on the bench?”

feeling your ears heat up from being exposed, you swipe at the notebook. your skates give you added height, but so do yunho’s skates, so your attempts to jump for it are futile.

“‘boys want to eat abura soba after their win’,” he continues to read, pausing to let out a dramatic gasp, “are you going to treat us, coach?” his question is met with enthusiasm.

when another wild swipe sends a sharp sting down your shoulder from the movement, reminding you of the pain that had flared up a few days ago, you decide to change tactics. you grab the back and front of his jersey with your hands, completely ready to commit to scaling him like a literal tree. but then a different set of hands easily takes the notebook out of yunho’s and of course it would be mingi. you insult, “give it back, you tall buffoon!”

mingi is hardly fazed as you switch targets to him, your fingertips nowhere near reaching the notebook as he snickers and reads, “‘trial jongho as starting forward–wait.” he lowers his hands with sobriety and you are finally able to snatch the notebook back, shutting it before they can read any more of your sticky notes. it is not like there is anything they cannot know, but it is sort of embarrassing for them to see how much attention you pay to them.

“you want jongho on the starting lineup?” mingi confirms that he has not read it wrong, eyes as wide as all the other boys as they look at you.

jongho is almost certain that you must have meant somebody else, or something else, because there is no way that he would be given the opportunity to start for the team–not when they have yeosang and wooyoung as their wings, and the choice of hongjoong or seonghwa as their centres. he is used to being the player who momentarily relieves others of their shift on the ice, or as his parents so like to remind him, option b.

“why do you all look so surprised?” you frown. beckoning at jongho with your chin, you ask, “you’ve been practising hard to make your right hand just as good as your left hand, haven’t you? so let’s take advantage of your versatility and unpredictability on ice and throw the opponents off. what do you think?”

jongho’s mouth opens and shuts, struggling to formulate an answer through his wide beam other than, “i–of course, if you’d let me–if everyone else is happy.”

the pleased smile on hongjoong’s face is enough to make his cheeks sore and he wraps his arm around the youngest’s shoulders. he praises, “look at you, our wild card and our hidden ace,” as seonghwa declares, “i know he’ll do us so proud.”

both yeosang and wooyoung simultaneously offer their positions in the starting lineup and the rest of the boys watch on with fond expressions. they are grateful that you have recognised the talents and hard work of their youngest. although you are not aware, this opportunity holds significance not just in regards to his career.

you conclude, “we’ve been on a good streak with our games. let’s ride the momentum and show the other teams what jongho is capable of–what we’re all capable of.”

“yes, coach!” they shout, the loud echo of their voices reverberating and filling the rink with buzzing energy for the remainder of the training session.

spirits still high by the time you call it a wrap, you let them change as you grab your own belongings. there is a team meeting in the afternoon so you and the boys will be going back to kq to eat at the cafeteria and use the booked room. you pause when you see wooyoung loitering by your bag. he still has not changed out of his practice clothes.

“i’m not letting you on the bus if you’re planning on staying in those clothes,” you joke.

“i’m going to change!” he scowls indignantly, then avoids eye contact as he thrusts something out in your direction. he mumbles, “had some spares. didn’t want them. just dumping them with you so you can stash them or use them or whatever, i don’t care.”

you grab the small bag, brows creased with confusion, but wooyoung dashes away to change before you can ask what it is. you peer inside and to your pleasant surprise, there are two packs of pain relief patches. your shoulder protests at the lack of attention you have given it in the last few days. the pain is chronic and never really goes away, but it has been bothering you more than usual recently, so it is all in good timing that you now have some patches.

you make a mental note to stick one on when you get to the company and grab your bag after ensuring your notebook is stored inside. as you head towards the change rooms to wait for the boys, you spot a piece of paper on the floor. it looks like rubbish that you must have missed on your way in earlier so you pick it up to throw away. but when your fingertips touch the familiar sheen of the wax-like paper, you realise wooyoung must have dropped it.

it is confirmed when you unfold it to read the text and see that it is from yesterday evening, at the pharmacy that is just across the street from the company; in your hands you hold wooyoung’s receipt for two packs of pain relief patches.

spring marks the start of the playoffs. in synchronisation with the burst of life that blooms with the season, your boys, too, flourish in the league.

the unpredictability of your team’s strategies that entail a mix of both yours and hongjoong’s prowess helps to secure wins over the remainder of the regular season. despite the unsteady start to the season, it allows your team to scrape into the round of sixteen near the bottom of the standings.

the red devils are seeded against the team that is third in the rankings, and then against the sixth-standing team in the quarterfinals. in upsets that knock out two of the most anticipated teams in the league, your boys advance into the semifinals, their reputation as the demons of the ice rink that had laid low now rapidly spreading.

where none of the other competitors had paid you and your players any mind before, barely even noticing your presence, the opponents now glance and watch your team walk past with an air of confidence through the arena. their tense jaws and hard gazes size up your athletes–formidable rivals who have suddenly barrelled up the ranks from out of nowhere and now pose perhaps the biggest threat as a team that has somehow slipped under their radars.

you know; your team may be small in numbers. but with yunho and mingi flanking the sides of the boys, and even with hongjoong’s charismatic aura alone leading the front, which extends around him like a dark cloud of terror and envelops the rest of the group too, your team is a pack of predators at the tip of the apex.

other players part to make a path for your boys, whose heads are held high and eyes are set only on their captain and you, their coach, as you all walk to your assigned changeroom. the nerves have long dissipated because the ice rink is your territory and the other teams are your prey.

the moment you shut the door behind the last of them into the room though, the icy stare in wooyoung’s eyes melt and he exclaims, “holy shit, did you see the way everybody was looking at us? we must have looked so fucking hot, i wish i could ask for my own signature.”

from their glowing faces alone, you can tell that they are all basking in the feeling of finally being recognised and reckoned with. yunho bats his eyelids and pinches his voice higher into a falsetto, “oh wooyoung! you’re so handsome and cool, could i please have your signature?”

mingi imitates him and pounces on wooyoung, begging for a photo together as he clings onto his elbow. it sets off the rest of the boys to crowd around like mock fans with faux exhilaration. you snort at their antics, leaving wooyoung to sign imaginary sheets of paper with his imaginary pen in favour of ensuring all of their backup equipment and gear is correctly located outside or in the storage area.

you allow the boys adequate time to change into their full gear for their warm-up prior to the actual semifinal game before you walk back into the locker room. your ears perk up when you catch the end of san’s question, “that’s good for us, isn’t it?”

“what is?” you ask out of curiosity, flipping open the provided cooler and adding several sports drinks into the ice.

“i overheard someone on the white tigers team say that their head coach happened to fall sick, so they have their assistant coach today,” jongho mentions.

the surge of brazen smiles and reassured glints in their eyes at the reveal of information makes you falter to a degree. you lightly chastise, “don’t let that get to your heads and start being cocky–play as you usually do and do not underestimate them just because their head coach is off.”

you pull your notebook out of your bag, the familiar cover and weight of the book providing you with a sense of security as you remind the boys, “the white tigers have a very similar playing style as us. we may have worked hard on our defensive strategies, but with similar strengths and weaknesses overall, it won’t hurt for us to still be cautious.”

“yes, coach,” they chorus.

hongjoong nods, “let’s go warm up, then finalise our starting lineup for the game.”

your team’s allocated time on the rink passes by quickly and it is followed by the last adjustments to the discussed strategies and game plan, thorough checks of their gear, and the remaining boys who are still wearing their practice jerseys change out of the blue into their red game uniform. in full gear, there your boys stand, presence intimidating and demoniac. the boys do not live up to their team name; their team name lives up to them.

they stride through the hallway for their semifinal game against the white tigers. right at the end before it leads to the ice rink, yunho yells, “pep talk, captain!”

hongjoong groans, rolling his eyes, but places the blade of his stick onto the rubber flooring nonetheless. the rest of the boys huddle around, their sticks meeting in the centre of the circle and standing close together so that their helmets and shoulders knock against one another. you are also swept into the circle with yeosang and san by your sides.

“boys…and girl,” hongjoong snickers to himself before recollecting his very inspirational train of thought, “we’ve fought hard to make it this far–this is the first time we’ve made it into the semis, so let’s keep running until the very end, yeah?”

to the team’s increasingly loud cheers, hongjoong yells, “let’s fuck it up out there!”

their sticks hit the ground in unison and despite the muted sound of the cushioned flooring, their shouts of fighting resolve and unwavering determination drown out everything else. together, you emerge from the hallway and your starting players take their positions on the ice, ready to fuck it up.

only, it happens literally.

the moment the puck hits the ice and the white tigers’ centre forward, byun, wrestles it away with his blade, hongjoong immediately knows it is going to be one of those games. the ones where his competitive grit is fueling his mind ablaze but his body is leaden-footed as if he is wading through quicksand; where his body is just unable to keep up and move the way he wants it to. it is one of those days where his condition is just inexplicably off and there is nothing he can do about it except hope that his years of training and sheer aptitude for the sport will be enough.

“fuck,” you curse under your breath at hongjoong’s slip as jongho and yeosang rush to fall back and support those in defence. “he wasn’t like that during the warm-ups.”

byun is not only agile and swift, but is almost an identical reflection of hongjoong’s own bold and assertive offence. the centre forward powers through with evasive turns around yunho’s attempt to body check him, unafraid and confident. passing the blue line into your team’s defensive zone, byun flicks the puck at the goal.

the point shot is an unexceptional attempt to score, nothing that san’s reflexive goaltending cannot take care of. he extends his left foot and blocks the low shot with his leg pad, where the puck then slides in yunho’s direction. you did not doubt for a moment that san would not be able to save the shot, but it is still a close call that is far too early in the game to be a good sign.

your team’s greatest strength is their unspoken synergy and seamless unity, but it is also their greatest weakness. when one player stumbles, particularly when it is their captain–the very roots of the team–their bond runs so deeply that it throws their teamwork out of harmony and ultimately impacts the entire team.

with san’s save, yunho regains possession and handles the puck around the back of their net to shake off the pressure that the white tigers’ forwards are placing on him, as well as to buy his own team some time to reassemble in their formation.

you know that this is not going to work for long; you have to change the momentum of the game, and fast. “seonghwa, get ready,” you alert. “you’re going on for hongjoong.”

the alternate captain stands, alarmed at the unexpected line change so early into the game. he grips his stick with white knuckles and watches his team as he waits for your cue. yunho hits the puck against the boards where yeosang successfully receives the rebound.

“breakout!” yeosang yells and rushes forward with the chasing skates of the opponents nipping at his heels. jongho clears the centre line into the offensive zone at the same time hongjoong screens and blocks the view of the white tigers’ goaltender, setting up for an opportunity to score.

when the opponent’s left defence and wing advance on yeosang rapidly, he fakes a deceptive pass towards the boards before twisting the blade of his stick and flicking the puck between their skates instead in hongjoong’s direction. but like an eagle honing in on a small rodent, byun swoops in to snatch the puck, flipping the possession again.

the tides turn and all the athletes on the rink race towards your team’s net, a cutthroat competition between triumph and desperation to chase the puck. byun passes to the player on his left as they both dash closer, the left forward immediately returning the puck the moment he receives it to break past mingi’s defence.

you are able to see the white tigers’ right wing following closely behind ready for a drop pass, but in your team’s frenzied minds, they are unable to read the play. yunho approaches byun, who is expecting the defence and leaves the puck behind whilst skating on, knowing that it will be received by his trailing teammate. with the momentary confusion that is enough to disrupt both yunho and san’s gaze on the puck, the opponent’s right wing winds his stick back just enough to build power without sacrificing speed, then slaps the puck into the corner of the goal–

–and scores. within the first three minutes of the game.

“seonghwa,” you call out again with urgency as the whistle blows. you turn to look at him, “you’re up. you have to break the flow of the team. not just the white tigers, but ours too–the boys are panicking and you need to help anchor them.”

he nods, steadying his hand on the board in preparation to hop over it, and you yell out for the captain, “change!”

hongjoong sees the gesture of your hand pointing at the bench, and although his chest tightens with frustration at himself, he speeds towards the edge of the rink to change. once the captain is close enough, seonghwa pushes his skate off the benches to launch himself over the top of the boards onto the ice then propels himself forward to take the centre faceoff.

the captain sits down heavily on the bench, defeat already broiling off of his slumped body in smothering swells. you really cannot afford to take your eyes off the game; it waits for nobody and the whistle has already blown, the rink erupting into commotion. but whilst you need to watch the game unfold, you need hongjoong just as much, and his team needs him.

you turn him slightly to face you so that he can see your face of resolution. “you are the captain, so be the captain–for the team…and for yourself,” you invigorate, voice raised so that he can hear you over the noise of the stadium. 

you give his shoulder a hard squeeze, certain he will not be able to even feel it from under the pads of his uniform. regardless, he understands your intentions and nods grimly, the fog in his eyes clearing. wooyoung taps the back of his helmet in a show of encouragement and hongjoong returns the gesture with appreciation. 

a particularly loud thump draws the attention of all three of you back to the game. from the grimace on yeosang’s face and his hand steadying himself on the boards, it is obvious he has just been body checked into the wall. seonghwa pursues the puck with graceful yet powerful speed before he digs both skates perpendicular into the ice to suddenly change direction. pushing off, he accelerates back towards the white tigers’ defensive zone when mingi manages to disrupt the opponent’s stickhandling enough for yunho to sweep the puck and skate it up the perimeter of the rink away from their net.

wooyoung also goes on for yeosang but as the left wing, so jongho switches position to play as the right forward. he skates past the benches when an opportunity arises and he hands off his stick whilst grabbing his right-handed stick from you with practised ease.

with the line change of forwards and with seonghwa on as your centre, your team stabilises to an extent. the red devils are no longer being pushed back but they are also unable to push forward. the game is at a stalemate, although the tides remain in favour of the white tigers with both their positional and psychological advantage of the first goal.

you can see the pressure weighing down on your boys; passes that yunho and mingi would be capable of executing blindfolded are miscalculated; predictable manoeuvres still mislead wooyoung in the wrong direction; seonghwa and jongho fail to notice the opportunities for clear passing and shooting lanes; and the openings appear far too wide and innumerable for san to cover the goal from. the relentless offensive pressure that the white tigers places on your team, strikingly similar to how the boys played when you first started coaching them, does not give any breathing room either.

so that is how the first period comes to an end–losing zero to one with none of your players performing at their best condition. their steps are heavy and burdened as they walk back to the locker room for the intermission, helmets removed the moment they come off the ice to reveal hardened expressions. in the privacy of your assigned room, most of the boys adjust the pads in their gear and yunho peels off his shin guards to let them air out.

you pass around their iced bottles and as exhausted as they are, they make sure to voice their gratitude. san grabs wooyoung’s bottle for him, since the younger is bent over loosening the laces of his left skate. “here,” san murmurs, twisting open the cap and passing it to wooyoung once he straightens his back.

similarly, seonghwa hands over an opened bottle to yeosang before taking a swig of his own. “you’re okay?” he checks, the particularly rough body check that yeosang had copped earlier in the game still at the forefront of his mind.

yeosang gives the alternate captain a reassuring smile, “i’m okay.”

appeased by the answer, seonghwa turns to look at hongjoong, who is re-taping the blade of his stick. “what about you?” seonghwa softly asks, “you’re feeling okay?”

hongjoong glances up briefly at the back of your figure. you are busy shifting the red magnets around on the whiteboard and erasing the markings you had made prior to the start of the semifinals. when you turn around to gather their attention, you accidentally make eye contact with him and break out into a small smile.

“yeah,” hongjoong replies, “i’m feeling okay.”

“alright, listen up boys, that was just the first period. we’re not even halfway into this game and we’ve started to even up the playing field now that we’ve found our footing,” you encourage. “we just have to make sure we keep our heads cool and read their plays instead of simply reacting to their movements.”

you look at each of them as you direct, “their centre forward, byun, has been on for almost all of first period, so there’s probably going to be a shift change, if not a complete line change of forwards. they have the leniency to swap out their top players since they’re in the lead, which means if we want to break their momentum, we need to break it then.”

shifting yourself slightly out of the way, the boys are able to see the new arrangement of positions you have marked out on the whiteboard. “we’re starting the second period by sharpening our offence in the 2-2-1 formation,” you explain. you beckon your head at the captain, “hongjoong, you’re back on. you and wooyoung are to position yourselves up high between the neutral and offensive zones–try to screen their goaltender when our boys have possession. yunho, i want you to move up to our blue line with jongho and open up as many passing lanes as you two can. mingi will stay in defence and help cover the goal with san in case the white tigers makes a counterattack.

“use this opportunity to make as many scoring chances as you can. if there isn’t a clear shot but there’s a chance it can be continued on by another one of us, then go for it anyway–any sort of pressure we can put on their team is better than none.”

your forwards nod with understanding, so you continue to the most important point, “but the moment byun and the wings–kim and song, i think they are–come back on, we’re reversing the formation.” you reposition half of the magnets into a 1-2-2 formation. “only hongjoong will stay up high; wooyoung will fall back and join jongho in the neutral zone; put pressure on their forwards from there. yunho and mingi, you’ll play left and right defence as usual.”

san listens intently when you start moving the black magnets that represent the opposing players and call out to him directly. you warn, “san, be careful of their drop passes. kim and song have been skating forward but leaving the puck behind for byun to score multiple times throughout the first period. they have you primed to predict it now, so they’re probably going to change their tactic and pass directly in front of the goal instead.”

“yes, coach,” san acknowledges.

a glance at the screen on the wall of the locker room tells you that there are only a few minutes left of the intermission. “gear up and get ready to go back on,” you instruct the boys.

they make final adjustments to their pads and yunho tapes his shin guards back into place under his socks. you make sure they all have their helmets and sticks when they start to file out of the locker room once they are ready and you grab wooyoung’s gloves for him while he ties the laces of his skates again.

“thanks,” he reaches out for them as he stands up. except he stumbles slightly when he puts weight on his left ankle and your hand instinctively grabs his to steady him.

your eyes grow wide with concern. you know that wooyoung is the type to keep quiet about his pain, even if you ask, “does your ankle hurt?”

“no, my legs just fell asleep on me from sitting,” he reassures, conscious of your hand that still holds his. he smiles through his lie and hopes that you are unable to pick up on it. the buzzer sounds before you can, though, warning you both that there is only one minute remaining until the game resumes.

hurriedly you tell him, “let me know if you need to come off.”

somebody yells out your names, forcing you both to rush off to join the rest of the team in the hallway. wooyoung knows that he should admit to you right there and then that his ankle does hurt, but he will not–he cannot…because he owes it to his team.

they do not know and they will never know, but there is not a day that goes past where wooyoung does not feel guilty for having desired for their loss last year. he has to play and win this championship for his team because only then can he start to forgive himself. but until he wins, he deserves to suffer.

those in the lineup rapidly glide across the ice to take their positions, wooyoung included. a short buzzer sounds, the puck is dropped, and the second period starts. immediately you can see that your boys have the advantage. the white tigers had not expected you to take such an aggressive approach of offence considering that you are losing.

and sure enough, just as you had predicted, their coach has changed their entire line of forwards. the players are still undeniably skilled, but they visibly struggle to match the pace at which hongjoong and wooyoung are now leading your team to attack.

the rink is under the boys’ control; the neutral zone has become a stronghold with the resistance of both jongho and yunho’s combined strength and mingi’s reinforcement from behind. wooyoung weaves through the players with polished agility as he creates passing opportunities around the offensive zone, whilst hongjoong makes his own path with imposing might, his devilish wings spread. and even if the white tigers somehow manage to gain possession of the puck and break past your defence, san looks impossibly larger than the goal itself, leaving no openings for their forwards to score.

it is well into the second period when the perfect play sets itself up. with mingi blocking any possible rebounds off the boards, yunho’s attempt to body check the white tigers’ right wing forces the player to pass the puck across the ice. before their centre forward is able to receive it, jongho has already intercepted and is thundering ahead with his stick controlling the puck.

“high!” he shouts, ploughing through the neutral zone as wooyoung and hongjoong immediately respond to his call and skate up towards the goal.

jongho deliberately looks at his captain but flicks the puck with a forehand pass in the other direction, too fast for the defenders to react to. wooyoung easily receives the anticipated pass, thighs burning and his left ankle stinging as he rushes towards the goal from the left with powerful acceleration. the white tigers’ goaltender immediately lowers his stance and raises his arms in preparation to block his shot.

in the corner of his eye, wooyoung sees hongjoong matching his lightning pace on his right, the captain’s eyes narrowed with concentration and body weight tilted forward as he hurtles past the defenders. wooyoung pretends to wind up his stick for a slap shot into the net, only to twist the angle of his arms at the last second to send the puck skittering across the ice directly parallel to the goal. the goaltender drops down to his knees, having anticipated a scoring attempt, except the puck is now nearing hongjoong.

hongjoong sees it clearly–the trajectory that the puck is taking and the perfect point where it needs to meet his stick. without breaking its momentum, his arms contract to swing his stick and the blade collides with the puck with forceful precision, sending it hurtling through the air. the goaltender desperately scrabbles back onto his skates to defend the other side of the goal, but it is too late.

the puck flies past the posts and hits the netting.

the horn blares and echoing cheers erupt throughout the stadium as the lights flick on to shine across the net and your forward players. hongjoong yells with fierce triumph, stick raised into the air as wooyoung excitedly collides into him. the duo disappear amongst the bodies of your boys as they swarm around them feverish exuberance.

“that’s our fucking captain–” “–woo’s assist was insane!”

hongjoong cannot even tell who is who as he is jostled around in overjoyed laughter and beaming smiles, numerous hands reaching out to tap his and wooyoung’s helmets and shoulders. from outside the rink, you, seonghwa and yeosang have long stopped sitting on the benches, bodies too strung tight with hopeful tension to stay seated, so you are immediately swept up into a hug as the three of you celebrate the goal with identical exhilaration.

the game is still far from over but the morale has just skyrocketed through the roof as if the red devils have scored the winning goal. combined with the team’s fans electrifying the atmosphere of the stadium, it definitely feels like it, and you are starting to see hope that the ones advancing to the finals after today will be your boys.

“line change!” you faintly hear, so you still to watch all three of the white tigers’ forwards skate towards the boards. byun, kim and song jump onto the rink, back on offence in the wake of your goal.

hongjoong makes eye contact with you when you search for him amongst the team huddle and in unison, you both nod, pride and determination unspoken in your gazes–the real game is about to start now. the boys start to disperse and take up their positions around the marked circle for the centre faceoff, and hongjoong and byun meet head-to-head once again in the middle of the rink.

the white tigers’ centre forward smirks condescendingly, “cute goal.”

hongjoong’s face thunders over but he will not let himself resort to dirty sportsmanship. he bites his tongue and lowers his stance, focusing his attention on the game instead.

“ready,” the referee signals, then the puck is released.

byun manages to steal it and sends it backwards to his defensemen to open up more passing lanes, but as discussed, your boys mutually move into the 1-2-2 formation to fortify against their offensive plays. despite the pressure of the white tigers’ top forwards back in play, your team is riding on the momentum of your goal; although you had been treading to keep your heads above the water during the first period, there is now an air of confidence that permeates the ambience of the rink in favour of your boys. 

an angled pass from their defence rebounds off the boards and kim receives it high in the neutral zone. he attempts an immediate pass across the ice to song, except the safety net of your player’s defensive formation allows mingi to thrust out with his stick to intercept the pass. he signals, “breakout!” before deflecting it to wooyoung.

the turnover of possession immediately triggers a switch in defence to offence as wooyoung handles the puck back the other way. his wrists twist the stick with measured coordination, controlling the blade and puck as an extension of his own hands while approaching the offensive zone. wooyoung sees the white tigers’ defensemen racing towards him so he abruptly pivots towards the left to drag the black disc around their extended sticks.

suddenly, a sharp pain engulfs his ankle that has his legs crumbling as he staggers off balance. wooyoung manages to stay upright, using his stick to steady himself, but the momentary stumble is more than enough of an opening for byun to steal possession from behind him.

the rival centre forward swerves around jongho then stays close to the perimeter to avoid mingi’s resistant defence. behind mingi, san splays his legs out as he prepares to block the left side of the goal, but byun continues blazing on and wraps around the back of the net. san follows his movement and swiftly shifts over to the right instead while byun cradles the puck with his blade to lift it into the air the moment he approaches.

yunho cannot risk a penalty by raising his own stick to block its trajectory, so he shifts his body in hopes of deflecting the shot before it reaches san. but byun’s wrists snap and tuck the airborne puck at a sharp angle right past the red goalpost…and the horn blows to mark the scoring of a goal.

your jaw plummets at the same time that your heart does. not even your lungs work, your body frozen stock-still. once more, the white tigers are back in the lead only mere minutes after the score had been painstakingly tied by your team.

“fuck!” wooyoung curses and slams his gloved fist against the ice, having dropped to his knees in enraged denial.

seonghwa looks on with despondence from beside you as hongjoong drags wooyoung back up to his feet. the captain’s jaws are clenched in frustration but only because of the score itself–never because of his boys. when mingi and yunho try to comfort san with firm squeezes and uttered reassurances, he can only return a tight smile, all three of their breaths heavy and irregular from exertion and dismay.

for the boys to have climbed so arduously and persistently to even the scores, only to be knocked off and their momentum obliterated so mercilessly soon, it is even more demoralising than the white tigers’ first goal. after all, the higher the climb, the harder the fall.

through the deep ache in your heart, you mutedly say to yeosang, “go on for wooyoung, and tell jongho to change sticks and play as left wing.”

“yes, coach,” he replies, voice delicate. yeosang waits as you gesture for wooyoung to come off before he hops over the boards and skates in jongho’s direction.

“woo,” you murmur as your left wing makes his way back to the benches, but he avoids your gaze and keeps his head down. you bite your lips and decide not to push it for now. instead, you press an opened bottle into his gloved hand.

wooyoung is thankful that the bottle is half empty, because his hand unconsciously clenches around it with quivering shame and he would have spilled the water were it full. he makes no move to bring the bottle up to his lips; he doubts the water would go down his constricted throat anyway. the penetrative guilt of his tears hurts immeasurably more than the piercing throb of his ankle because he may have just cost his team the win…again.

even when the buzzer signals the end of the second period, wooyoung dares not to look up. the score is one to two and it is his fault. the intermission passes by in a haze of dissociation, his body robotically moving on autopilot into the locker room and back to the ice rink. wooyoung does not even know whether there are line changes to the positions or whether the game strategy has been altered.

but it does not matter because it does not concern him–as if any coach would put him on after his grave mistake. what wooyoung fails to notice though is the glances of worry in his direction, and they do not come solely from his boys.

the stakes run at their highest in the third and final period. tension suffocates the entire stadium, invisible hands that snake around your throats with a hangman’s loose and make you break out into cold sweats. all the players on the ice rink put everything that they have on the line because by the end of the next twenty minutes, only one team will be advancing to the finals.

from the moment the puck is dropped into play and the timer resumes, the rink is a torrential battlefield of contesting skates and grappling sticks. dramatic passes and unforeseen interceptions lead to rapid turnovers that force both teams to hastily switch back and forth between offence and defence.

but everyone learns of the juxtapositions of the world early on in life. there is no light without dark, there is no happiness without sadness, there is no spring without autumn…and there is no victory without defeat. for every scoring attempt that the red devils make, the white tigers make three, steadily and gradually pushing your boys back in the final stretch of the game. and while most of your forwards’ goals are blocked in the nick of time, most of theirs are not.

as a last resort in the face of the crisis, you calculate the risks then add seonghwa onto the field. “yunho, change!” you yell, pulling him off defence.

“behind you,” byun alerts song as seonghwa powers across the ice right into the cutthroat action, before cursing when the white tigers nearly lose possession of the puck.

your two captains unrelentingly pursue the black disc at the forefront of your team, their complementary synergy and unity a whirlwind of prowess to be reckoned with as they try not to let the burden of scoring weigh them down. despite the overwhelming pressure as the team’s last line of defence, even more so now that you have sacrificed stability to capitalise on having two centre forwards, san’s cat-like eyes do not cloud over, only intensely scanning the field and the opponent’s plays.

you glance at the clock. there are only two minutes left and even the combined efforts of your forwards is not working. you never thought that you would ever have to do this as a coach, but now you are afraid there is no choice. “yunho,” you urge.

his head turns to you and you see the ashen pallor of your own face reflected on his as the very probable outcome of the game dawns across your minds. you make your decision. “you’re going back on. for san.”

yunho’s eyes widen. “for san? i can’t play as goaltender–”

“no,” you shake your head, “we’re playing without a goaltender.”

sixty seconds.

save for wooyoung, all of your defenders, wings and centre forwards make a last-minute spurt to attack, not letting their bodies recover for even a split second as they strain their burning legs and gasping lungs.

thirty seconds.

they desperately break past the physical boundaries of their own stamina into their last reserves of pure grit and will, draining every last drop that their mental resilience has to offer.

ten seconds.

they do not give up. they try again and again to score. but against all of your prayers, all of your tears and sweat and against all of your hopes, the gap does not close. the final buzzer blares throughout the entire stadium, marking the red devil’s loss.

two to six.

your players stand motionless, ghosts of denial and despair amongst the crazed jumps and bounds of celebration as the white tigers flock across the rink towards one another. hongjoong tilts his head upwards to stop the rush of tears from falling down his face, both yunho and seonghwa mirrors of his pain as sweat and tears drip down in salty trails. san grasps the edge of the board in front of him, his head hung low and shoulders quaking from how hard he tries to stifle his sobs so that wooyoung does not hear him.

not one of your boys are able to accept the results of the match. not even you can bring yourself to utter a single word of consolation, be it for yourself or for them. and as you watch the wretched image of your heartbroken boys, choking back tears of your own that you are unaware still manage to escape the corners of your eyes, the only sounds in your ears their stricken cries, you are reminded that the path of an athlete and coach is nothing like its portrayal in movies and stories; where hard work triumphs and leads to sure success.

the harsh reality is that there is no dramatic comeback. there is no underdog victory. there is no miracle and there is no final to advance to. you and your boys lose by triple the amount of your own goals and just like that, the journey has come to an end at the semifinals.

it is an anticlimactic defeat, the gap so far that your team could not even see the light at the end of the tunnel. and somehow…that feels far worse than losing by just a marginal difference.

the locker room is mostly quiet, the silence punctuated only by the closing of zippers and rustling of canvas as the boys who have finished showering and changing pack the rest of their gear for the final time. there are no more intermittent sniffles, leaving behind a miserable hush of emptiness instead. even the dying flicker of the light in the far corner of the ceiling thrums with more energy than the boys combined.

you sit on one of the benches and absentmindedly thumb through your notebook. seonghwa sits to your right, his kit bag already long organised and tidied to preoccupy his mind. the warmth from the close proximity of your thighs and elbows is a gracious comfort to the both of you. it no longer makes your backs straighten with uptightness, conscious of the boundaries between coach and athlete–not after your hearts and bodies melded together in hugs of solace after the final buzzer of the semifinals and melted away those lines.

seonghwa places his hand soothingly on your knee and murmurs, “stop looking at that. we’ll think about it later all together.”

none of the words or diagrams had been registering in your head, but you nod and close your notebook anyway. he probably does not want to see it either. you rest your head back against the wall behind you with a small exhale, blankly watching your team instead until your eyes travel around the room. 

you count, then count again, before calling out, “captain, is wooyoung still showering?”

hongjoong cranes his neck around at the same time that everybody else does as well. “don’t think so,” he frowns, “i’m pretty sure he was one of the first ones out.”

wooyoung’s kit bag is still unpacked in his locker, so he is definitely not already waiting for the bus outside. before his absence can raise any alarms–the last thing the boys need on their plate right now–you stand and announce, “i’ll go find him. he probably just lost track of time.”

“do you need me to come with you?” yeosang rises to his feet.

you shake your head and reassure, “keep packing your bag.” then you turn to make your way out of the locker room when somebody calls out for you.

“coach, wait.”

it’s san, who skitters in front of you to press something into your hands. “give this to him when you see him?”

the item crinkles and a glance downwards reveals that it is an instant ice pack. you smile softly, stuffing it into the pocket of your jacket and hoping that nobody notices the ice pack that is already in there. “of course,” you gently touch his forearm. “i’ll be back.”

this time you make it out to the corridor but you do not get further than four steps before another voice stops you.

“coach!”

when you turn around, hongjoong emerges from the doorway. he slows down as he catches up to stand in front of you. “i…” his voice falters. “i’m sorry.”

i’m sorry i didn’t realise wooyoung was gone. i’m sorry i didn’t do my job as captain…and i’m sorry for losing. 

“no,” you shake your head. “don’t be.” because you tried your best…and you did not give up. beckoning in the direction of the locker room, you tell him, “take care of the boys, okay? i’ll be back with wooyoung.”

the rigidity in hongjoong’s shoulders dissipates. “thank you…y/n.”

you smile, “anytime, hongjoong.” you wait for him to walk back inside before you finally turn to find wooyoung.

the arena is massive but apart from the locker room–which you already know wooyoung is not in–there are limited places that offer privacy from the multitude of people who mill around, be it other athletes, staff or spectators. you know from personal experience, so you head to the one place that is usually guaranteed to be somewhat out of the public eye.

“oh, fuck me,” wooyoung startles when you sit yourself down heavily on the same step as him, his curse echoing around the both of you. “how the fuck did you know i would be here?”

you snort, bumping his shoulder with yours. “i hate to burst your bubble, but this isn’t exactly an original experience. i’m pretty sure every athlete has hidden here to cry at one point in their career.”

the slight spark of light that had ignited within wooyoung at your appearance suddenly flickers out, reminded of why exactly he is hiding in the emergency stairwell in the first place. shame tears his eyes away from you, unable to meet your gaze any longer.

“i want to be left alone,” he murmurs.

although you respect his request, that is the opposite of what he needs. left to his own thoughts and devices, you know that wooyoung will spiral dangerously in guilt and self-reproach, even if the red devil’s loss is not his fault–is not anybody’s fault.

the two of you sit in silence, wooyoung intermittently swiping at a lone tear that threatens to drip off his chin, and you mulling over the words that you hold close to your heart. eventually, you break the quietude with a soft chuckle.

“the first game i ever played i was actually on left defence. our team was losing by two goals and i suddenly had the puck. i still remember seeing an opening in the goal and feeling the surge of confidence that i did when i hit the puck…but you know what?”

wooyoung does not answer, does not look up from where he is picking at his cuticles, but you can feel his curiosity so you continue, “it was an own goal. i scored into my own team’s net and it wasn’t until i scored another goal before i finally realised which way i was meant to go. obviously, my team wasn’t very happy with me, but then i ended up winning the game for them anyway and that’s how i started playing as centre forward.

“there was also a time during internationals where i argued against the ref’s call and got myself put into the penalty box. it cost our team a goal–the tiebreaker, too. i learnt my lesson and never did that again. and then there was the first couple of years i started to coached. i thought i had enough experience as a player to be a perfect coach. it wasn’t until one of my teams told me to pull my head out of my ass that i realised i was anything but.”

that gets a small snicker from out of him. you deliberate, “i’d like to think that we make the best team now, though.”

he scowls disgruntledly, “we’re your only team.”

“and my favourite team, too,” you laugh softly, gauging his expression. “my point is, wooyoung, we all make mistakes. but the reason why we make them in the first place is because we love playing. we do what our heart wants to in the moment and we play for ourselves because otherwise, there would be nothing left of us without ice hockey. what matters is that we stand up again and learn from the experience.”

wooyoung feels the weight of your words settling heavily in his chest because they are only half true to him. his passion and love for the sport indeed burns eternally as a blazing inferno inside of him, but his persistence to play today was due to ulterior motives. to acknowledge that aloud is a different story, though.

your voice takes on a lighter tone, “although i guess in this case, you should be sitting down with that ankle of yours. you know you should not be gambling with your injuries.”

he finally looks at you; a former athlete who did not even have the luxury to gamble your injury. it suddenly scares him to imagine just an ounce of the conflicting anguish that must course through you at his continuous decisions to endanger his own career–the anguish that you have made sure to never show, lest it affect them.

“do you ever feel angry?” wooyoung abruptly asks, voice laced with hesitation.

it is your turn to look away. you know that the question is not directed at himself but your entire career. with a bittersweet chuckle, you allow yourself to admit, “every day. i still get angry and i still get upset. i wake up in the morning wondering why it had to be me and i go to bed at night wondering why i didn’t deserve a second chance.

“but i’m okay; it gets easier to be okay. coaching means that i still get to go on the ice, i still get to experience the adrenaline of games and i still get to play through you guys. and most of all…i still have a team. i don’t know if i will ever stop feeling angry, but it’s better than it used to be.”

at your admission, wooyoung is reminded of how you are possibly the only one who would be able to truly understand him. he musters his courage and confesses, “i wanted us to lose last year…and we did end up losing.”

it catches you off guard, the direction of the conversation not what you had expected, but you neutralise your expression and tone so as to not make him feel defensive. “how come?”

he swallows. “my ankle–i fractured it last year just before we made it into the playoffs, so i wasn’t able to compete. i had been so angry at first; angry at myself for getting injured, angry at my coach for not letting me play, angry at my team because they could play. then when it became clear that i wasn’t going to be able to compete regardless of how angry i was, i became jealous, insecure and…afraid. jongho and i share the same position, and i mean, look at him now–he’s able to play both left and right wing. if they had won the playoffs without me, then would the team really need me?

“they did end up losing, just like i had wanted them to, but that made me feel so much worse–made me realise just how terrible i am of a person. the guilt eats me alive every single day and i tell myself that i will make it up to them this time, that i will risk everything to win for them…” wooyoung scoffs pathetically at himself, “only for me to fuck things up because of my fucking ankle again.”

you get it. the slow gnawing of yourself from the endless feelings that you ‘should not have’ until you become no more than an empty husk. ever since your own injury, you have spent nights on end trying to reconcile with your emotions in your own confusing and formidable journey, but for the first time ever, you are grateful that you did–because you can keep wooyoung company on his. 

you carefully voice, “i think it was okay for you to have felt the way that you did. they’re your feelings and nobody can invalidate them nor your experience. what i came to realise was that all of those ‘ugly’ feelings do not make us ugly for having them–they simply make us human. it is only a problem when those feelings end up hurting other people, but i think the person you hurt the most…was yourself, wooyoung.”

at your words, he looks at you with wide eyes, a fresh swell of wetness gathering in them. wooyoung is kind and loving to everybody, yet has never once thought about deserving that kindness and love for himself. you smile gently, trying to hide the slight quiver in your own lips as your heart clenches with a desire to be loved in his stead.

“you know, woo, i’ve watched basically all of your past games including the quarterfinals from last year. but if i were to compare it to today’s game, it was as if two completely different teams were playing. your team was alive today–a truly united team where every member is the driving force behind each other’s passion for the game. i am pretty confident when i say that a huge part of it was because you were playing with them–because the team was finally whole again.

“yes, the trophy and the championship title is coveted but it is not what truly matters to them and neither to you. it wasn’t the actual win itself that you wanted today, but being able to win for them. and if your boys were to pick between winning without you and losing with you, i’m pretty sure you know better than i do what their immediate choice would be.”

should the other boys be here right now, they would instantly berate your ears off for even suggesting the first option. the thought flickers through wooyoung’s mind too and the corners of his lips tug upwards slightly.

still, he apprehensively confirms, “...no one is angry at me?”

“no,” you reply, voice soft, “not at all. but we are worried.”

you are reminded of the weight in the pocket of your jacket. pulling it out, you present the ice pack to wooyoung. “look, san told me to give this to you.”

his fingertips brush against your palm when he reaches out, hand hovering over the ice pack as if he does not dare to touch it. “san did?” he whispers.

when you nod, the final confirmation that he needs that nobody–you included–harbours ill feelings for him and his actions, he allows himself to take the ice pack. allows himself to love himself.

“you need to take care of your body,” you fondly chastise, lightening the atmosphere. “did coach cho not drill into you that as an athlete, your body is your most valuable asset? if you thought he was bad, he’s going to seem like an angel when i’m through with you. you won’t just be banned from playing, i’ll tie you to the bed to make sure you don’t walk on that ankle.”

wooyoung laughs through the few tears that are left, mood lifted enough to suggestively lift his eyebrows and quip, “kinky.” his laughter grows when you punch his arm in response.

no longer does he have to carry this burden alone because you are there for him now. but you know that you are not the only one who can be there for wooyoung. the dynamic between the boys runs past mere teammates and from what you have noticed, quite possibly even friends.

tentatively, you suggest, “maybe this is something you should tell the others about. that way you can truly let things go.”

his gaze wavers at the idea as he looks at you. yet, the miniscule smile and encouraging nod you give him fills him with tranquillity. perhaps it is time to let go, but the only way he can truly do that is if he is honest to the boys about his feelings–if he is honest to himself.

“okay,” he breathes out softly.

you grace him with another beat of silence before you stand up, extending your hand out to him. “let’s go.”

wooyoung takes your offered hand and lets you pull him up to his feet. he does not know if it is intentional, but the slight squeeze you give him right before your hand lets go of his fills him with warmth. the feeling stays with him even when he activates the ice pack as you two walk back to the locker room.

right at the doorway where the rest of the team is behind, you stop. you place your hand on wooyoung’s back, whose brows are starting to furrow in confusion. “i’ll be waiting out here. take your time,” you tell him.

“thank you, coach,” wooyoung returns your soft smile.

before you can think better of it, you reply, “i wasn’t talking to you as your coach…but as your friend.” then you nudge him towards the doorway with tender encouragement, waiting for him to walk through the threshold before you close the door behind him.

the first few months you had coached the red devils, mistrust had been in the shape of private conversations that deliberately excluded you. but now, trust is in the conversations that you know you do not need to be a part of. so you simply lean against the wall and wait.

and when they emerge from the locker room half an hour later, you know you have made the right decision upon seeing their eased expressions and relaxed shoulders. the air is still sombre, their defeat in the semifinals still fresh at the forefront of everybody’s minds, but what matters now is that they will face the loss together–the eight of them and you.

“here you go.”

hongjoong hands you your bag so that you do not have to go back in to grab it. you take it graciously from him, then with him by your side, you two lead the group through the arena–past the gazes and whispers that follow your group–and out to the team’s bus.

first to load his kit bag, yeosang takes his usual seat towards the front and waits. he has long developed the habit of placing his backpack under the seat in front of him instead of beside him. as the bus starts to pull away once all the bags are properly stored, you wordlessly take the seat next to him. your knees intermittently brush up against each other with the slight sway of the bus, but neither one of you make a move to shift your legs away.

you and yeosang watch the outside world whirl by the window, just like you always do. except the flowers that have bloomed among the trees–that had been bursts of positivity and vibrancy only just this morning–are now bittersweet reminders of the fall that you and the boys have just experienced.

a brief movement below your line of vision causes you to glance down. it is yeosang’s hand, palm upturned with a silent invitation of solace. you slide your fingers into his, an extension of the comfort you wish to give to them, and them to you.

what you and the boys do not realise, though, is that your flowers have simply bloomed elsewhere.

your jaw drops in sync with the last of the heavy suitcases that seonghwa rests on the floor outside their apartment complex. the amount of his luggage is easily equivalent to at least half the team’s.

“these are all yours?” you confirm.

seonghwa looks at you strangely, “of course. why?”

you look at him strangely. “are you planning on moving? why did you pack enough for a trip around the world?”

“well somebody didn’t want to tell us where we were going, so i had to make sure i was prepared for wherever our destination would be.”

“it’s called a surprise for a reason,” you shake your head, “and i did tell you to pack for cold weather, didn’t i?”

seonghwa fakes offence, scoffing, “can i remind you that it is still spring here, so my apologies for assuming that it might potentially mean we are travelling overseas.”

“you’re such a worrywart, you old fart,” wooyoung teases, circling around the older on his rideable suitcase.

seonghwa yelps when the wheels nearly run over his toes and he threatens, “next time you wet through your entire pack of underwear, don’t come crawling and begging for my spares.”

the suitcase halts indignantly to a stop with its rider. “that was one time,” wooyoung complains, “and it wasn’t even my fault!”

“it wasn’t even my fault,” seonghwa mocks. “i told you not to put your shampoo in a ziplock bag but no, you said that it would be fine.”

wooyoung sticks his index finger up. “correction, hongjoong said that it would be fine.”

“what the fuck, wooyoung,” hongjoong blanches at the sudden disclosure.

“and that’s exactly where you are at fault,” seonghwa cocks his eyebrow at wooyoung. “why would you listen to him?”

“what the fuck, seonghwa. i’m your captain,” hongjoong scowls.

“only during games.”

when you make eye contact with san, the two of you can only sigh with amused resignation. the rest of the boys shake their heads and proceed to load their luggage onto the bus, leaving the trio to feud it out in the background.

as mingi stacks his luggage beside yunho’s, he turns to ask, “are you sure we don’t need our kits?”

“you all brought your skates and sticks with you?” you question in return. when mingi and yunho nod, you reassure them, “then that’s all you need.”

jongho pipes up from beside you, “but what about training?”

“mental training,” you simply grin before hopping up the stairs to sit beside yeosang.

the boys gradually take their seats, even wooyoung and the two oldest despite their continued bickering. somebody yells out over the commotion, “coach! are you going to tell us where we’re going now?”

you peer backwards over the top of your seat to find everyone’s eager eyes on you. “nope,” you snicker, “you’ll find out when we get there. we are going on a holiday though, i’ll tell you that much.”

there is a surge of excitement at your confirmation and a similar fluttering eagerness flits through you, except yours is because you cannot wait to see their reactions. you really hope that the next two weeks will help to reset the team’s morale and give them a much-needed break.

“kq let us go on holiday?” yeosang asks with an impressed look as you settle back in your seat.

you give him a proud smirk. “i’m pretty convincing when i want to be. plus, we just had playoffs and we would all benefit from the rest. what better time to do that than at the start of the off-season?”

“there is no better time.”

“exactly.”

and so the bus starts the four-hour drive towards what the boys will soon come to realise is a team retreat. mingi connects his phone to the bluetooth, in charge of shuffling the music that blasts through the speakers, turning the atmosphere of the bus into a lively concert once it becomes obvious that it is going to be a long trip.

you have to yell over their deafening singing–which you have to admit actually sounds quite impressive–numerous times for them to sit their asses down, their enthusiasm uncontainable by the seat belts and law regulations. but they look their age, free and untroubled; just a group of boys up to their silly antics with one another, so you cannot bring yourself to truly regulate them.

the bus drives on, making a rest stop at one of the service areas along the highway so that you can stretch your legs in fresh air, use the restrooms and most importantly–

“food!”

their hollers resound before the doors of the bus even open. the second that the gap is large enough to fit one of them through, most of the boys go sprinting off like a stampede of toddlers in the direction of the food court.

wooyoung stays back and slips his arm through the crook of your elbow when you step off the bus too. he grins mischievously, “i’m sticking with you so you can pay for my food.”

“oh, stop it,” yunho tugs him away, pulling even harder when it only serves to make wooyoung’s grasp tighten around your arm. “i’ll pay for your food. leave her wallet alone.”

you laugh brightly as you are jostled around and you pull a card out of your back pocket, holding it up like a golden ticket. you waggle your brows playfully, “it’s on the company card.”

both wooyoung and yunho freeze. their eyes instantaneously start to glimmer, faces radiating when they slowly look at each other. then before you can react, they pounce on you, linking their arm through yours on either side of you and dragging you along to catch up with the rest of the team.

“buy whatever you want!” wooyoung brags and waves the card that he has seized off of you, “it’s on me!”

the service area itself is a field trip as the eight boys cause carnage throughout, except the destruction is in the number of times they swipe the company card. their hands quickly fill with rice cakes and fish skewers, corn dogs and grilled squid, more bags of walnut pastries and roasted potatoes tucked safely under their elbows. they demolish the snacks at the same rate it takes for the next ones to be prepared and the card is tossed around to keep up with their purchases.

they do not forget about the drinks either, getting iced americanos and barley tea to go along with their snacks, and banana milk and soda for the next leg of the trip. whatever catches their eyes–basically everything they lay their eyes upon–they buy. you do have to draw the line at daytime drinking though, narrowing your eyes at the cases of beer jongho and yunho try to pick up until they sheepishly put them back.

(you also end up having to purchase motion sickness tablets because seonghwa and mingi gorge themselves so full on snacks that they are queasy before they even make it back on the bus. kq’s president sends you a text too, asking just what exactly you and the boys have bought to rack up almost forty consecutive purchases at a service area. but the subsequent message asking if they are enjoying themselves tells you that his question is all in good fun.)

their energy mellows out during the last hour of the trip, both from tiring themselves out and from the gradual change in the scenery outside the windows. no longer can you see an endless mirage of highway road and open fields.

as the miles build up the further you travel, it leads deeper into a mountainous woodland with the trees growing denser and thicker around you. the narrower road winds around the base of hills and the bus driver carefully navigates the undisturbed peace of the forest. it starts to get colder and when the branches of the trees gradually dress themselves in dappled layers of snow, more of you shoulder on the thick coats and puffer jackets you had told them to bring.

the bus eventually arrives at a clearing amongst the pine trees, revealing a large but welcoming cottage pension. its wooden exterior and sloped roof gives it a distinctly cosy and rustic look, with large glass doors spanning the entire height of the walls that will let you admire the surrounding mountainous beauty from inside. off to the side of the cottage, there is a sizeable lake that has frozen over and immediately, you know that this was the perfect place to choose.

the boys press their faces against the window to get a better look as the bus pulls up beside the accommodation. “woah,” they breathe out, their exhales fogging up the glass.

they follow you off the bus in a trance, mouths open and unable to peel their eyes away lest they waste even a second to drink up the sight before them. here, in the heart of the taebaek mountains, it is still a winter wonderland despite the spring blossoms that cover the rest of seoul.

you turn to face them, walking backwards slowly and spreading your arms out with fond tenderness. “welcome to your home for the next two weeks, boys.”

even though it is simply an illusion created by taebaek’s geographical location and mountainous terrain, this time you find yourself appreciating the coldness and bareness of the winter-like ambience that cocoons you and your boys. it is as if time has stopped and there are no worries…only time to heal and start afresh.

living together, even if just for a holiday, is different.

you are used to only seeing the team in their training clothes, practice jerseys or bulked up in their padded gear and uniform. but here, the boys wear lounging sweatpants and worn hoodies, hair soft and poking into their eyes, bodies and expressions unguarded as they laze around. and where you are used to only seeing them at training, meetings and games, all rigorously scheduled and planned, there are no expectations to follow and no limits as to when you see them here.

the boys have their own organised chaoticness to their daily routines, having been living together for almost seven years now, and it seamlessly integrates into the space of the cottage too. but what truly surprises you and them is how you naturally blend into it.

when you rented the pension, you had ensured there were at least three bathrooms to accommodate all nine of you. however, you quickly discover that numbers mean nothing because the boys are incapable of staggering their morning and nightly bathroom routines one by one like you had assumed they would. you also realise that it is not that they are incapable, but that they like and want to do everything together.

space within a room holds no meaning to them and they are perfectly content to stand pressed up against each other’s sides, expertly dodging elbows and leaning over one another to reach for their toothbrushes or skincare. after that first night, you wake up in the morning and patter off in search for the least cramped bathroom to wriggle yourself into, up to three of you sharing the large sink and mirror that now looks comparatively tiny as you brush your teeth together.

more often than not, you find yourself sandwiched between yunho and mingi. it is moreso a matter of neither boy letting you escape from their clutches if you happen to peer into whichever bathroom they have crammed themselves into.

“we make the perfect ratio as the two tallest plus you as the shortest,” mingi likes to rationalise, “so it averages out perfectly with three boys in each of the other bathrooms.”

“but san’s shoulders are basically the equivalent of two grown men, so your point is invalid no matter how we divide ourselves up,” you like to argue back.

except they refuse to see reason. instead, yunho raises the volume of the speaker he has set on the sink’s counter that blasts out music to playfully drown you out. you relent every time and it turns into goofy dancing from the three of you as you pull silly expressions at one another in the mirror. when you rinse your mouth, mingi will start a gargling competition without fail, but none of you have lasted for more than three seconds before you begin to choke with laughter.

(when you are with people you like, everything is funny.)

seonghwa shakes his head whenever he passes the bathroom, insisting, “the only thing you guys are missing is a disco ball.” he is definitely not jealous of the fun you three are having. not at all.

the eldest has his own routine though, visible in the way he prepares everybody’s cups of coffee in the morning. they are all made differently according to individual preferences; no sugar, double shots, a dash of milk, brown sugar, matcha powder or decaf. and despite the fact that yeosang is usually up the earliest, seonghwa does not allow him to make his own coffee.

seonghwa claims it is because nobody knows how to properly use the drip brewer, but yeosang sits next to you and murmurs into your ear, “he just won’t admit that he likes to make them for us.” it must be the chill of the morning, but yeosang’s warm, whispery voice always sends goosebumps over your arms.

by the second morning, seonghwa finds himself naturally grabbing an extra cup and the hot surprise greets you with one and a half teaspoons of sugar in it, just how you like it. hongjoong emerges from the bathroom moments later to grab his cup and as he takes a careful sip, his eyes flit over the remaining cups on the table. seonghwa can practically hear the numbers ticking up in his head.

“y/n already took hers,” he verbalises, beckoning with his chin.

hongjoong turns around in the same direction to see you curled up on the sofa next to jongho and yeosang, your feet tucked comfortably underneath you as you lean forward out of curiosity to take a sip of jongho’s americano. when your expression scrunches up from the shock of bitterness, jongho giggles brightly and steadies your hand that is holding your own cup of sweetened coffee. his eyes melt at your reaction.

“oh, i know that expression,” hongjoong chortles. “he’s a goner.”

seonghwa sees the honey in hongjoong’s own eyes and he smiles knowingly, “i don’t think he’s the only one.”

hongjoong does not peel his gaze away from the three of you all cosied up on the couch. “you’re right, they’re both goners,” he hums absentmindedly, not at all registering who exactly it is who is being referred to.

(the true answer is that there are more than three of them.)

you discover that wooyoung is usually in charge of cooking, but in return, everybody else gets up to clear and wash the dishes the moment the last pair of chopsticks is placed down on the table. that is the only time they are allowed into the kitchen because they are apparently all walking hazards.

but when wooyoung realises you can actually handle a knife without giving him grey hairs from watching, the two of you easily divide the roles and tasks between yourselves. like a waltzing dance, you move together in the kitchen to prepare the meals. he passes you the spices in the overhead cabinets before you ask and you close the fridge when he takes out a pack of meat or vegetables.

cooking with wooyoung is never without bickering. he does not let you hear the end of the time you bump your head on the edge of the counter when you try to grab a saucepan from underneath, or the time you squeal after the oil starts to splatter from the onions. but if that is the reason why he starts to subtly move his hand to cushion the edges of the counters when you bend down to find something, or why he chooses to do the stirring and frying while you slice, then he pretends it is merely coincidence.

san never strays far away from the kitchen whenever you and wooyoung are cooking. you have noticed that they do not really ever stray apart–none of the boys do, though. wooyoung talks as you and san listen and the latter does not stop smiling as he watches wooyoung multitask. what you do not realise is the countless times you have forgotten to keep cooking because you are watching him too with the same expression that san wears.

(the rest of the boys realise and they also see the way san and wooyoung will pause to gaze at you.)

when you two have mostly finished cooking and it is simply a matter of waiting for the sauce to simmer or the soup to boil, you find that wooyoung will take his seat next to san on the barstools at the island, knees and thighs touching as he continues the conversation. you gravitate towards them the first time before catching yourself, cautious that you may be intruding, but then san gives you a dimpled smile and beckons for you to come and sit by his other side.

san likes to keep a gentle hand resting on wooyoung’s knee as he talks. when he does the same thing to you without even looking, your lungs stop working for a minute. the only thought that consumes your mind is the warm sensation of san’s thumb soothingly running back and forth across your skin. you do not want him to stop, so you stay still in hopes that he continues. you are pretty sure san does not even consciously realise he is doing it.

(san does, and he is glad you do not move away.)

in the hours after dinner and before you all head off to sleep, you pile the thick blankets into the open living room and squish yourselves on the least number of couches as possible. again, space holds no meaning when you are with the boys and you find the press of yeosang and hongjoong’s skin against your own more natural there than not.

sometimes you watch movies together, other times talking with low voices as the hours tick by, and other times where you are all doing your own things but in the presence of one another. regardless, the nine of you stay cuddled in front of the fireplace with the warm glow of the fire and the light dreamy flutter of snow outside the windows.

yeosang tenderly tucks the blankets up around mingi’s shoulders when he falls asleep before turning to you on his other side. “are you warm enough?” he softly asks. and even though you say you are, he still tucks the edges of your blanket under your chin, nestling you safely within the blanket, hongjoong’s side and his own body.

the boys are naturally affectionate with one another and seeing the close dynamic of their…friendship so intimately in the environment of the retreat reminds you once more of the possibility that their relationship may run deeper than they let on.

(but when that affection extends to you, you wonder what exactly that may mean for your own relationship with the boys.)

and so living together, even if just for a holiday, is different. it is different when they are the first sight to greet you when you wake up, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and voice still husky from fatigue as they murmur good mornings to you, and your cheeks start to glow with rosiness.

it is different when the decisions you make together are not about a change in formation or a defensive power play, but what to make for dinner and what movie you want to watch afterwards, and it makes you begin to wonder what other mundane decisions you want to make with them. it is different when they wrap you in their embrace–eight consecutive hugs–to bid you goodnight, and it takes you longer to fall asleep because you toss restlessly in your bed as their smiles replay in your head.

being on the retreat together is strangely domestic and homelike. but it has been almost nine months since you have started coaching the boys and thus seeing them every day for countless hours on end. so really, this trip should not change anything.

and yet, it feels like everything is changing.

jongho pays no mind to the conversation that is happening around him. last he heard, half of you are wanting to go out to skate on the lake before the sun sets and the other half are wanting to finish the halli galli championship you had started the night prior.

he is happy to do either but his mind is distracted by something else. as the screen of his phone lights up, jongho’s eyes flicker down and he puts his hand over the glowing display before anybody can see the caller id. you glance at him when you catch the movement in the corner of your peripheral vision, only to look away when yunho calls out your name to see which of the two options you would prefer.

the screen goes black as the call goes unanswered. seconds later, it lights up briefly with a notification.

pick up.

then the caller id shows up again. jongho grabs his phone and mumbles to nobody in particular, “going to grab something from my room.”

closing the door to the room that he is sharing with hongjoong in the pension, jongho sits down heavily on the edge of his bed, phone clutched tightly in his hand. whilst he has no qualms ignoring their messages now, he still finds it difficult to do the same to their phone calls. he finds his resolve weakening as he watches his phone ring for the third time within minutes.

so jongho picks up. “mother,” he greets stiffly.

she scoffs scathingly, “you finally decided to pick up.”

“i’ve been busy with the playoffs.” a half lie.

“busy? busy losing, you mean,” his mother ridicules. jongho is taken aback by the fact that she is aware, since he did not tell his family. it makes sense when she berates, “do you know how embarrassing it was for me to find out from your aunt? she told me to congratulate you for making it into the semifinals–the semifinals, jongho.”

he feels a heat of shame at what she is insinuating. jongho defends, “that’s still the top four out of seventy six teams.”

“nobody cares,” she turns her nose up. “it does not matter if you came fourth, second or last–unless you win first place, the result is not worth anything. our entire family has a legacy of achievements and your younger brother even has an olympic gold medal now. but what have you done? this is a mere national competition and yet you are incapable of making it into the finals.”

“jong–” his name dies on the tip of your tongue and your hand stops before you can knock on the door when you hear jongho’s muffled voice.

the boys had finally decided to grab their skates so you had come to get jongho to join everybody outside. realising he is talking to somebody, you are about to turn away and give him some privacy, but the words you hear make you freeze. 

it is not the conversation itself that you overhear; it is the wounded tone of jongho’s voice that makes it impossible for you to walk away. your feet stay rooted to the spot, in fact, wanting to enter the room. you have not heard jongho in such great affliction before, not even when he was consoling the boys with tears in his own eyes after their crushing defeat in the playoffs. 

“when are you going to celebrate my achievements for what they are, instead of telling me to do better?” jongho appeals.

he has lived his entire life being told that he is not good enough–constantly compared to the accomplishments of his family, particularly those of his younger brother. what he does not understand is why he cannot just be recognised for the athlete that he is, void of any other person.

his mother is silent and for a brief moment, jongho thinks that she may finally see some sense in his words…only for her to unfeelingly state, “when they are worth celebrating.” with a simple, “do better,” she hangs up on him.

jongho’s hand falls limply into his lap, phone slipping out of his lax fingers with a dull thud to the ground. he wants to swear. he wants to cry. he wants to throw his phone against the wall until the screen shatters. but jongho simply leans forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, the crushing weight of dejection forcing his lungs to exhale shakily.

there is a faint, timid knock on the door. he knows who it is immediately–only one person would knock so softly. “come in,” he answers listlessly, because he could never bring himself to ignore you no matter his own feelings.

the door cracks open to reveal your tentative figure and you slip through the opening. from the way your lips are pulled down, eyes rounded with concern, jongho knows that you have connected enough dots to understand the context of the phone call.

you approach the bed and try to ignore how small the boy in front of you looks with his shoulders hunched inwards on themselves. jongho has always appeared as the most collected and composed, even more so than the captain, and it makes your chest tight to realise he has simply been hiding this whole time.

jongho is not a man of many words so you do the next best thing that feels right in the moment. you simply open your arms. when his hands slowly come up in silent acceptance, you step forward to engulf him in your embrace.

he presses his face into the soft warmth of your stomach. the darkness welcomes him with safety and comfort and he lets out a stuttering breath that racks his entire body. you wrap one arm around his shoulders and cradle the back of his head with your other, your fingers tenderly caressing his hair in soothing motions.

although silence is what he needs, you allow yourself to say one thing to him. you murmur, “i’m proud of you, jongho…so, so proud of you.”

and they are the words he has been wanting to hear his entire life. unable to keep it together any longer, jongho breaks down in your arms with tearful sobs and allows himself to grieve for the acknowledgement he has yearned his entire life and never received. however, it will only be for tonight because he has realised that it is futile to chase after recognition from a person who refuses to see his worth, even if that person is his own family.

there will always be other people who can see his actual worth; the same people who will still love him even if he does not have a gold trophy to call his. for him, those people are his seven boys and you.

so he stays in your arms with you wrapped around him, time lost to the two of you. he cries until he has no tears left and you tilt your head upwards to stop the flow of your own tears before they can drip down onto the crown of his head. and outside the bedroom, hongjoong quietly eases the door shut to give you both some privacy.

you do not know how much time has passed when you finally step out. jongho has fallen asleep after you tucked him under his covers, exhausted. heading towards your room to change out of your shirt, you are startled by the sight of hongjoong lingering near the door.

“you didn’t go out with the boys?

he shakes his head, then conscious of where you two are standing, he gestures inside your room and follows you in. “is jongho okay?” hongjoong asks.

“i think so…he’s sleeping now but probably just needs a bit more time,” you sigh, “i just wish i could do more for him.”

hongjoong reassures, “you are already doing so much more than you realise.”

for jongho. for wooyoung. for all of them. comfort has never been about the words or actions, but the person who is by their side, and for the boys, having you there is already enough.

“really?” you worry.

“yes, really.”

before he realises what he is doing, hongjoong reaches out to gingerly cup the side of your face to thumb away the worry in your brows. “y/n, you take care of us all the time…but who takes care of you?” he whispers.

“i’m your coach, of course i–”

“no,” he interrupts. “you aren’t just our coach and from what i have seen, you aren’t just our friend either. unless…” hongjoong hesitates, “unless i’ve been reading everything wrong, then in which case, tell me and i’ll move away.”

you do not reply. your eyes flicker back and forth between his, your heart racing and mind blank. it is true–they are not just your players and they are not just your friends either, but you are unsure about taking such a huge leap of faith and acting upon the feelings you have only just started to understand.

hongjoong takes your silence as encouragement to step even closer until he is right in front of you. he keeps his hand on your cheek, his other coming up to delicately cradle your waist. you are standing intimately enough for his warm breath to span across your cheeks as he tenderly pleads, “let us take care of you as more than what we are right now.

“if you do not want to put a label on it then that’s fine, we won’t. we’ll still be your team and you’ll still be our coach. but please, let us take care of you when you are hurt, when you’re upset or angry, and when you are happy, too. let us love you as one of ours.”

as one of theirs.

you swallow and confirm, “are you all together?”

“yes, we’re dating each other,” hongjoong nods.

“but then why…” your voice trials off. why me, too?

hongjoong taps the tip of your nose and jokes lightly, “is there a capped limit as to how many people we are allowed to love?”

it pulls a giggle out of you and he smiles fondly as he reiterates, “we don’t need to put a label on this and we can go entirely at your pace. just let us into your heart, please?”

for a moment you wonder what will happen to your professional relationship with the boys–what will happen if things do not work out or worse, if other people find out and report you all for it. but when you really think about it, you realise that the professionalism between you and the boys has long since blurred. 

you do not know if you can go back to seoul after this retreat and act like you do not want to continue living with them. most importantly, you do not want to know if you can. so you take the leap of faith and nod–you want to be theirs.

when you first met the red devils in autumn last year, you were resolved to win over them. never would you have expected that you would win them over in more ways than one…and be won over yourself.

“hi, girlfriend.”

seonghwa smacks the back of wooyoung’s head. “stop pressuring her,” he hisses as the younger cackles delightfully and strides away through the snow impressively fast considering he is wearing his skates.

“ignore him,” seonghwa turns to you, where you are sitting on the porch steps to the cottage. he squats down and takes the laces out of your hands to start doing up your own skates.

“i can do it myself,” you start.

“i know you can,” seonghwa hums, gazing up lovingly, “but i want to do it for you.”

you press your lips together in an attempt to hide the shy smile that blooms across your face and when that fails, you duck your head down instead. ever since your talk with hongjoong the other day, the boys have been significantly more obvious and proactive with their displays of affection for you. however, you are pretty sure they had their own conversation when you were asleep or in the shower, because not one of them pressures you into something you are not ready for, even if that includes making your relationship official.

“there you go. is it too tight? too loose?” seonghwa taps your skates and you tell him they are perfect. taking his offered hand with an appreciative smile, he pulls you up to your feet and you go to join the rest of the boys on the frozen lake.

you are sure it feels the same for every single one of your boys–nothing can compare to that moment when you first step onto the ice. it is where you become a completely different person; a fish back in water, in control and at home.

it had been a gamble renting the cottage pension as you were unable to know whether the lake would be frozen over enough to allow for skating. but it is as if the heavens know not to separate you and your boys from the love and passion that your entire lives revolve around, because you are blessed to see them scrambling out to play on the frozen lake almost every single day, just like they are right now.

san spots you and seonghwa and beckons for you two to join. “hongjoong’s the tagger,” he calls out.

the captain stands at the other end of the lake, back facing everybody as he drawls, “green light…”

before hongjoong even starts to enunciate the first word, yunho, wooyoung and jongho have already pushed off their skates to advance. it sets off an immediate chorus of indignant shouts and desperate acceleration amongst everybody else to catch up. you laugh and seonghwa drags you along with him urgently, unable to stand your apparent nonchalance and uncompetitiveness.

but oh, how wrong he is. very quickly, you join the majority of the boys in a game of who can be the most sneaky with dirty play. wooyoung and mingi tussle with one another right as hongjoong turns around with his yell of ‘red light!’, trying to topple the other over so they get caught. jongho yanks on the back of seonghwa’s jacket whilst yeosang giggles and joins in to yank on jongho’s, effectively preventing all three of them from advancing forward.

“let go of me, you brats!” seonghwa flails forward against the combined weight of the two boys but to no avail.

you use yunho’s height to your advantage and hide behind him, steadily creeping forward even when hongjoong has turned around to face you all. yunho quickly catches on and extends his hands backwards for you to latch onto. you are more than happy to let him do all the hard work skating you both towards the captain and you grin cheekily at the trio–still caught up in their self-induced tug-of-war–as you overtake them easily.

“y/n’s cheating!” san hollers, the only one who is actually playing by the rules.

“life’s not fair!” you holler back gleefully at the same time that hongjoong sniggers, “san, you moved your mouth! go back.”

san gives an indignant cry, “favouritism, i say!” but, bless his heart, moves back to the starting line regardless. 

when yunho is almost towering over hongjoong, he cues you to get ready to escape by letting go of your hands. you pivot around and without waiting for anything else, you start to run away.

“gree–”

yunho tags hongjoong’s right shoulder before pushing off to the left so that he escapes the other’s immediate line of vision. except it means that the first person that hongjoong sees when he turns around is you.

an involuntary squeal escapes you when you hear the terrifying crispness of skates on ice right behind you followed by the captain’s arms snaking around your waist. “caught you, babe” he beams. hongjoong lifts you up with shit-eating smugness at your reaction–both at his close proximity and the pet name–spins you around for good measure, then sets you back down to chase after the others.

wooyoung skates in a wide arc to dodge the captain’s frenzied rampage, only to suddenly appear right beside you with the most telling glint in his sparkling eyes that he is up to mischief. he grins.

“wooyoung, no,” you warn.

he grabs you by the waist. “wooyoung, yes.”

wooyoung pushes off his skates with you in front of him at breakneck speed across the ice, bellowing at the top of his voice, “make way for the cripples!”

you scream the entire way to the end of the lake, hands clutching onto his like a lifeline as a colourful string of words flies out of your mouth. you think you black out for a second because when you open your eyes again, you are in a heaving tangle of arms and legs on the cushiony surface of powdery snow.

“oh, shit,” hongjoong winces.

the boys speed towards you and wooyoung, and yunho peers down at you on the ground with panicked concern in his eyes. “are you two okay?” he asks but when he sees that you are laughing, unrestrained and radiating joy, yunho relaxes and joins in with relief.

they–mainly seonghwa–fuss over you both enough to reassure themselves that there is not so much as a scratch or bruise, before mingi suggests playing a casual hockey game of five versus four. there are to be no goaltenders and san fashions makeshift goalposts by poking sticks into the snow on either ends of the lake.

the team splits into their usual arrangement when they are required to be in two groups; hongjoong, yunho, san and wooyoung; seonghwa, yeosang, mingi and jongho. normally, you would offer to be the honorary referee…but the boys have never been rough with you and you have confidence that you will not get hurt. so for the first time in years, you play.

it is far from a proper league game and it will never be enough to quench your thirst as a former athlete, but for now, gripping your stick on the ice in tandem with the others, you are content–you are alive.

like red light, green light, the game starts off fair and proper for a grand total of two minutes. then it becomes a circus of foul plays and increasingly creative methods of cheating as all sense of order is tossed out the window. yunho and san stand in front of you, leaving just enough space for you to handle the puck, whilst hongjoong and wooyoung flank your sides and use their sticks to block any attempts to steal the puck. as a shielded group of five, you all move up towards the goalposts like a formidable army tank.

in retaliation, jongho physically manhandles hongjoong out of the way, hugging him from behind with a vice grip that he swears not to let go. seonghwa, mingi and yeosang imitate him with similar displays of strength, turning the entire match into a childish scuffle of chaos and hysterics.

there are no proper rules, no proper gear and no proper stadium–only the bare minimum, yourselves and uncontainable laughter. it feels like you are kids again, little souls harbouring colossal dreams, running around on the fields with long branches and a pine cone you had found when you could not afford to go to a real rink.

it is like you have gone back in time to when all you knew about ice hockey from watching it on your television screen was that you had to get the puck into the goal. you and the boys are fresh, blank slates without a care in the world for the countless strategies and tactical plays that you have learned over the length of your careers.

without the pressures and routines of strict training regimes, you all reignite the very roots of your ardour and fervour for ice hockey. no longer is it about the scores and making it into the playoffs. no longer is it about winning the championships to gain the acknowledgement of other people. no longer is it about the trauma of betrayal, injury and defeat you have experienced.

playing is simply the thrill of skating liberally with no burdens across the ice. it is the feeling of thriving when your blade connects with the puck and sends vibrations up your arms. it is the rush of adrenaline as everyone moves in tandem with the same singular thought in your hearts–that you love ice hockey with your entire lives. and that in itself is already more than enough, even without a gold trophy and championship title to prove it to yourselves.

for the last five years, the boys have had the leaves of their trees forcibly plucked and removed–by family, by coaches, and by injuries…but now?

it is time for their flowers to bloom.

spring, 2025: playoffs

standing off to the side, you watch your boys listening attentively to the reporter who is conducting an interview with them. you have continued to stay out of the media spotlight where possible, not yet entirely comfortable standing in front of the cameras again, but your boys have quickly grown accustomed to media coverage ever since their popularity gained traction thanks to their undefeated streak in the regular season.

the interviewer glances down at her prompt card before asking, “so tell me, what has been a major contribution to your success this season? your team has made a name for yourselves as the undefeated champions so far–quite a contrast to how you started off last season.”

seonghwa laughs cordially with her. “we were getting used to a lot of changes last year so our teamwork and mentality wasn’t the best,” he admits. “our agency gave us some time off to recalibrate, which really helped us to focus on building ourselves–as individuals and as a team. i think we learnt to place our unconditional trust in one another and our coach. we still play with a dominantly offensive approach, but we’ve been adopting different playing styles and experimenting with them, so this relies heavily on believing in each other.”

yunho nods, gesturing for the microphone to add, “as cliche as it may sound, a huge part of our growth was also learning how to accept loss. this wasn’t just in the context of being defeated in the semifinals but in the wider lens of our past mistakes, relationships, and even situations that we could not change.

“it has been a tough journey for a lot of us over the last year, but we were lucky enough to have each other’s support,” yunho’s nostalgic smile reflects your own as you realise just how far both you and all of your boys have come. “once we were able to let go, it meant that we could enjoy our career for what it truly is–playing the sport of our dreams together, every day.”

the reporter’s ears perk up in interest at the segway to probe and she jumps on the opportunity to ask, “i am sure many of your fans have been curious for a long time. is there a special somebody who has supported you–or any of you–throughout your journey?”

yunho passes the microphone to the hand that has extended out to reach for it. it’s san this time, who has a charmingly confident persona that he takes on whenever he answers questions during interviews. good thing too, because their fans are going to need something to distract them from understanding the confession he is about to make.

“there is. we all do, actually,” his deep voice rolls off his tongue like butter. the way he smoothly talks with a flirtatious smirk never fails to make you swoon. “funnily enough, we all met our girlfriend at about the same time.”

off to the side, wooyoung sends a wink in your direction and you have to muffle a snort with your hand and divert your glance away. the structural framework of the stadium ceiling suddenly looks very interesting. san stands there incredibly smug at his joke that he knows nobody but you and the boys will pick up on.

by the time you tune back into the conversation, the reporter has moved onto the next question. “last year, you lost to the white tigers in the semifinals. how do you feel about facing them again later today?”

due to a spike in popularity, the korean ice hockey league had to divide its teams into two separate groups for the regular season matches this year. both the red devils and the white tigers had been placed in different groups and by some twist of fate, had ranked at the top and then seeded accordingly on either ends of the tournament brackets. now, your team faces theirs in the very last game of the season.

the finals.

“we’re quite excited, actually,” jongho responds. “we have been wanting to play against the white tigers again some day and i don’t think it gets any more fitting than meeting them in the finals. they have some incredible players but like seonghwa mentioned before, we’ve been working hard to adjust our playing style to suit the situation. our coach has put in a lot of effort to hone in on our strengths and weaknesses, so no matter what today’s outcome is, we’re confident that it won’t be an easy win for either team.”

“i am sure the finals is going to be a thrilling match. now, speaking of coaches,” the interviewer starts and you can see hongjoong’s hand twitching subtly at his side, ready to step in and deflect the question need be should it pertain to you.

she continues, “how does it feel to play against your former coach?”

yeosang and mingi frown, unable to neutralise the confusion on their faces. hongjoong smiles calmly, ultimately taking over the microphone as he apologises, “sorry, could you please elaborate your question?”

it is the interviewer’s turn to fluster slightly but she nods quickly, “you must not be aware, then.”

your eyes dart back and forth as you try to recall whether there is a crucial piece of information you have somehow missed or forgotten to tell the boys. the tone of her voice foreshadows something that makes the pit of your stomach churn.

“last year, the white tigers had a stand-in coach, so you probably did not know.” she says her next words carefully and despite the bustling movement that fills the entire stadium, you can hear the exact moment all of your hearts drop.

“the coach of the white tigers is coach yeon, your team’s former coach in 2018…and he’s here today.”

you are the first to rush back into their locker room. frantically, you grab the official guide that had been given to you by the ice hockey league prior to the start of the regular season from out of your bag. you flip through it, team profiles upon team profiles blending into a hazy blur of faces as you find the one you are trying to look for.

“y/n,” somebody gently murmurs from behind you but you do not register their call. you continue to flick through the pages and when you find the profile for the white tigers, you scan the top of the page for a certain name with a shaky finger.

head coach: yeon ha joon

“oh my god,” you breathe out, hands lowering to your sides and gaze wavering. how the fuck had you managed to miss it this entire time?

you are not the only one affected by the revelation. the change room is pervaded by unease and restlessness, and wooyoung paces back and forth despite hongjoong’s attempts to get him to sit down. hongjoong himself cannot even remember how he answered the question about coach yeon, only that he had somehow excused themselves not long after to cut the interview short.

“how is he still a coach?” seonghwa furrows his brows.

wooyoung stops pacing and your eyes are drawn to him when he suddenly blanches, “what if coach yeon is doing the opposite now and paying other teams to let his own team win?”

“no way–” “–i wouldn’t put it past him–” “–surely not?” the boys’ voices overlap at the speculation.

it is a valid speculation based on what they have told you in the past about coach yeon. however, you stay quiet, suddenly aware of the fact that it is not something that would favour you should it be true. you gnaw the inside of your cheek because as much as you know that your boys would not suspect you, you still worry that doubt may cross their minds at one point, even if only briefly.

“unless the money he offered every single time was equivalent to the prize money, it’s highly unlikely the teams would have all accepted, right?” jongho points out.

yunho shrugs nonchalantly, “but even if they did, we all know that coach yeon would never be able to bribe our girl.”

the way everybody immediately agrees expels some of the anxiety within you, filling you with reassurance and security that starts to relax your chest instead. wooyoung chooses that moment to finally sit down on the bench beside you. he adds, “we’re too whipped for you, so even if you were bribed, we would probably ask whether the money was enough and if you wanted more.”

san chucks a water bottle at him. despite yourself, you laugh and admit, “that is…strangely comforting.”

“see,” wooyoung triumphantly boots the bottle back at the older. “she gets it.”

seonghwa intercepts the pitiful bottle before it becomes weaponised and sets it down next to him. “she wouldn’t accept the money in the first place.”

“exactly, so why does any of this matter?” mingi suddenly questions.

yeosang knits his brows together as he states the obvious, “it’s coach yeon.”

“and?” mingi mirrors his expression with genuine confusion.

it is quiet in the locker room. the coach of the white tigers is indeed coach yeon…and so what? what exactly about the revelation has pushed you all to the edge of the cliff?

mingi cocks his head. “what i’m trying to say is, does it make any difference whether he is their coach or not? think about it–regardless of how he got his team to the finals, he has no unfair advantage over us. there’s no way that he has bribed a fixed win in the finals, and he has no access to any insider knowledge that could jeopardise our tactics and plays.

“the only leverage that he ‘has’ is a psychological advantage–if we can even call it that. but we’re not the same boys who were too naive and powerless to do anything about it six years ago. if anything, we can easily turn this to work in our favour because i don’t know about you guys, but i’m ready to drag his ass through the mud. what we said earlier about not caring for today’s outcome? nah, fuck that. we’re going to fuck him up and show him that he messed with the wrong people.”

he takes everybody’s silence as misunderstanding of his last statement and he hurriedly clarifies there is no violent intent, “by winning. fairly.”

“damn,” jongho whistles. “you’re onto something for once.”

mingi clambers over seonghwa’s legs to grab the forgotten bottle and it goes flying across the room with violent intent. “dude, what the fuck,” mingi grouses.

the dull thud that resounds when jongho holds san’s leg pad up to block the projectile is enough to shift the mood in the room entirely. you finally relax into hongjoong’s side and he moulds you closer to him with the arm that he snakes around your waist as you both watch the locker room erupt into familiar pre-game mayhem.

yunho immediately scoops up the bottle and pitches it again. san stands to the side worrying over his poor leg pads as jongho uses them to bat the makeshift ball. his impressive accuracy makes you wonder whether they would have made it just as big as they are now had they formed a baseball team instead, but then yeosang narrowly dodges the bottle before it gives him a black eye, wooyoung cackles in the background, and you think better of it.

seonghwa joins you both on the bench and amongst all of the mischievous chaos and raucous laughter, you feel at peace, your hands clasped tenderly in the hands of your two captains–in unity, trust and love. you affectionately squeeze their hands with unspoken conviction.

you know your boys are going to play well; you just have a good feeling.

the energy in the room spikes exponentially as you huddle together one final time before you walk out of the locker room, through the hallways and to the arena–one final time before you step out to the ice rink as the red devils, playing in the final match.

you and your boys stand in a circle as close as it is physically possible with their bulky pads and game jerseys that they wear so proudly. it is indiscernible where one of you starts and where another ends from how intimately you all press together. your huddle is a woven nexus of arms and your hearts pound as one entity.

everyone learns of the juxtapositions of the world early on in life. there is no light without dark, there is no happiness without sadness, there is no spring without autumn…and there is no victory without defeat. not a single one of your boys has made it this far without falling at least once, and the conscious thought makes your heart swell and your throat constrict with overwhelming emotion.

somehow, you manage to choke out, “i am so, so proud of all of you.”

yunho and seonghwa’s own eyes start to heat up with wetness. from your side, san kisses your temple with feather-like tenderness, “and we’re so proud of you. y/n, you have grown just as much as we have.”

“thank you for being our coach,” hongjoong murmurs into your ear from your other side, the tip of his nose softly nuzzling you.

wooyoung reaches out to thumb the round of your cheek, “and thank you for loving us when we found it difficult to love ourselves.”

you had always viewed your injury and career with anger, bitterness and anguish…but you have finally come to terms with it. in the process of healing, you have learnt to love yourself, love eight other people, and to be loved. you have had your golden days as an athlete and you are now living your golden days as a coach–

–the very coach of the red devils, your team of boys who are living through their golden days as athletes, and you are going to lead them to victory in the finals.

swiping at a tear that slips down your cheeks, you grin. “boys, let’s win this match and then,” you pause as you meet their determined gazes, their smiles wide with uncontainable excitement, the tension in the room electrifying and palpable.

“let’s go international.”

you may have all fallen before–as athletes, as coaches, as a team–but you will always stand back up together, because at the end of the day your dream is theirs and their dream is yours. and like autumn, the leaves fall for a reason; they must fall before the spring flowers can bloom to their full beauty.

and bloom your flowers have.

[catssluvr]

𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒆, aaron hotchner

aaron hotchner x fem!reader (916 words)

in which you end up with an injured nose at girl’s night and aaron takes care of you

warnings: bloody nose (surprise), r is tipsy, sweet aaron again 🫶🏻

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

This is probably the last way you would have imagined your day to end up like. This being sitting in the passenger seat of Hotch's car with an ice pack against your very much painful bloody nose.

It's funny to think that working in the fbi wasn't what gave you an injurie but falling against Emily's coffee table sure was. It was definitely quite a fight between you, one of Sergio's toys on the floor and the corner of the table. You just didn't happen to win it, leaving your nose bruised and bloody.

You felt utterly embarrassed for having to call him to pick you up, but you couldn't drive after two cups of wine and didn't want to ruin girl's night. You're sure there's better things for him to do on his day off, specially at midnight.

Though he doesn't seem bothered by it the slightest, his hand resting on your thigh for the whole ride home and stealing worried glances at you once in a while.

"You okay?" He asks once he opens the door, helping you out of your seatbelt.

You're quiet and that worries him. He knows pretty well you're not one to be quite when alcohol is running in your system.

"Mhm. Sorry for this, again." It's probably your fourth apology tonight and he doesn't like that one bit.

"Stop saying sorry." His tone is almost stern but you can feel the affection sweeping through it. "I missed you today, was glad you called." He's too sweet even when you're sure you ripped him out of bed, his crooked quarter zip that's thrown over his sleeping shirt proving you right.

You smile softly at him, regretting it immediately as your nose stings.

Aaron hushes you inside the house, immediately leading you to the bathroom and sitting you on the counter.

He rummages through the cabinets for a moment, pulling out a few cottons and other things you're too dozy too look properly at.

"Oh, sweet girl..." It's only now that he takes the ice pack from your nose that he realizes how painful it must be. There's dried blood right outside your nostrils and the bridge of your nose look another shade.

"That bad, uh?" You mock, holding back a chuckle at his reprehending stare.

Aaron starts cleaning your nose with a wet cotton, mumbling out gentle sorries when you hiss in pain.

You take the time to look at him through half closed eyes. His dishevelled hair, his concentrated expression and most of all his quarter zip paired with stripped pyjama pants. It makes you feel both giddy and guilty that he probably came running to get you once you called.

"You're pretty." You say it before getting to actually think about it. But the fact that you're still tipsy helps you say things shamelessly.

"Thank you, honey. You're very pretty too." He answers with a smile bigger than he intended, just happy that you're finally acting like you normally would while tipsy.

Once the blood is cleaned and the arnica is applied, he reaches for the small band aid box. They all have some kind of cartoon in them, Jack's influence.

"Which one?" He questions with fake seriousness, displaying all the different band aids.

You point to the spider-man themed one, probably Jack's influence as well.

"Very good choice." Aaron pulls it open, carefully applying it over the small cut on the bridge of your nose before pressing a tiny kiss there.

He tells you to wait for a moment before dissapearing into the bedroom, coming back a few seconds later with a large hoodie and one pair of stripped pyjama pants - both his.

You let out a relaxed sigh once you're in them, his scent comforting and similar to what you would call home.

"Gimme a kiss?" You mumble nasally, a chuckle bubbling out of him at the way it sounds more like 'kith'.

"I'll hurt your nose."

"No, it'll heal magically from your kiss." You do little in trying to persuade him, but it's more than enough for him.

Aaron tucks a few strands of hair behind your ears, cupping your warm cheeks and leaning in to place a gentle peck on your lips.

"Better, sweet girl?" It's not really a question, as he knows the answer. His lips trail from your cheek to your temple, lingering there for a moment before pulling to hold your face once more.

"Mhm, much better." You lean into his hands almost involuntarily.

His hands reach under your thighs, picking you up before you can even process it. You let out a surprised gasp, smacking his chest lightly when he laughs.

"You know, my nose is hurt. Not my legs, Aaron." You mumble against his neck, smiling at the way he shivers at the contact.

"Just let me spoil you, yeah?" He shushes you, arms comfortable around you as he enters the bedroom.

Once you're tucked inside the blankets in his so familiar bed, Aaron pulls out his quarter zip. Throwing it on top of the armchair in the corner before rushing to lay beside you.

Almost immediately, your arms find place around his waist. Your fingers trace incoherent shapes on his stomach and your head lays against his chest, his heartbeat lulling you to a sleepy state almost immediately.

"Thank you." It's barely a whisper, but he hears it just fine.

He hums, squeezing his arms around you before pressing a kiss to your hair one last time. "My sweet girl."

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

love you,

cat 🤍

[desi2go]

First times

pairing: Channie x reader

warning: fluff

summary: How were your first times with him?

author's note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHANNIE!!!!! I love you so much and I hope you have a great day <3<3<3<3<3

𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤

You never thought that you would meet the love of your life on the beach. You and your friends were on vacation in Australia, enjoying the beautiful beach in the warmth of the sun. There were so many people, laying next to each other due to the limited space but it still was relaxing.

You were just reading a book while sunbathing and trying to get a good tan, your friends swam in the warm water, leaving you alone on your towel. Suddenly, a ball hit you, bouncing over you onto your friend's towel. You looked around for the culprit, expecting it to be a child but instead, three men stood a few metres away. They pushed each other forward and when they caught your staring, they pointed at each other, claiming that it was the other ones fault.

You rolled amused with your eyes, not believing that grown up men could act like children. Two of them, one with long blonde and the one with short black hair, pushed their friend forward with force, letting him stumble.

The message was clear, he should get the ball back from you. You fished it from your friend's towel and waited for him to step up to you.

He was beautiful, his black hair hidden by a black base cap but his face was gorgeous. Those brown eyes looked like delicious chocolate and the smile that formed on his face made you blush.

You held the ball out while he stood in front of you, rubbing his back.

"Thank you" he exclaimed, taking the ball and already turning.

"You're welcome" you responded. But the good looking man stopped in his tracks when he saw his friends making signals with their hands. You figured out that the blonde was signing phone and the other acted like he wrote something, pointing to you.

The man with the base cap sighned. "I hate you guys sometimes" he mumbled, heading towards you again while blushing and hiding his face under the cap.

"Already back?" you asked amused, watching him with a smirk. "Yes. Can I have your number perhaps?" he questioned, becoming a blushing mess.

You chuckled. "Did your friends tell you that?"

He laughed. "No, they just encouraged me. I'm Chan by the way"

𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖘𝖙 𝖉𝖆𝖙𝖊

You texted on a daily basis, getting to know him very well and you found out that he was an idol. Since you were from south korea too, you didn't think that this would be an obstacle for your relationship. Before he would go back to korea, he wanted to show you Sydney on a personal trip.

The whole day, he showed you around, poiting to the hidden spots and attractions that a normal tourist wouldn't see. It was fun to spend time with him, easy and without uncomfortable silences.

He was a true gentlemen, opening doors for you and even paying your ice cream. You laughed a lot and you must admit that you already adored his. His gentle gaze would always be on you, letting you feel safe and secure in his proximity.

When the sun was replaced by the moon and stars, he lead you to a small restaurant. You sat down in front of it, the soft light of fairylights luminated his face, emphazising all his beautiful features.

Chan told you that this was his favourite restaurant and he couldn't even deny it anymore when the waiter greeted him with his name, making you laugh. He recommended you some things and after getting your order, he even let you try his meal. You couldn't even remember if a man before him had fed you once, but he did, blowing on his fork to cool it down and then placing it in your mouth carefully.

His ears were red but the smile on his face was hypnoticing. You could watch this man for your entire life.

𝖇𝖊𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖌𝖎𝖗𝖑𝖋𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖉

As soon as you were back in south korea, he took you out on more dates and you were sure that he was the person you wanted to spend your life with.

It was just that you feared for asking him if he wanted to be your boyfriend. You were just insecure how to approach this, afraid that it might be too soon for his liking but all your doubt were destroyed when he asked you instead.

It was on one of your dates. He had picked you up at your apartment and brought you to the park a little outside from Seoul where you could be alone. You both had planned to do a picknick to enjoy one of the last summer days before the cold winter would come.

You spread the blanket and placed the food down, talking about everything. While you laid down, he fed you some strawberries that were dipped into chocolate, reminding you of his eye colour.

You had noticed from the beginning that he acted different than usual, he seemed nervous. But you trusted him to tell you what was on his mind.

His hand caressed your cheek and you closed your eyes, eating the strawberries from time to time. He cleared his throat, not responding to a question you had asked.

"Okay Channie, tell me what is up with you today. You seem nervous" you expressed, opening your eyes to take his form in.

"Do you want to be my girlfriend?" He spoke fastly, leaving you speachless. You definitely didn't expected that.

You chuckled. "That bothered you so much?" He nodded hesitantly, clearly panicking that you would say no.

"Of course Channie, I love you" you pushed yourself up from his lap, pressing your lips on his own.

𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖘𝖙 𝖓𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖙𝖔𝖌𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗

Saying that you weren't nervous at all was wrong, completely wrong. You knew that it was just Channie, your Channie, and you didn't need to be so tense but this felt like a big step in your relationship.

You were officially together now and even if it sounded unbelievable, you hadn't spend a night together yet. You didn't mind since both of you wanted to take things slow.

Now, you stood in front of his apartment with a bag in hand, pressing his doorbell. He opened immeadiatly as if he had waited impatiently for you on the other side. He pressed a loving kiss on your lips and taking the bag from you in the same moment.

"Hello love" he greeted, pulling you out of the cold hallway. It wasn't the first time being in his apartment and you liked his way of decorating from the first moment.

"Hey Channie" you responded, getting rid of your shoes and jacket while he placed the bag into his bedroom. "I just started cooking" he told you, leading you into the kitchen where the food was already cooking.

You laughed a lot while you observed your boyfriend since he forced you to sit down instead of letting you help.

After dinner, you two layed down on his couch to watch a movie, your head an his shoulder while he played with a strand of your hair. You felt him pressing his nose into your hair and you laughed when you heard him inhale deeply. "What? I love your smell" he exclaimed, throwing his arms around you.

Afterwards, you headed to bed after getting ready together. He didn't even give you the chance to bring some sort of distance between you or letting you even lay down for a second before he was already pulling you into his arms again, leaving you squealing and giggling.

"Come here! I need my cuddles!" he demanded, giving you a light bite on your shoulder. "As if you weren't cuddling me all the time" you stated, brushing a few hair strands out of his face.

"They are never enough, never"

𝖜𝖊𝖉𝖉𝖎𝖓𝖌

Chan's proposal was something you hadn't expected. Well, yes at some point in the future yes but you were surprised when the love of your life suddenly kneeled in front of you, a beautiful and well-chosen ring in his hand. Of course you said yes! I mean how could you not?

The preparation of the wedding let the time pass so fast. You chose the perfect venue in Australia on the beach you had met years ago and your wedding dress was breathtaking and you couldn't wait to see Chan's reaction.

When you walked down the aisle, you were so nervous but yet so excited. With a beautiful bouquet in hand, you headed to your future, to your beloved husband. He looked absolutely gorgeous in his black suit and as soon as his eyes found yours, a stunning smile decorated his face.

Your farther gave you into Chan's arms and got back to his seat. During the whole ceremony, your lover's eyes never left yours and his fingers caressed your hands. Soon, you both said yes and exchanged your rings that you had chosen. Your wedding band was silver with a white stone and on the inside, hidden from the outside, were your initials engraved.

Chan gently pressed his lips on yours, your hands finding its way in his hair.

𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖘𝖙 𝖈𝖍𝖎𝖑𝖉

You and Chan were married for over a year now and you knew that he wanted kids and you must admit that you imagined being a mother too. And after settling into marriage you felt that it was the right time to try for a baby.

Chan was excited and couldn't wait until you were pregnant. Just some months later, you found out that you were indeed with child and on the first doctor's appointment, Chan cried as soon as he saw the cell that is your baby.

During the whole pregnancy, he was so nervous and affectionate. Whenever he found time, he would caress your bump or lay on your stomach to tell you and your baby about his day.

As your bump grew, he was cautious about everything. You couldn't even do laundry without him jumping up and taking over, claiming that you needed to rest.

When you went into labour, he stayed by your side during the whole process. His hand never left yours and he drove to the hospital, even when you tightened your hold with each contraction.

After hours of labour, you heard your baby's first cries and it felt like all the pain faded away. The only thing you could concentrate on, was to hold your baby. Chan kissed your forehead in joy, complimenting you how great you did this. In his own eyes were tears as they laid the beautiful baby girl in your arms.

Tenderly, he caressed his finger over the smooth skin and oh lord - he was smitten. He felt nervous when you suggested to hold his girl but he agreed and listened to the instructions the nurse gave him. He undressed his chest because newborns liked the skin to skin contact to hold their temperature and to control their breathing.

He laughed in joy as he held his little one finally after months of waiting, the smile never left his lips again.

[sunderwight]

With moshang I think I'm equally fond of the possibilities/concepts where either Shang Qinghua is ludicrously attractive to demons in a broad sense (but doesn't realize it), or, where Shang Qinghua is just some weird little gremlin and everyone else cannot wrap their head around why THE Mobei Jun is so smug about seducing this man.

Or a combination, where no demon in their right mind would ordinarily look at Shang Qinghua and perceive a sex icon, but because such a high-ranking demon has clearly done so, they go "well there must be SOMETHING going on there" and then look closer and before they know it they're on the slippery slope to being horny about a guy who could help file their taxes or arrange to have their clan base's faulty plumbing fixed.

Basically it's all good. Demons en mass going "yeah yeah big scary dudes who punch good are a dime a fucking dozen around here, but do you know how hot someone who can skillfully use an abacus is?" vs demons going "the ice king is a respectable ruler but he has garbage taste in men, we all just smile and politely nod while he insists the weird rat guy he fixated on as a teenager is a catch" vs demons going "I really don't see the appeal -- wait he did what? he killed how many guys at once with 1 trick? he betrayed WHOMST? and lived?! and he knows how to get my door to stop making horrible squeaky noises?! okay yeah figures the king would marry him" but every option is a winner.

I'm also a big fan of both Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua being not very attractive to demons in general, but it also being really common for demons to get super weird about first crushes and fixate hard on them, so in that sense they are completely normal choices for a couple of high-level demons to marry. Like the demon populace can appreciate the emperor actually landing his hot teacher and the king successfully marrying his teenage sweetheart. It's an idealized fantasy in terms of the scenarios, even if the actual guys are just weird humans. Nearly every average demon has lifelong daydreams about successfully seducing their first crush, so regardless of who those crushes turned out to be it's still a power move for LBH and MBJ to actually succeed.

Bonus if the fact that both SQQ and SQH are peak lords from the same sect leads to a bunch of demon kids developing crushes on the other remaining, unattached peak lords, and chaos ensuing. Especially for Liu Qingge. I think it would be funny for him to gain a flock of teenage demons with crushes, whom he keeps trying to fight off, only to discover that beating them up does NOT discourage them at all (actually makes the crushes worse). Or Yue Qingyuan getting mobbed like he's a pop star any time he makes a diplomatic visit to the demon realms. Sha Hualing deciding that she's just waiting for Liu Mingyan to become a peak lord before they make things official, since That's Obviously How It's Done, or Qi Qingqi doing a head count one day and realizing she suddenly has a bunch of unfamiliar "guest" disciples who sigh at her a lot and have funny-colored eyes...

[tojisun]

sugar, spice, everything on ice (hockey au)

part of the ‘if fwb’ spinoff // simon riley x f!reader

johnny’s been… doubting, you see, about the validity of simon’s dating life.

like, for example, if he really was dating anyone.

simon looks content in a way that he never was before—intense eyes turned down towards his phone, unapproachable aura less angry but more settled, like he’s warding off people not because of his dislike but more so because he’s not available anymore.

not like he ever made himself available before, but it’s fundamentally different this time around; self-imposed walls brought down to make room for unbridled fulfillment.

he looks like he’s won the damn cup.

and that’s what makes johnny twitch—someone out there was just as, if not more, valued as the championship cup to simon, but he’s never introduced anyone to them.

not a picture nor an update nor even a PSA that they need to commission another WAG jacket for his partner because simon is tight-lipped about whoever it was he’s seeing. it’s not like he’s even dancing around the fact, it’s just that whoever it was he’s dating was never free.

not for a game nor a night-out nor a party. in simon’s house.

this level of secrecy was just unheard of. even the other men in the league who have a tight leash on their private lives still have living proof of their partners unlike simon who leaves it at, “she’s busy,” like that covers anything.

which is why johnny would like to go on record and say: he is totally valid for choosing to crash at simon’s place without letting him know.

he remembers getting wasted with the others, then refusing to be driven home, only to take a cab to simon’s place. he must have been coherent enough to remember the code for simon’s house, and was shockingly coordinated enough to even punch it in, but his memories begin to splinter there.

next thing johnny knows, he’s waking up, feeling like he’s been hit by a freight train. his tongue is heavy inside his mouth, the pungent taste of last night’s alcohol rising from the back of his throat like bile. he groans, blinking blurry eyes as he tries to remember where he’s at or what he’s done, only for nausea to wash over him so intensely he flops back down onto the bed—

he pats at the cushioning.

—onto the sofa then.

by the devil, what did he do last night? got him drinking like he’s got a new liver to replace this one he fucked with.

christ. he needs water, or a whole bottle of mouthwash, honestly.

“mactavish?”

johnny jumps, twisting his head to the side at the call of his name. it’s simon, of course it is, but he looks dishevelled, unkempt in a way that looks criminal because—johnny roves his eyes over his friend—who the hell looks that good when they’ve just woken up?

simon looks like he can be the next cover of inside fitness; give tyler fucking seguin a run for his own money.

“wha’,” is all johnny gets to say because he starts sputtering, dizziness hitting him intensely again. he gags, and only has enough mind to cover his mouth with his fist.

“jesus– down the hall. go,” simon barks and johnny warbles his thanks before locking himself in the guest bathroom.

.

johnny comes back out to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and melted butter wafting through. simon did say he had a problem with his kitchen vents which made cooking a problem, but johnny sure isn’t complaining right now. although, he supposes that it is a whole different problem when it’s steak or some ribs that simon’s firing up.

oh well, johnny thinks, scratching his side as he ambles to the island, pointedly quiet because simon might kick him out before breakfast is even done.

simon eyes him with a muted approval and johnny grins because, hey, he just secured free breakfast.

he’s about to break the silence, to apologize once more he guesses, when the sounds of padded feet descending from the stairs leading up to simon’s lavishly decorated—sarcasm intended—second floor pierces through the silence.

johnny’s back straightens, his exhausted mind clicking awake.

he turns to his friend but simon’s already angled towards the kitchen door, facing away from johnny. he looks relaxed, previous half-bareness now covered up with a thin white shirt, and johnny doesn’t know why he missed it but simon looks like a perfect picture of a boyfriend fixing up breakfast post-coitus.

“jesus–” johnny begins to say, the pieces linking because yeah, simon’s never denied that he’s been doing some dating around and it’s just johnny’s drunken whim to assume that the most talented ice hockey player of this decade was lying about his relationship status and—good lord, that’s a fucking person diving in simon’s arms, alright.

johnny watches, with his mouth agape, as simon and the mystery woman talk to each other in hushed whispers, his friend having to bend forward to make up for the height difference.

johnny watches, like the third-wheel he is, as simon laughs, actual quiet chuckles and not that children-crying-in-terror-inducing cackle, before nuzzling his nose over your own, and breathing you in.

johnny watches the quiet kiss, just lips pecking each other, and it’s all so soft and tender and johnny feels really, really bad that he didn’t get to give simon and his girl the privacy you two surely deserve and—

your eyes open, flitting to him because johnny is sure that he’s standing out amidst what must be a normally empty kitchen. he doesn’t even get to count three seconds before you’re screaming, lurching out of simon’s hold and hiding behind his bulk in your terror.

simon, screw him, seems to not have cared that johnny was privy to such an intimate moment and just turns enough to catch your attention again before murmuring reassurances. he says things like, “mactavish? the punk ass who got his hair shaved for the new season only to realize no one’s actually gon’ see it because of the helmet? remember?”

“what,” johnny chokes out, embarrassed that that’s what simon told you about and not, like, his player number or something.

“oh,” you gasp out anyway, clearly having heard of the shaved-sides and using it as a marker for johnny. “oh!”

you dance away from behind simon to make your way to johnny, your previous embarrassment gone from your gait. he’s so sure, though, that he’s seen you from somewhere, but the thought’s dashed out of his mind when you chirp, “you’re my best friend’s favourite player!”

“yeah?” johnny replies, gaining his confidence back.

“yeah! she won’t stop showing me the highlights of your guys’ game against that big german fella an’ his team!”

johnny laughs, his own giddiness ramping up. he remembers that game, alright. he remembers the miracle play during the final period when price was able to score an empty-netter. he remembers how, in his adrenaline-induced ecstasy, johnny turned to the player to his side, konig, and laughed in his face.

johnny made headlines then, and he’s saved every single one. his fiancee even printed a copy of her favourite shot and stuck it in her wallet.

(“for good luck,” she said with a wink, like johnny doesn’t have his prick twitching in her fist.)

“well, y’got anything for me to sign for her?”

“uhh…”

“guess you can use that one group photo our marketing team gave to us,” simon finally pipes up, and johnny turns, surprise lining his face at seeing the rich spread of breakfast.

he didn’t even notice simon setting up the table, too engrossed in the high that came from reliving the memory of laughing at konig’s face which resulted to him being pushed into the glass protector by a protective horangi.

not even that had dampened johnny’s elation then and now.

“oh yeah. thanks!” you say to simon before you run out.

you’re barely out of their eyesights when johnny turns to simon with a grin.

“what.”

“oh, you fucken’ sap!” johnny sings because he’s still too hungover to come up to simon and playfully punch him. “and why were ye hidin’ lassie?”

simon grumbles something as he turns, pretending to busy himself with the now-empty coffee pot.

“wha’s’at?”

“i said,” simon begins, heaving out a sigh. “that we jus’ became official last week.”

“oh, shit,” johnny whispers sagely. he blinks. “so, uh, who’s the one you’ve been callin’ yer girl?”

“oh fuck off johnny,” simon hisses, sputtering, before throwing the tea towel at him.

“what now!?” johnny yelps, ducking away from the soaring towel. “what’d i do now–” he gasps, realization dawning on him. “you didn’t.”

simon looked like he was going to say something but by then you were running back with the photo and a marker pen, telling him your friend’s name—alessandra, “or sandy!”—for johnny to sign.

while johnny’s busy practicing his signature on a scrap of newspaper that simon gave to him, he pretends not to hear the giggly whispers between his friend and his friend’s new but longtime-pining-for girlfriend.

“and me? why aren’t you asking f’r my signature?”

“oh ‘cuz y’r mine.”

johnny dutifully ignores the lips smacking sounds as he finally signs the picture, making sure to add devil horns on simon’s head.

serves him right.

i just. love fluff and hockey au sm 😞

[moonstruckme]

our girl with the emt!marauders is constantly in pain lol. how would you feel maybe writing about one of the boys getting hurt for a change? she gets called to take whoever home! it can be funny cuz it’s usually her ass who needs saving. (only if it’s tickling that writin itch)

Thanks for requesting babe!

cw: back injury

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 708 words

Sirius is already hobbling out of the front door when you pull up at the curb, James hovering beside him like he’s about to keel over and Remus walking behind them both with a worried indent between his brows. 

“Hey.” Sympathy bends your voice as James opens the door for him. Sirius grimaces, slowly lowering himself into the passenger seat. “Wow, I didn’t expect it to be this bad. You can’t straighten up at all?” 

“Nope,” James answers for him. He comes around to your side of the car and leans through the open window for a kiss. “He’s strained a muscle in his lower back. Only thing to do right now is rest and ice it.” 

Remus passes Sirius his seatbelt before he can reach for it himself. “Try to keep still,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss across his temple before looking at you. “Please try to drive extra carefully so he doesn’t hurt himself, love. And don’t let him do anything at home.” 

“This has got to be the first time I’ve been asked not to help out around the house,” Sirius teases. “I’d like to use my current privileges to extend this dish-doing ban indefinitely, please.” 

You find yourself in agreement. Is Remus really worried about Sirius rushing home to do chores? Just last week you had to show him where you keep the broom. You’ve lived together for over a year. 

Your dubiousness must show on your face, because James laughs and says, “He’s already injured himself worse by trying to put the moves on Remus.” 

“Hardly my fault,” Sirius says dismissively. “He’s very tall, have you noticed? I don’t have the proper equipment for mountain climbing.” 

You snort, and he grins, a true show of resilience by a soldier down. 

“I won’t let him do anything,” you tell Remus solemnly. 

“Thanks, lovie.” James plants another kiss on your cheek, rounding the car to lead Remus back inside. “Rest and ice,” he reminds you. “Keep an eye on him!” 

“I twinge something in my back and suddenly it’s like I’m not even allowed to speak for myself,” Sirius gripes.

You laugh, putting the car into gear. “Welcome to my world.” 

You take Remus’ cautioning very seriously, drifting into all your stops and easing slowly around each turn. The drive takes about twice as long as it usually would, but there are no incidents. When you get home, you do your best to give Sirius the princess treatment the boys always give you when you’re injured or ailing; you insist on opening his door for him and helping him inside, you set up a mountain of pillows to support the ice pack behind his back, and you put the remote in his hand so he can choose something to watch while you make the both of you lunch. 

“I feel very lame,” Sirius says as you come back with sandwiches and drinks. It’s a repetition of the same complaint you heard every time you started to slow down for a turn or glanced over to check on him during the drive here. “But I will say, this luxury service is starting to make up for things.” 

“Really?” You grin at him. “You’re not experiencing any urges to get out the vacuum or lift heavy things?” 

“Oddly enough, no.” 

“Crazy.” You take a bite of your sandwich, cozying up on the other side of the couch to watch the film he’s chosen. 

“You know,” Sirius drawls, “I realize I’m making this all look very easy, but I wouldn’t reject a cuddle.” 

You turn, and your boyfriend is looking over at you with a raised brow. You smile sheepishly. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

He scoffs. “Sweetheart, if I’m too injured to cuddle, they may as well put me down. C’mere.” 

You scoot to the other side of the couch, curling into your boyfriend’s side but covertly leaning your weight against the back cushion instead. 

“Better.” Sirius kisses the top of your head firmly. 

“We probably shouldn’t tell Rem and Jamie about this.” 

“Oh no. When they get home, the story is that I was miserable being laid up all day and didn’t enjoy it at all. God forbid I have to do it again tomorrow.”

[natailiatulls07]

Jules Bianchi x Daughter!reader

Charles Leclerc x little sister!reader

Summary - A little walk to Pascale salon turns into an anxiety attack because of some intrusive fans (I have changed the request slightly, I hope you don't mind x)

Warning - Mention of Jules Bianchi, fans being intrusive, anxiety attack (It's not that descriptive), multiple mentions of being in the public eye/limelight

A/n - Tumblr is being a bit weird rn so I'm gonna try and post this again lol x

Marguerite

-

Being in the public eye does have its consequences, espercially when your father is considered a formula one legend and your guardian/older brother is a very popular current formula one driver.

One of these consequences is anxiety, it's something Y/n developed from a very young age. Of course she has her coping mechanisms and the people in her inner circle know how to help her.

-

It was a slow day for Marguerite. She didn't have any classes and she'd have the apartment to herself today. Usually she'd have Tom, her boyfriend, round to hang out but he was busy.

The day started out okay; Y/n had caught up with any unfinished assignments before relaxing in the living room. Rewatching her favourite show and playing with Leo.

Alexandra and Charles were out all day, leaving the dog with the younger girl. Charles had a press event for his ice cream brand, Lec, and Y/n knew that it'd be hard to contact the pair.

Normally Marguerite would join them, but she felt as though she hadn't stopped recently. Between grand prixs, school, social events and travel, she hadn't had a proper break in a long while. Don't get me wrong; she loves her life and she's forever grateful for the privileges, opportunities and things she gets but a girl needs a break ever so often.

Around about half day, she decided that Leo and herself needed some fresh air so Y/n quickly got everything ready. Hooking the lead to Leo's collar, allowing the excited dog to slip through the front door before following in suit.

Marguerite was wearing a basic outfit, no effort at all, just hoping that she wouldn't be recognized. Particularly in Monaco, Y/n is usually seen and recongized.

"Right, let's go Leo.."

-

The sun shined down on Y/n and Leo as they casually strolled past the harbour, she thought about walking up to Le Quai 28. It had been a long time since she's seen Pascale.

Yeah it was a bit of a walk but that meant less time confined to a stuffy apartment which was needed.

They were half way there when things started to go down hill. The sun had decided to hide behind a grey gloomy cloud. With a soft huff, Marguerite quickened the pace hoping to avoid the impending rain.

But her new pace came to a stop when three girls, alittle bit older than her, came rushing to her. They all had excited and giddy smiles on their faces. It scared her slightly.

"Hey, we love you, Charles, Alexandra! Oh and Leo, like oh my god hi!" Y/n knew they meant well but the continuous squeals and giggle made her slightly uncomfortable. Espercially today, she wasn't feeling social interactions with strangers really.

In her hand Marguerite felt Leo trying to tug on the lead, just like her he was just as uncomfortable.

But it only got worse. The sudden attention on Marguerite caused more people to notice her and Leo. She painted a forced smile to her face, the smile not meeting her eyes - not that anyone really noticed. More people started to crowd around her.

"Can you give me a shoutout on your social media? It would mean the world to me!"

"Y/n! Y/n! Can I have a photo please?"

"What's your favorite memory of Jules? It must be incredible to grow up as his daughter!"

That last comment stung slightly. Y/n loved to honour her late father but sometimes when strangers ask about her childhood with him, it's something she wants to keep for herself.

To her, it felt intrusive. You wouldn’t go up to a random stranger asking about their favourite memory from childhood.

Looking down Marguerite noticed how flustered and unsettled the poor small dog had gotten. Quickly she bent down to pick him up which relaxed him luckily.

"Excuse me, I- I would love to stay, chat and take photos...but I have to be somewhere.." She felt her pulse pick up and her smile fell slight before she was quick to bring the corners of lips up again.

After pushing past the crowd, her quick pace was resumed only this time alittle bit quicker.

Everything had flipped upside down for Marguerite, her anxiety had gone crazy unfortunately.

Tears clouded on her waterline, quick and short intakes of breaths pushed passed her lips. She hadn't put down Leo yet, she wasn't even planning on doing so.

Y/n wanted to call Charles and Alexandra but she knew that she wouldn't get an answer so making a mad dash to Pascale would be her best option.

It didn't take long for the two to arrive at Pascales salon, rushing in as the tears started to fall over a plump cheeks. Heads turned but they all knew her. Pascale was excited to see the young girl and the small dog, however that excitement fell short when she noticed the anxiety attack happening.

She moved towards the teen, taking Marguerite into her arms. Pascale had a slight idea of what had happened. It wasn't the first time.

She spent the next hour calming down Y/n, letting her and Leo relax in the back office. After a while, the older women decided that she'd call Charles to take Marguerite home.

First call…ringtone.

Second call…ringtone.

Third times a charm…ringtone.

Her shoulders slumped at the unsuccessful third attempt, her manicured nails raking through her hair. As much as she loved Marguerite and Leo, Pascale knew this wasn’t the place for her to be in this state - She needed to be home.

“I think you might have to wait here for a little while Marguerite…until Charles or Alexandra pick up..”

Pascale had sympathy for the young girl, growing up in the limelight wasn’t something that came easy to anyone really.

-

Around about two hours later, Y/n’s phone started to buzz and Charles’ photo filled her screen. She was quick to pick up the phone and answer the call.

“Hi Charlie..”

Her voice was quiet and soft. And little sniffles came from her nose every so often.

On the other side of the call stood Alexandra and Charles back at the apartment, both confused as to where the teenager and the dog had gone.

“Hey Marguerite, where are you? Are you alright?” His voice was filled with concern and confusion. He was glad to hear her voice but it sounded different.

“Y-yeah…I’m with Pascale and Leo at the salon…” Charles watched as Alexandra picks up his keys, they’d meet her at the salon. “Charlie…I had an anxiety attack..”

You see the driver knew of her anxiety, he was similar and they could relate to each other. But it broke him to know that he wasn’t there to help her in a time in need, something he vowed to the late Jules to do in his honour.

Y/n took in another breath of air, relaxing herself once again. “I was walking with Leo and then…a bunch of fans came and bombarded me…really shook me”

There were annoyed frowns on the older couples faces, they truly love the fans but especially not when they do things like that. They just wished they’d understand respect and privacy.

“Okay..I’m so sorry Marguerite, we’re on our way to the salon now…you and Leo sit tight and relax”

Alexandra’s voice rang through the phone call, she always had a reassuring tone to her voice - Something Y/n always really appreciated.

“Hmm…guys?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you and thank you…” Their hearts just swelled.

“We love you too Marguerite..” Charles voice echoed back through to her, making sure she felt that same love and thankfulness she had for them.

-

[eowynstwin]

Blackbird, Fly - Four

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you. previous - ao3 - next

When you wake the next morning, Hans’ side of the bed is empty, the linens already cold.

As sleep leaves you in fits and starts, the aches pull you inward—glowing dull and orange like banked embers. Your whole body feels like a twisted ankle. Nothing is broken, exactly, but every muscle feels as if it’s been pulled in a direction God never quite intended it to move.

Your shoulders. The meat of your thighs. Your hips.

The entrance to your womb.

It isn’t the knife-sharp pain from before. Only the muted, persistent throb of a wound left alone to heal. In the cottony space between sleep and waking, you think there should be more damage—for all of what happened last night. And yet, there isn’t.

Still, you don’t move when your eyes finally open. Stillness seems the only defense against the bare truth of the gray morning.

Your husband used you hard on your wedding night, and did not care for the pain he caused.

You are not fool enough to think your experience unique. Women talked as much as girls did. Your mother’s friends were wont to complain when they thought the children out of earshot: husbands who grunted and sweated over them in the night, often without uttering a word. Sometimes not even waiting for the pain of childbirth to subside before claiming their marital due.

You just had come to believe, with every letter that arrived, that your fate would be different.

But it turns out none of this is a dream after all.

Your throat closes, then. Tears prick hot in the corners of your eyes.

Stupid, stupid girl.

You swallow hard. Sit up away from the pillows, even as the aches flare in protest.

Beside you, where your husband slept, there’s a noticeable dip in the mattress. Worn in over years of slumber, and you, you suppose, on Anna’s side of the bed.

Was Hans kind to her too, before?

Abruptly you swing your legs out from the linens, and go to find one of the dresses you brought along from home.

The house is empty when you descend the stairs, as far as you can tell. You hear the steady tick, tock of a grandfather clock somewhere in the sitting room that you hadn’t noticed yesterday, in all of the commotion of the wedding preparations. The floorboards creak beneath your feet as your grumbling stomach leads you along to the kitchen.

The space is as modern and well-appointed as the rest of the house, and bigger than any kitchen you ever imagined needed to be. A cast-iron wood stove with four burners and a large oven, a sink with a pump right there by the basin, and—you nearly stop dead at the luxury—an ice box, right there beside one long counter.

You momentarily forget the troubles of the night, crouching beside the little box in fascination. A cloud of cool fog descends when you swing open the door; you brush the tips of your fingers across the huge block of ice on the top shelf, jerking them away when the cold unexpectedly burns. Not once in your life have you ever seen so much ice in one place.

On the lower shelf, you find cuts of pork and beef, wrapped in brown butcher’s paper and tied with string. Bacon for breakfast, then, and biscuits if you can find flour. Your mother always said that a difficult thing was easier after having a meal.

You find the larder stocked with further luxury. Nowhere are the home-jarred goods that would populate your family’s pantry, garden-grown vegetables pickled in vinegar or hand-pressed jams fresh from the blackberry bushes along the road. Instead you find rows and rows of cans, factory-sealed tins of manufactured uniformity, colorfully labeled and containing everything you might have ever thought to grow yourself and more.

Beans of every variety. Corn. Carrots. Peas. Beets. Tomatoes.

How much must all this have cost? So many, and lined up deep into the back of the larder. You and Hans couldn’t possible eat them all before some of them began to spoil. Of course, if he could afford to buy so much, maybe that didn’t matter.

You find the flour, and baking powder as well. Breakfast is a quick affair after that, and thankfully so, as your stomach really begins to complain as soon as the food is ready.

There’s a small table in the kitchen—yet more luxury, you think, remembering the long dining table you saw yesterday—and it’s there you sit down to solve your hunger.

The hard wooden chair is not kind to the ache between your legs.

You bite into the bacon, crunching it to pieces. There—it’s all right. You have your breakfast. Isn’t that something to be grateful for? Breakfast, and a nice stove, and an ice box, and a kitchen so stuffed with food that you can’t imagine ever running out.

Isn’t this what a loving husband provides? A good home, for his wife to live comfortably in? Pretty dresses, like the one he gave to you last night? A nice ring on your finger—the little gem glittering in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window?

Hans loves you. Of course. This is love.

You bite into one biscuit, hot and steaming from the pan and burning your tongue. Your mother can make them better, but you tried the best you could to follow the recipe she taught you.

The front door opens outside of the kitchen. Something quick and sharp travels up your spine. Heavy boots step inside—your husband, come looking for you—you freeze without realizing it, holding half-chewed food in your mouth—

“Mrs. König?” calls Kate Laswell, the foreman, and you relax.

“In here,” you call, after swallowing.

Laswell enters the kitchen, and turns to you, at the table. She’s dressed in mens’ clothes, dusty trousers and a heavy jacket over a button-up shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat still on her head. She looks like she’s dressed to travel.

“I’m afraid I can’t show you the accounts today, like I said I would,” she tells you, no preamble, no pleasantries.

You remember then your brief conversation with her the previous night—and Hans’ disapproval at the idea.

You set down your biscuit. “Good morning, Miss Laswell. Why not?”

“I’m going over to visit the Vargas place. We’ve been working on a leasing deal. I’ll explain when I get back.”

“Of course,” you say. “Would—” you clear your throat, embarrassed— “Would you know where my husband might be?”

The lines of Laswell’s face tighten. She has a severe look to her that you think is always present—ranch work must harden anyone, man or woman—but there is no wedding happening around you now to distract you from the unmistakable displeasure on her face.

“Last I saw he was out with the herd,” she says shortly. “Anyway, I’ll be gone for a few days. The ledger is in the cabinet by the desk. Take a look at it if you find the time.”

She tips her hat to you before you can figure out how to respond—some part of you bristles at being given orders by someone who is now, ostensibly, your employee—and leaves the kitchen. You scramble to follow her, and catch her when she’s nearly out the door.

“Miss Laswell,” you call, “is Hans—is my husband—”

You’re not very sure what you intended to ask her, before you began the question. Nor, you realize, do you think she could answer honestly, if you asked her what you really wanted to know. It wouldn’t be her place, and it would be inappropriate of you to ask.

If you could actually work up the courage to approach it.

So you settle for, “Is my husband angry with me?”

She stops, and blinks at you. You see her look you up and down, briefly, but when she meets your eyes her expression is impossible to read.

“I have no idea,” she says, and her tone betrays nothing. “Gaz wants to see you in the stables when you have a moment today. Ma’am.”

She nods farewell at you and leaves.

The steady ticking of the grandfather clock punctuates the end of the odd exchange. Disoriented, you return to the kitchen to clear away the remnants of your breakfast, flushing in confusion.

Do you really want this?

His question rings now in your ears. Along with it come memories of the previous night. The Madame’s odd interest in you. The store owner Miss Boucher’s sidelong glance at Hans. Myriad other quirks of the brow or mouth that you only now grasp the meaning of.

Everyone knew, somehow, what was coming. Everyone except you.

And Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you.

You tug on a shawl as you step out onto the front porch, breathing in the mountain air. The morning chill hasn’t yet burned off, and the sky has yet to gain its full color. Across the clearing, Kyle Garrick is at work in the stable’s corral.

He holds one end of a long lead, attached at the other to the bridle of a red-brown horse, which trots in a wide circle around him. Occasionally, with the lunge-whip he holds in his free hand, Gaz taps the horse’s hindquarters, redirecting it patiently whenever it tries to move inward or otherwise deviate from its orbit.

Horses are scared creatures, Miss, I don’t know if you know this, Hans had written. You must be gentle when you train them, or destine them to a lifetime of anxiety.

When you approach, the horse’s attention briefly turns toward you, but Gaz taps it again and it goes back into its pacing. You have a moment to admire the long line of the cowboy’s body, the focused angles of his shoulders and hips, before he addresses you, sensing your presence without having to turn and look at you.

“Good morning, miss,” he says. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” you say. It feels dishonest, even if it isn’t a lie. “Good morning, Mr. Garrick.”

The horse makes its way past you, and then Gaz brings it to a stop. He winds up the lead in one hand and makes his way over to you, meeting you where you stand by the corral fence.

You can’t help but notice how handsome he looks in the light of late morning. The serious expression on his face is the same one he’d worn the day before; you suspect it’s his natural disposition.

You remember the brief smile he’d shown you last night, before Hans had taken you away, and your cheeks warm despite yourself.

“I thought I might introduce you to the horses today,” he says. “If you’ve got the time, that is.”

“Oh,” you gasp, suddenly eager, “Please! I’ve been looking forward to it ever since Hans proposed! I told him about the two old nags we had on our farm, to pull our wagon, and he said—”

We must get you on a proper horse, then, to show you the true pleasure riding may offer.

You stop mid-sentence. Something about what Hans had written rings in your memory now with a different note. It seems…mocking, almost. Imbued purposefully with a meaning intended to escape you, given you had not the experience enough to catch it.

Shame blooms painfully behind your breastbone.

“…He mentioned he’d bring me to meet them,” you say lamely.

The smile Gaz gives you doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s very busy, or I suppose he would be today.”

“I suppose,” you echo.

Gaz inhales deeply, and then he gestures to the red-brown horse. “Well—this here is Newt. I’ve been getting him used to the bridle today.”

“Hello, Newt,” you say to the horse. You reach a hand out, briefly, but then pull it back; your instinct is to let the horse get your scent, like you might with a farm dog, but you don’t know if you should. Your father had always handled the nags.

Gaz notices, and brings one big hand to Newt’s long face, squeezing the arch of his muzzle. The horse’s eyes droop in obvious pleasure.

“He’s a big baby,” says Gaz, expression gentling. “I’m trying to see if he’ll make a good cutter, but it’s too early to tell.”

You reach out again. Newt’s velvety nostrils flare as he inhales, and then his hot breath bathes your hand and wrist. You suppose you have his approval, because Newt simply works his teeth a little and makes no indication of displeasure.

“A cutter?”

“Yeah. The kind of horse that can cut a steer out from the herd so you can drive it someplace else,” Gaz explains. “Horses either got cow-sense, or they don’t. Here, come around inside and I’ll show you the rest.”

Long Mask Ranch, Hans had written, built its reputation on the quality of its quarter horses. In the early days of its inception, his father had struck an extremely lucrative deal providing the US Army with its cavalry mounts, which had turned out to be a perfect way for the ranch’s reputation to spread. Even after the army mostly withdrew from the region, every state in the surrounding countryside knew: if you wanted good horses, you went to Long Mask.

“These are the yearlings,” Gaz explains as he leads you through the stable. “Just now we’re getting them trained to follow directions. Won’t be riding ‘em for a couple years yet.”

He puts Newt away and beckons you to follow. In the neighboring stall, one of the horses pokes its head out over the gate. It’s a light-colored colt, yellowish in the body and white-maned.

“This is Gus,” Gaz says, scratching its fuzzy chin. “He’s a big flirt, yeah, aren’t you, boy?”

You also reach out to give Gus a pat, and the colt chuffs and butts his nose into your hand, proving Gaz’s accusation. You can’t help giggling a little.

When another horse across the building snorts, Gaz chuckles, and leads you in the direction of the noise. “Ah, yeah, and that’s Woodrow. Him and Gus are always goin’ at it, but you won’t ever see better friends.”

Woodrow is dark gray horse with a distinctly unamused face. He accepts a pat on the forehead with what you can only describe as resigned patience. Gaz feeds him a sugar cube from one pocket for his trouble.

He takes you further along down the line of stalls. You meet a spirited filly named Elmira, and a colt beside her named July whose love for her is unrequited.

“We’ve already gelded him, so it wouldn’t matter much anyway,” Gaz relates.

He speaks fondly of every horse as you meet them, with the familiarity of long days working beside each of them. It relaxes him, you realize, to speak of them—the hard set of his expression has softened, the serious line of his brows eased from their iron setting.

It makes him look—not younger, you decide, but properly his age. A cowboy just beginning the best years of his career, still hale and fit enough to meet the rough demands of the job, but with enough experience under his belt to confront any challenge with confidence.

Such confidence is obvious in the way he moves. He walks loose and easy through the stable, his every step as assured as the sunrise the next morning. The line of his broad shoulders, the swooping curve of his back—they tell you at a mere glance that home is in this place, working with these creatures, and there could be nothing more Kyle Garrick might long for besides.

Envy twists your intestines around its fingers. There’s an empty space inside of you that you’d been expecting, as your wedding vows had finally taken flight, to fill with that same feeling.

At the end of the stable, in a stall in the back corner, a horse pokes its head out over the gate. It’s bigger than the yearlings, with a pale face and a dark, gray muzzle. It looks right at you, with such a clear focus that it startles you.

“Ah,” says Gaz, when he sees. “Was wondering if she’d notice us.”

“She?”

He nods. “A mare. She’s…difficult.”

The mare stares at you, with deep, night-black eyes.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

Gaz works his lips over his teeth. “Mr. König bought her last year off another rancher who was ‘bout fit to shoot her. She’s a thoroughbred, and she ain’t never met a white man she likes. As like to buck a man off as to let him ride.”

“Oh,” you say.

Gaz leans against the wall between two stalls. “Mr. König thought he might be able to break her. So far she hasn’t gotten him off her, but she won’t let him come near without putting up a fight. I’m the only one can saddle ‘er.”

You frown. “Why would he ride a horse that doesn’t want to be ridden?”

At that, Gaz’s eyes go cold. Shockingly cold, like an empty winter’s night. “Suppose he just likes taking what he wants, I guess.”

You should reprimand him. You know it immediately. It’s no way to talk about his employer, and certainly nothing he should ever say in front of you, his employer’s wife.

But you remember the blood, and still feel the ache. You have to look away from him, ashamed. Embarrassed.

You cannot defend your husband, and he must know it.

“I imagine he must know what he’s about,” you mumble.

Gaz gives a derisive snort. “I don’t know about that. He’s of a mind to start with thoroughbreds, but she will not let him breed her. Damn near killed every stallion he’s brought her to try.”

It hits you so sharply that you inhale with sudden pain, pressure knifing at your eyes. You turn away from Gaz entirely now, pressing your hands to your chest. Every ache from the night previous ricochets around inside you again, knocking all the way down into your bones.

You tip your head upward, as if it will prevent the gathering tears from falling. What’s worse, Gaz puts a hand on your shoulder behind you. You flinch at the touch, hips aching where Hans had bruised them in his grip.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” Gaz says softly. He sounds like he means it. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

He knows exactly what ails you. And why wouldn’t he? He’s known his employer for years. He’s worked this ranch for longer than you’ve even known of its existence.

He knew the previous Mrs. König, who first endured Hans’ attentions.

You are a terrible fool, and you are the last to know it.

He doesn’t remove his hand as you tremble. He squeezes you gently, the same caress he’d given to the young colt Newt. It is so kind that it nearly breaks you.

“Here,” Gaz murmurs, “let’s see something.”

You turn back to him; he takes your hand, and leads you to the back of the stable. The mare follows the two of you with her eyes, expression unchanging as you approach her.

Closer now, she is a stunning creature. You’ve never seen anything like her. Her coat is silvery-gray, with darker patterns all over her body, like ink absorbed into paper and then laid beneath a light rain. Her legs and mane are the same dark color as her muzzle, and there is a deep intelligence in her eyes as she beholds you.

“You might be the first woman she’s ever seen up close,” Gaz says.

He takes up a position behind you, and turns your hand over in his, opening your fingers. Then, slowly, so the horse can see it, he brings them to her face, pressing your fingertips to the soft whorl on her forehead.

The mare’s eyes do not leave you. She exhales a little through relaxed nostrils, chuffing, flicking her ears toward you. You play with the starburst of pale hair, following the direction it grows; her lids, heavy with thick, black lashes, drop a little.

“I’ll be,” Gaz murmurs behind you. “I think she might like you, miss.”

A loud BANG claps against the wall on the other end of the stable, and the mare jerks her head immediately, flinging your hand away. She grunts, snorts, and dances away from the gate, shaking her head, eyes flaring wide.

You and Gaz both look to the commotion—

Your husband stands in the open doorway, cast in a dark silhouette by the late morning light.

“Just what the hell are you doing?”

-

a/n: the horses' names are all references to characters in my favorite western, Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry.

[opluffys]

Leading Score-

somethin quick, posted first to my archive. pls let me know if there are any errors or if it copied weird. pls enjoy <3

tags- size kink, size difference, creampie, vaginal sex, rough sex, desk sex, fem reader.

2.3k words.

-Ghost x Reader-

-smut/nsfw-

As you had graded papers from your young students, you idly hummed as you noted how most of the scores had went up. Regarding spelling, it had been some of your kids weaker points, but after practicing with them one on one, they had gotten better, much to your pleasure.

"Done!"

You looked up from the monotonous tone of black on white, quickly writing a red mark next to the misspelled 'contree', you smiled warmly and took Joseph's paper.

"That was quick, sweetie. You could've taken until your daddy came to pick you up." You said, looking down at his exam and clicking your red pen.

"I'm fast." He smiled, sitting back in his small desk and chair, kicking his legs wildly as he awaited your feedback.

And however badly you wished to give him a full twenty out of twenty on his exam, spelling was one of the things that Joseph had struggled the most with. You knew he wouldn't improve overnight, which is why you were hopeful for tonight.

Even though it wasn't parent-teacher conference night, Joseph had been chirping, 'my daddy is picking me up today, and then we'll get ice cream.' before hearing a cacophony of envious groans. It had you laughing, yet hatching a quick plan to discuss Joseph's struggles with his father. You already had a small packet labeled 'trouble words' to give to his father, hoping they'd be able to practice over the long weekend.

Seeing as Joseph had been bored at his desk, you called him over to give him some puzzles or colouring sheets to do. He eagerly thanked you before returning to his seat, noisily scribbling on the paper.

Quickly finishing grading his spelling errors, he'd gotten a thirteen out of twenty. It'd been a wild and vast improvement from his other exams, but you knew he could do better.

You stood up and walked over to Joseph's desk, ruffling his hair and placing a small lollipop on his table. "You did better, honey. But I want you to practice more, can you promise me that?" You crouched down to his level, talking to him in a soft and understanding tone, a warm and inviting smile on your face. It had made him feel comfortable, not scolded, not 'do better', no. He'd wanted to do this on his own, seeing as he had nodded furiously, telling you that he'd do perfect on the next one.

You took his exam and walked outside of your classroom, leaning against the wall and waiting for Joseph's father to show. School had been finished for a while, the extracurricular activities ending early due to the extended weekend.

Out of your peripheral, you'd seen a tall figure walking towards your class. He had caught your eye easily, since the man was extremely tall and well built. As he'd gotten closer, you noted how he wore a balaclava with a skull pattern over the material. An interesting, choice to wear to an elementary school, but to each their own, you supposed.

"Mr. Riley, before you take Joseph, can we talk about how he's doing in class?" You inquired, quickly checking on the adorable child idly drawing on his papers before continuing the conversation with his dad.

"I'm not his old man." He said, voice low and gravelly as he held your stare.

Before you were able to ask what his relation was, he quickly replied that Joseph was his nephew.

"Oh! Then you must be Simon." You smiled, resisting the urge to tear your eyes away from him, seeing his dark eyes change expression for a moment, wondering how you knew who he was.

"Emergency contacts." You quickly added, chuckling awkwardly. He only offered you his cold stare, waiting for you to continue. "Well, if it isn't too much trouble, can you relay this to Joseph's dad for me?" You timidly asked, the tall man's presence causing you to feel skittish.

He gave you a curt nod, his shoulders relaxing as he stepped closer to you, looking at the paper in your hands. "Joseph struggles a lot with spelling," You almost choked on your words as you felt his arm brush against your shoulder, attempting to find your words once more, "as does his classmates. But I know he can show further improvement if he can practice at home." You showed him Joseph's test, his hand connecting with yours briefly before he took it in his larger one.

He hummed lowly, reading over his mistakes. "I have a packet of tough words for him that he'll need to practice," You went back into your classroom, hearing Simon's impossibly quiet steps echo behind you.

"Honey, your da-" You caught yourself before making the mistake, "uncle, is here." Though, you didn't really need to tell him, seeing as Joseph shot up from his seat to run over to Simon, hugging him tightly.

"Hey kid." His voice was soft, still low and rough, but that was just how he'd always sound. Seeing such a thing made your heart melt, having to quell the want to 'aww' at the sight unfolding, the huge man embracing such a tiny child endearing yet comical.

"It was nice to meet you." You said, handing Simon the packet, "And you," You laughed, looking down at Joseph, "keep your promise to me."

"I will!" He happily beamed, a toothy grin shining up at you.

You waved the two goodbye, turning to go back into your class and continue the long trek of finishing up your students papers. You had also wanted to enjoy your weekend, placing work on the back burner as you got lost in endless glasses of wine.

•

Never in your years of teaching had you ever expected a parent-teacher meeting to end like this, never.

Bent over your desk and crying out as you felt Simon behind you, large hands on the fat of your hips as he slammed into you. Your hands grasped at the edge of the wood desk, glossy eyes popped wide open as you felt his fat cock stretch you open inch by delicious inch.

How you two had went from talking about Joseph's amazing and impressive progress in class to him whispering the most vile things in your ears, an impressive feat. But you'd be a filthy liar if you hadn't been thinking of you and him in this very position.

"Simon..." You moaned, laying your tear stained cheek onto your desk, wetting any loose papers that remained. You almost sobbed when you felt his big hand slap your ass harshly, rubbing in small circles to soothe the stinging supple flesh.

His hard and toned muscles were flush against your softer back, his masked forehead pressing against your shoulder. His deep grunts and groans were right into your ear, having you squeeze him tightly, dragging him in deeper. Just the fact that he was so big had you unraveling on his fingertips. His hoarse and low voice telling you to be a 'good girl and push yourself against the desk.'

What else could you do but oblige?

"Fuck, you're tiny." He cursed, accented voice directly against your ear, his deep breaths and sounds repeating in your head again and again. You lost your words, brain just muddled thoughts and him in your head. You just mewled in response to his words, already aware of the fact that the differences in sizes between you two was evident. Evident in how his entire hand seemed to swallow the skin at your hip whole, how his shadow enveloped your own, he was just so big.

Tears continued their flow down your heated cheeks as you felt his dick assault your insides. Wet and warm walls clamping down on him with a vice-like grip, the hot sliding of his cock deep inside you having you cry out to him. Your blouse had been bunched up and held by Simon as he anchored himself to it, his hold on the fabric tight as his pace never faltered.

Your mixed sounds had been heard, skin against skin reverberating around the walls. Your heat taking him in and out hung embarrassingly in the room, your sounds louder as his hips continued to meet your backside. He watched, mesmerised at seeing your body recoil in response to his movements, how despite your smaller stature, you took his large girth, in fact, you'd wanted more.

The feeling of being stuffed to the absolute brim, or rather well past it, had you seeing stars. You don't remember the last time you'd been fucked like this, so raw and primal like. Losing your ability to form cognitive thoughts, the only thing that you'd been able to say was quiet, meek curses and affirmations.

To further your pleasure, he snuck a hand under you, pressing hard on your abdomen, pressing your insides against his cock. You almost screamed, his hot hand against your stomach had you reeling, your pussy squeezing his cock tightly at his touch.

"So good," You sobbed, knuckles blanching at how harsh your grip had been, he was so deep inside of you, too far. You wondered if you should curse him, as no other individual would surely match him in bed ever again, shattering your expectations of any other man permanently.

Your back had arched as you felt your high quickly approaching, sobbing when you felt his flushed head kiss flush against your womb, having your painted nails claw at the wooden desk. Crying his name out in broken sobs, stringing your words together pathetically as he unraveled you with his cock.

His hands around your soft body tightened, hearing the threads of your blouse rip, it's buttons loosening from its rightful position and scattering onto the ground. It'd been one of your favourites, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care, not with such a huge cock splitting your insides, having you yell out to him like a mantra.

When you felt him slam directly into that spot nestled within you, that bundle of nerves that had you seeing double, you nearly screamed, burying your head into your folded arms. You had to bite your wrists, you throat growing raw at all of your screaming, muffled whimpers spilled from your lips, eyes watering as you felt him ram into that spot with unknown precision.

He took both of your hands in his lone one, using your own wrists to hold onto while he continued to fuck you into the desk. "None of that, wanna hear you." He huffed, groaning when he felt you squeeze him tightly at his words.

You quietly moaned, your aching throat unable to produce sound at this point. Your fingers clasped and laced with your opposing hand, making it easier for him to hold onto your wrists. Grounding himself against you, his pace sped up, his length slamming into you over and over, it was too much, too good.

Your teary eyes etched closed, that familiar knot deep in your abdomen beginning to loosen, disentangling with every drag of him inside. Your gummy walls tightened around him, that pressure within finally ridding, just feeling pure bliss. Your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave, rough waters eventually calming as your slick trickled down your spread thighs.

"That's it, take it," He cursed lowly, feeling your velvety heat clamp down on him, "doin' so well for me." You had no choice but to lay there and take it, take him. But you'd lay yourself down on any surface if he had asked you to, offering him your all whenever he'd commanded.

He assisted you in riding out your orgasm, your excess arousal making it easier for him to fuck deeper into you. He still trapped both of your hands in his singular one, garnering you unable to move properly without the assistance of your hands. His other hand had been attached to your hip, absentmindedly squeezing the fat of it every few thrusts.

You whimpered his name, your senses being thrown into overexertion while your nerves felt fried. His stamina was impressive, as you were normally used to a quick and disappointing fuck where only one of you had finished. He'd actually taken your own pleasure into consideration, that in itself had been surprising.

You felt his thick and heavy cock twitch inside your wet heat, hearing him curse deeply. His thrusts were sporadic and random, yet they still had your back arching.

You felt his masked forehead press against your bare shoulder. He deeply groaned as he shallowly thrusted into your wet and fluttering heat, spilling himself deep inside of you, painting your insides the prettiest of white.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, feeling him soften inside of you as he pulled out with a pained hiss. You had been slightly saddened at the loss of warmth inside of you, biting your bottom lip in fear that you'd accidentally blurt out something lecherous.

He assisted you in redressing, apologising at ripping your blouse. He offered you his large sweatshirt, covering majority of you. His scent was intoxicating, you had half a mind to lead him onto your spin chair, seating yourself down on his cock and using him for your own pleasure. But you just thanked him, rolling the sleeves up as you adjusted the scattered papers on your desk. You'd come back to clean in the morning, it was still the weekend and you had wine to attend to.

After ensuring you were dressed adequately, he walked you out and into your own car. He stared deeply into your endearing gaze, before a single question left his covered lips.

"What'd he get?"

You couldn't help but smile, turning the key into the ignition and hearing your old car sputter to life. Your hands loosened around the steering wheel before turning back to him once more,

"Twenty out of twenty."

[eightmakesonebraincell]

our leaves must fall before our flowers can bloom (teaser)

genre: poly hockey team!ateez x coach fem!reader, enemies/strangers to lovers, athlete!au, slow burn, fluff, angst

length: 1.0k (teaser) + approx. 38k (full fic)

c/w: sweaty ateez (warning well deserved), lots of hurt/comfort, one of the slowest slow burns to slow burn, remaining tags to be revealed with full fic

synopsis: you become the new coach of the elite men's ice hockey team, the red devils. but with both yourself and the team carrying burdens of the past, you all find it difficult to see eye to eye. as you lead them to the championships in the korean ice hockey league, you discover that teamwork and trust is not as straightforward as it seems.

a/n: when i started writing this i really thought it wouldn't exceed 25k but here we are :D full fic will be released in about a week and i am so ready

“she’s the new coach?” yunho frowns in confusion. “no offence, but we’re not a bunch of kids for her to practise being a soccer mum to.”

“she was the assistant coach for the grey eagles,” coach cho discloses.

“the grey eagles? the under-21 men’s championship team?” yeosang looks incredulous.

mingi sceptically comments, “the fact that we’ve never seen or heard of her before probably tells us enough.”

hongjoong’s lips purse sourly as he tries his hardest to analyse the situation with the professionalism of the team’s captain. but with the sudden change in coaches and the same critiquing doubts as mingi, hongjoong cannot help but feel his personal judgement webbing over his mind. over the team’s entire career as an elite ice hockey team thus far–five years, now well into their sixth–the red devils have only ever had two coaches. coach cho has been with them for the longest and whilst it took the team a while to eventually warm up to him, he has been with them for almost quadruple the amount of time it took to trust him.

the team’s alternate captain, seonghwa, speaks to you directly, “if you don’t mind me asking, why are you not playing as an athlete yourself? you’re clearly our age–nowhere near retiring.”

you knew from the very start that your age would make your credibility as a coach much lower, and your answer to seonghwa will not help your case either. “i stopped playing.”

“how come?”

the trigger of memories fills your nose with a sharp stinging smell. you blankly reveal, “i chose to stop playing.” you know exactly how it sounds like to somebody else, even more so to professional athletes. coach cho has also told you of the team’s hardheadedness and strong will when it comes to the passions of their career, so you are expecting the cold receptiveness that you are met with.

your response strikes the wrong chord within wooyoung. there was a point in his career not too long ago when the choice of continuing to play or not was at risk of becoming a forced decision. the way you answer so callously with those very words that had threatened to tear his world apart has his jaw grinding and eyes darkening, and he is not the only athlete in the arena who feels similarly.

“i would rather choose to die before i choose to stop playing. ice hockey is my entire life and without it, i am not living either,” hongjoong jabs and you cannot help but clench your fists because you know exactly what he means. still, you stay quiet as he continues, “sorry, but i can’t respect a ‘coach’ who chose to stop playing.”

at the captain’s words and subsequent move to leave for the changerooms, the rest of the team also gather their equipment and follow his steps. san’s feet falter in front of you, expression hesitant until he decides to voice, “our team needs a bit of time. it’s hard for us to warm up to…outsiders, and i know it might not mean much to say this but we have our reasons. don’t expect us to blindly trust you just because you’re a coach.”

the use of the word ‘outsider’ does not go unnoticed as you nod, “of course.”

san jogs off to rejoin the others and coach cho hums, “guess some things haven’t changed. they were just as prickly to me when i first became their coach.”

you raise an eyebrow, “prickly? to you?”

“yes, believe it or not,” he chuckles nostalgically. “we’ve come a long way because i’ve been their coach for years now. but it took me a while before i was able to break down their walls.”

you briefly mull over the information, then ask out of curiosity, “what would you have done if i didn’t sign the contract?”

“begged you to rethink your decision,” he jokes with a pleased chortle. “i would have to start looking for a different coach, i suppose. you were my only pick.”

“but why me, of all people? there are so many other experienced coaches that you can choose from.”

he looks at you, eyes glinting with intuition and confidence as he simply says, “you’re familiar with their playing style. they play just like you used to.” at your silent processing, coach cho probes, “why didn’t you tell them the real reason?”

you smile wistfully, “i didn't tell them because i’m not here to gain their pity.”

some of the boys’ voices grow louder as they emerge from the changerooms, changed into fresh clothes and their kit bags slung over their shoulders. you hear one of them ask, “captain, is she really going to be our new coach?”

they step out from the facility’s corridor and you accidentally make eye contact with hongjoong, yet neither of you look away. maintaining a steady gaze directly at you, he responds with a slight glower, “maybe, but she’s only the coach by title. i’m still the captain of the team, so let’s see who everyone listens to.”

as they exit the rink’s arena, you feel a fire of determination growing inside of you. you have won over your own demons and you have won the championships before–this is nothing in comparison. whether your next words are for coach cho or for yourself to hear, it does not matter.

“i may not play anymore but i was still once an athlete and no athlete has ever, in their career, wanted pity. i’m here to earn the team’s respect and i will win over them, especially their captain.”

you watch the swing of the glass door as it shuts behind the players, catching a brief glimpse of the trees lining the arena’s perimeter. it is the first day of autumn when you meet the red devils for the first time and outside, the leaves are beginning to change their colours.

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[milswrites]

Hobbies Part 5.

~Azriel X Reader~

Summary: In an attempt to keep Azriel away from Elain, Rhys sends him on a sabbatical to the Day Court. With a lot more free time on his hands Azriel needs to find something to keep him occupied. Unfortunately he meets Y/N who has the annoying habit of not staying away. Can she teach him that there’s more to life than he thought?

Grumpy!Azriel X Sunshine!Reader

Series masterlist

Warnings: Lots of fluff. Tiny bit of angst (I can’t even tell at this point). Very vague references to sex. Cliffhanger (Whoopsies)

Five hours later, once Azriel had planned out the date and bathed the sticky multicoloured icing from his skin, he had begun pacing his flat in anticipation of Y/N’s arrival. Shadows swirling around him, sensing their masters spiked anxiety. Should he have offered to pick her up from her own place? Does she even know this is a date? He had asked her to go out but he had never explicitly said the word date.

He was sweating profusely under the black dress shirt he had adorned for the occasion, glad he had one packed. Azriel had been with plenty of women over the years but taking one on a date? This would be the first.

It was only after she had left his flat that he realised he had never even given her a definite time to meet, just a vague promise of seeing her later. Azriel blames Y/N for this lack of communication, planting the kiss on his cheek and leaving him speechless.

So here had been for the last hour, moon now high in the sky, waiting for her to arrive. Having far too much time to overthink about everything that could go wrong. He had to stop himself from anxiously walking over to the mirror in his bathroom for a sixth time to make sure his hair was in place and question whether he should wear other clothes than all black, not wanting to look like death personified next to Y/N’s radiant self. No, he would stick with what he was comfortable with, Y/N wasn’t one to judge. That and Azriel didn’t own anything other than black clothes and he was sure if he ran to the shop now he would miss Y/N.

Finally, a soft knock at his door broke his pacing. His shadows all flew to the door whispering in excitement, waiting for it to be opened so they could be blessed by her presence. Straightening the collar of his shirt, Azriel took in a deep breath. He wasn’t going to let his fluctuating attitudes ruin tonight. He would allow himself to have fun.

He grabbed the handle of the door, looking up to the ceiling and praying to the Mother that tonight would run smoothly, and slowly pulled it open.

~~~~~

If Azriel was the personification of death, Y/N must have been that of life. As she stood there in his entryway, mouth slightly open as her eyes drifted over Azriel’s form, he couldn’t help but think that everything in his life just felt like it now made sense.

He looked from her dress, a soft pink which Azriel thought complimented her oh so beautifully, the entirety of which was patterned with hand embroidered flowers of a deeper shade of pink, and forced his gaze to move to her face where a nervous smile was resting.

“You look…wow” he finally spoke, gulping as he took in the sight of her. A rosy blush that matched her dress crossed her face, “Thank you. You clean up nicely too”. A matching tint formed on his own cheeks.

“So what’s the plan?” She asked curiously, looking up into his eyes which were still trailing the length of her body.

“Uh well I realised I don’t actually know anywhere nice to eat in this Court so I’ve kind of planned something else” Azriel tried to keep it vague, hoping to keep the true plan somewhat of a surprise.

“Sounds perfect! Lead the way!” She grinned, before stepping to the side to allow Azriel and his wings to fit through the doorway. Before he could even step out, his shadows rushed towards Y/N twirling around the skirt of her dress. Fearful that his shadows would scare her, Azriel went to angrily call them back. But he was stopped in his tracks by a melodic laugh slipping from her lips as she began to spin round with them as if they were dancing.

It was at this point Azriel made the decision to not stand there stunned like he usually does in situations where Y/N makes his heart pound and he doesn’t know what to do. Instead, trying to find some semblance of confidence, he reaches out to take Y/N’s hand which was outstretched for balance as she spun. He grabbed it in his own scarred one, and raised them together, allowing her to twirl underneath him, shadows in tow.

Their surroundings forgotten, this little dance continued for a few minutes, smiles on their faces as they were absorbed into the moment. Spinning and moving together fluidly. Wanting to feel her even closer, Azriel reached out his other hand hoping to come into contact with her waist, only to be interrupted by a squeak from the end of the corridor which caused him to draw his hand back.

His head snapped towards the sound, eyes viciously landing on the neighbour who earlier that day had witnessed him standing there in his frilly yellow apron. A low growl came from Azriel’s throat as the neighbour awkwardly rushed forward to pass them in the corridor, Y/N’s hand leaving his to make space for the neighbour to get past with a high pitched “sorry” coming from them as they sped round to the other stairway.

Azriel’s shadows had stopped dancing, electing to disappear during the awkward moment. The moment was gone much to Azriel’s disappointment, the embarrassment of being caught creeping up his spine was testament to that.

Noticing his red ears, Y/N placed a calming hand onto his chest, which of course made them even redder. “Come on! I’m excited to see what you’ve planned!” Of course Y/N wouldn’t be phased after being caught dancing in the corridor.

“Yeah” Azriel sighs, dejected. Annoyed at the lack of control he had over his body prior to being caught, and so when the pair walked out of the building he made sure to leave some space between them, not wanting to do anything else rash that would undoubtedly lead to further embarrassment.

~~~~~

Azriel led the way, walking towards the location of the date. He wanted to talk, but after what had transpired outside the flat he was afraid to and so he had to put up with walking in silence. Y/N clearly wasn’t bothered as she hummed happily, either having not noticed the arm length of space between them or choosing not to comment on it.

Azriel was kicking himself, he was on a date with a beautiful woman and he couldn’t bring himself to find the words to speak. He wished he had his brothers with him. Cassian would have prepared him for the date, he would have made sure his friend was filled with confidence and prepped lots of things for Azriel to talk about. Rhysand would have fussed over his clothing and given him tips on how to flirt, how to complement a woman and make her blush until her knees wobble.

Yet his family had abandoned him here. But now weeks later after the fact, Azriel couldn’t help but feel grateful for the events that had transpired otherwise he would have never met Y/N.

Y/N who was walking next to him, eyes full of love and admiration as if she was taking in the moonlit surroundings for the first time even though she undoubtably walked these streets daily as she headed to and from work.

On and on they walked, Y/N’s humming being the one thing that kept Azriel earthed, preventing him from freaking out and flying off in fear that he couldn’t do this right. Fear that he didn’t know how to act on a date. Until finally they approached the garden Azriel had found during one of his nightly flights around the city.

Azriel had originally landed in this hidden piece of paradise because he was searching for a little trace of Elain, a reminder of what he was missing out on from being away from home. Only once he had entered the gates to be greeted by garishly bright sunflowers his thoughts were only on Y/N.

He had spent hours walking around the garden on the first night he had discovered it, appreciating the hundreds of plants and flowers that grew inside of the gates. It was only after his third visit here during his nightly outings that he pictured Y/N here with him, walking along the trailing path, smiling up at him as she smelt the flowers, admiring their beauty as he admired her. It only made sense to Azriel that he had to bring her here. See if Y/N reacted to it in the same way she did in his dreams.

Her reaction did not disappoint. Azriel held open the gate for her, allowing Y/N to enter with a gasp upon her lips.

“Oh Azriel it’s beautiful! However did you find this?” Y/N was whispering, her awe at where she was overwhelming. Azriel silently watched on as tears filled her eyes, trying to cement this moment into his mind forever. Y/N in her pretty pink dress, standing in the garden.

It was only after he was certain the picture of Y/N, surrounded by flowers as beautiful as she was, was permanently fixed into his brain did Azriel then allow himself to talk. “There’s more” Azriel too spoke in a quiet whisper, afraid of interrupting the perfect moment that was occurring.

Y/N’s eyes which were filled with an emotion Azriel couldn’t place, looked to his expectantly. Gently, Azriel placed his scarred hand onto her back and led her through the garden, allowing her to stop whenever she wanted to appreciate a flower she found particularly beautiful. Until finally the plants broke away, revealing a clearing in the middle of the garden where Azriel had set up a blanket, jars of faelight holding it down and twinkling under the light of the moon. A wicker basket was placed on top, filled with goods he had bought from the market earlier in the day.

“Oh Azriel!” Y/N cried out, taking a step towards the picnic. His hand moved from the small of her back, tentatively grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the blanket to sit down.

“I know it’s not fancy, I should have probably taken you for a meal out. And don’t worry I didn’t do any of the baking, wouldn’t want to poison you again.”

Y/N didn’t even laugh at Azriel’s joke, she just threw herself over the basket on the ground and latched her arms around his neck, pulling him in tightly for a hug. It took three deep breaths before Azriel responded, wrapping one arm around Y/N’s body which was pressed against his, whilst using the other hand to brush the hair that had fallen from behind her ear back.

She pulled away, wincing in pain from the basket that had been digging into her stomach. “It couldn’t be more perfect Az” she smiled, resting her hand over his.

The two ate the food Azriel had bought, making light conversation about the garden they were sitting in and the food they were consuming. Until finally, stomachs full, they both laid back onto the blanket in order to gaze at the stars shining above them.

“What’s it like? In the night Court I mean” Y/N shyly asked, as if afraid of talking about the spymasters home might set him off.

Azriel felt no spike of anger as she mentioned his home court. In fact he didn’t even feel the painful longing he usually did at the thought of it, wanting to be nowhere else but in the present with Y/N.

“It depends where you are. The Illyrian camps are no paradise. But there’s some places…a city that is so magnificent it still takes my breath away every time I see it. That’s where I live. Sometimes I spend hours flying above it and no matter how many times I do I always see something new.” Azriel said whilst closing his eyes, allowing himself to picture it.

“Ah Velaris, the secret city,” Y/N teased, causing Azriel’s eyes to snap open as he sat up and looked at her in shock, “Helion’s a talker” she shrugged as if it was common knowledge.

Azriel laughed and settled back down, head resting onto his hands behind his head, gaze once more returning to the stars. “I’ll take you one day” he confirmed, wanting nothing more than to share his home with Y/N.

He didn’t have to look at her to know she was smiling as she replied, “I’d like that.”

“Maybe you could make a dress just for the Night Court” Azriel mused, imagining what Y/N would look like in all black before deciding he wasn’t sure if he would want to see her with her colour taken away.

“I’d make you a matching tunic so we could wear them together, only I’m not too sure how to make clothes for Illyrains.” Y/N brushed his wing lightly with a finger as she said this, causing Azriel to stiffen as they twitched responsively.

Obviously he didn’t expect Y/N to know about the sensitivity of an Illyrians wings so he did his best to calm himself, nervously stuttering, “yeah the wings are really something.”

“It must be the best feeling ever, flying.” She said wistfully, staring at the night sky as if imagining she was up there. “I can think of some better feelings…but yeah it’s definitely up there” Azriel spoke, turning his head to admire Y/N. The moonlight making her skin shimmer.

“If I were born with wings I’d travel the whole world. I would see everything Prythian has to offer.”

Azriel wanted to burst her bubble, tell her most of Prythian wasn’t even worth visiting. Yet he held his tongue, not wanting to dampen her dreams. Instead he encouraged them, “where would you fly to first?”

“To Velaris,” she said, finally turning her head to meet his eyes, “I’d have to pick you up first before we go.” Her hand creeped over to Azriel’s which was laying on the blanket before entwining their fingers. “I have a big wingspan, what makes you think you’d be able to keep up?” Azriel warned, smirk on his face. “I think you’d wait for me” Y/N said knowingly, matching smirk on hers. “I’d wait forever for you if I had to” Azriel squeezed her hand as he said this.

“Just you and me and the whole world to explore. Sounds like a good dream.” Y/N smiled sadly, no doubt referring to the fact she didn’t have wings like Azriel’s and reminding him their planning was all based on fiction.

Adamant he didn’t want to see her sad, Azriel shot up onto his feet, hand held out to Y/N to pull her up, “Come on!” He ordered.

Y/N sat up on the blanket, eyebrows creased in confusion, “What?”

“Come on!” He pressed, pushing his outstretched arm even closer to her impatiently, “We’re going flying.”

Y/N released a sound of disbelief, grabbing onto his hand and jumping up from the ground excitedly, “Brilliant! So how do we do this?” She asked, referring to how she would be carried.

Azriel’s eyes widened slightly, “uh well it would probably be easier if I just…” and with that he grabbed her and swept her into his arms, one going behind her back for support and the other holding up her legs.

Giggling in anticipation for the flight, Y/N once more ran her fingers down Azriel’s wings in admiration as he spread them wide and shook them ready for flight. He flinched abruptly, almost dropping her in shock before he stuttered, “It’s probably best you stop touching them or I don’t think we’ll ever get round to flying.”

This time instead of just her cheeks flaring red, her entire face flushed, clearly now understanding the implications of touching an Illyrians wings. Finding himself liking her response, Azriel bravely sent her a wink before shooting into the sky. Y/N’s arms flying around his neck and face pressing into his shoulder with a squeal at the speed he had launched from.

Azriel steadied out once high enough in the air, but Y/N still kept her face tucked into his neck in fear. “You can look now” he teased, urging her to lift her head but all he felt was the firm shaking of it against his shoulder so he continued, “We can’t go flying the world together if you won’t look at it? You won’t see much like this.”

That got her attention, Y/N’s head raising, but her eyes didn’t take in the view. Instead they found their home on Azriel’s face. “But I don’t have wings” she pouted up at him.

“But I do” he said with a laugh, batting his wings a little harder so they blew her hair into her face playfully.

“You mean it?” She asked in disbelief that he’d be willing to carry her just so she could see the world.

“Only if you take a look” he whispered into her ear, daring her to break eye contact and take in the view. And so she did and Azriel couldn’t have been more in love than he was in that moment.

Y/N beamed as she looked down on the city. “Look you can see the palace!” She pointed out the large building that towered over the rest of the city, “and my house! This is amazing!”

Azriel didn’t move his gaze to take in any of the sites, instead it stayed locked on Y/N as he replied, “yeah it is.”

“I’m going to want you to fly my everywhere!” She cheered excitedly.

“Wherever you need” Azriel replied, taking his focus off of where he was flying so he could rest his head against hers while she sat happily in his arms, “I would never put you down if you asked me not to.”

Azriel could see the struggle it took for Y/N to pull her eyes from the stunning sight of the twinkling city at night but she managed to, turning to Azriel and shifting slightly in his arms to face him better.

“And if I asked you to hold me forever?”

“Then nothing, no one, would stop me from holding you until the day the Mother takes me.”

Y/N released a small strangled cry at Azriel’s words before she leaned forward in his arms to softly place her lips onto his. Responsive, Azriel meets her halfway, their lips moving together in a passionate dance. Y/N went to deepen the kiss, drawing her tongue languidly against Azriel’s lower lip and in his surprise at her need to take control he completely forgot the two were in the air, relying on the beat of his wings to keep them afloat.

And so they fell.

Y/N releasing a scream as their lips tore apart and Azriel struggled to regain his grip on her flailing body as he turned his attention back to flying. Once she was secure in his arms one more he spread his wings out wide to level out, stopping their freefall.

Y/N panting slightly as her adrenaline at being dropped slowly evaporated, bravely placed her lips near Azriel’s until they brushed before pulling away as he eagerly tried to meet them once more. She shakily spoke against them “I think we’re going to need a rule about kissing while flying.”

Barking out a laugh, Azriel agreed before asking her which direction her home was in. He held her even tighter as he flew in the direction Y/N had pointed in, not wanting to permanently scar her so she never wanted to fly with him again.

He landed as gentle as he could, pulling her closer against him to make her feel safer as he did so, before he carefully placed her back onto the ground, a large hand around her back to ensure she didn’t stumble as she regained her footing.

“I think it’s safe to say this has been the best birthday I’ve ever had.” She grinned up at him, her hand finding his once more.

Azriel opened his mouth to reply but was interjected by one of his shadows moving up to frantically whisper in his ear, causing a frown to adorn his face. In her euphoria Y/N failed to notice this, instead she led him by their interlocked hands towards her front door.

“Would you like to come in?” She asked, dropping his hand to unlock the door. He cursed under his breath at the untimely appearance of his shadow. “I’d love to really but I’m sorry, I best go home. It’s getting late after all” he had to force the words out, throat closing tightly to try and stop him from saying them.

Y/N’s smile stayed on her face, Azriel knew if she was disappointed she wouldn’t let it show.

“That’s alright”, she said perhaps a bit too overly happy, “you’re right it’s late. Besides, I have something fun planned for us tomorrow, I should get that ready.” Azriel released the breath he didn’t know he was holding at the fact she wanted to meet him tomorrow, Y/N mustn’t be too hurt.

“Oh yeah”, he smiled back at her, batting away the shadow that was still whispering in his ear, “what fun things have you got planned?”

“That’s for you to discover tomorrow” she chided before her lips came to meet his once more. Azriel kissed her back, deeply breathing in her vanilla scent and gripping her waist tightly to avoid his hands wandering elsewhere. His shadow, annoyingly still chittering away into his ear, causing him to reluctantly pull back from the kiss.

“Tomorrow” he huffed, disappointed he had to leave and couldn’t come inside as he wished.

“Tomorrow” she confirmed before retreating into her house for the night.

~~~~~

Azriel was growling the whole flight home. His perfect night had been interrupted, he tried to brush away the thoughts of what could have happened if he had entered the house with Y/N. Best not to dwell on what he couldn’t have. He had tomorrow to make up for that.

Roughly landing outside his flat he stormed through the buildings corridor, where he had danced with Y/N, to his door, flinging it open in anger and stepping inside.

His shadows alerting him to the presence in the corner of the room.

“Hello brother,” Rhysand purred, “ready to go home?”

Part 6

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: (oh my there’s so many of you now! Thank you guys for all your continued support xx)

@minnieoo @thelov3lybookworm @going-through-shit @iluvyewman-blog @laughterafter @amysangel @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @aaronwarnerobsessedmylove @justvibbinghere @honeybeeboobaa @willowpains @tele86 @mysticalfuncollectorus @mybestfriendmademe @starryhiraeth @gorlillaglue25 @moonlwghts @darling006 @anuttellaa @serendipityx150 @xxxalicerogersxx @that-one-little-soybean @scatteredstardustt @naturakaashi @nyx-the-alien @lostinpages13 @namelesssav @dreamlandreader @fightmedraco @maxmouse001

(If I’ve missed any of you off I’m so sorry please let me know)

[biteofcherry]

To find the light, we must first touch the darkness

Please also check out @bluepinkangel​’s amazing hot moodboard for this universe 🖤

dark mafia!Steve Rogers x female reader

summary: When you unexpectedly are appointed to run a health center, you foresee many struggles along the way, but not one in the form of a merciless mob boss. Steve Rogers’ core aim is to own and he won’t take no for an answer. To any of his demands.

warnings for this chapter: dark!Steve Rogers; manipulation; power imbalance; forced marriage; D/s undertones; ex-pli-cit; knife kink; choking; choking kink; praise;

word count: 7k

Touch the Darkness Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Chapter 6. Downpour

~ * ~

Victims often described the events of their traumatic experience as a blur. Or a film montage of chopped scenes, often black and white, or with one color prevailing. Sometimes their minds protected themselves so strongly they dissociated, their consciousness floating away into a safe space.

Nothing of the sort happened to you on your dreaded wedding day. 

If anything, you felt more present in the moment than in the days leading to it. 

Colors were vibrant, sounds clear, your feelings vivid. 

You felt the constriction of the built-in corset of your wedding dress, the soft swish of the embroidered, shiny tulle in the chalice of the wide skirt; as well the warm amazement at how beautiful you looked. 

Even though your spite tempted you to pick a dress that would manifest how much you didn’t want to say your vows, you couldn’t help the flaming love you experienced at the sight of yourself in a stunning wedding dress. 

A fucking princess style, out of all. 

You wanted to hate it, to cross it out purely to not give Steve the extra satisfaction, but your parents teared up when they saw you in it. Maybe they had some qualms about the speedy wedding, but they sure got on board with it when they saw your face glowing. 

You didn’t have the heart to tell them it was because you felt beautiful, not because you loved your future husband. 

Whose handsome face you couldn’t look away from as your father walked you down the aisle. 

Dressed in a sharp suit, steel gray a tone warmer than his cold heart, Steve watched you every step of your way to him. Others perhaps saw in his face awe, getting all mushy over how much he had to be in love with you, but you knew it was a glint of triumph. 

You said your vows in the wide garden surrounding Steve’s property, under an arch of lush peonies and vines. You were sure it’s only thanks to the two glasses of Prosecco and Steve’s hand holding yours a tad too tightly, that you recited your promise to him without a hitch. 

With how smooth and soft Steve’s voice was, how he held your gaze captive, you’d think he was expressing true, deep feelings when he said his vows. 

True was his possessiveness. 

Steve displayed it first in the way he kissed you - draping you over his arm, like in old Hollywood movies, and branding your lips with a breathstealing, passionate kiss. Unable to resist, your arm sneaked around his neck, fingers splaying on the back of his head, while your other hand gripped onto the lapel of his suit jacket. 

Then by keeping you occupied each dance, allowing only your father to lead you through two songs. 

To your further annoyance, Steve turned out to be a really good dancer. Or maybe he was simply good at holding you and controlling your body as he guided you across the wooden planks built into a dance floor specially for this occasion. 

“You look beautiful, Princess.” 

There was no breathtaking awe in Steve’s voice, like you used to imagine your true love would say those words one day. But it was no coy game, either. Steve meant them, it was an honest compliment. 

It was also his pride in owning you. 

“I’m already your wife, all is signed. No need for bullshit,” you stared over Steve’s shoulder, stubbornly refusing to meet his gaze and see what desires may shine in the ice cold blue irises. 

He twirled you suddenly, then pulled you back to him. Kept you pressed against him tighter as he brushed his lips along your cheek. 

“I’d think by now you know I don’t really bullshit anyone,” he whispered in your ear. “I do find you stunning. And I’ll repeat those words later, when I have you naked in our bedroom.”

Heat filled you faster than after that shot you sneaked right before soup was served, to calm your nerves and numb yourself further as the reality of being now Mrs Rogers started settling in. No, that fast dose of booze didn’t scorch your insides the way Steve’s promise of the wedding night did. 

“Not gonna happen,” you tried sounding fierce, but your voice came much breathier than you’d like. 

“We’ll see, won’t we?” Steve chuckled, tip of his tongue flicking the shell of your ear, eliciting goosebumps to appear all over your skin. 

His hand on your back was placed low, but he dipped his fingers even further, toying with the ribbon of your corset right above the curve of your ass. 

“We have a deal, after all.” He reminded you. 

You wanted to argue with him, that technically you didn’t agree to it, but you knew it’s futile. You suffered some disturbing sexual deviancy and your pussy tingled at the mere thought of Steve touching it. So you planned on simply being sneaky and wiping yourself dry before entering the bedroom. And then staying resolved and unbothered, so that Steve’s dark touch didn’t force a single drop of slick out. 

You considered stuffing your nose with something too, because the scent of Steve alone now that he was pressed to you so close, was enough to warm up your body. 

To ignore your own responses - to his smell, to his touch, to the images of wicked acts he could do to you - you focused your gaze above Steve’s shoulder. Glancing at random guests, at the stunning flower arrangements, trying not to hurt from the fact your parents looked so joyous. 

You frowned, noticing Natalie smirking around the rim of a champagne flute as she talked to a man whom you recognized as Steve’s most trusted right hand, Bucky. While flirting at a wedding wasn’t something unusual, alarm bells rang in your head at the prospect of Natalie endangering herself. She was already at risk, being associated with you, but to dance with a wolf was like playing with fire that was surely going to consume her whole. 

You didn’t know much about Bucky, practically nothing, but if he was this close to Steve then there was no trace of innocence or clear conscience in him. 

No one could stay pure, if they followed in Rogers’ murky wake. A realization which made you wonder, if your own core may rot and dissolve at his feet. 

Your heart fluttered, as Steve twirled your body again. Chalice of your dress opened, shimmering in the sunlight as if encrusted in crushed diamonds. In reality it was a faint sparkle compared to the actual bling of the diamond ring on your finger. 

You glared at it with disdain when Steve first put it on your finger, seeing nothing but a leash. A brand of ownership and reminder of torment. But the more glances you stole, the more irresistible it was to admire. 

It was truly beautiful and you hated it for it. 

Steve pulled you back to his body, pressing you even closer than before. Tip of his nose grazed along yours, the icy blue of his irises warming into the shade of pure sky. His breath tickled your mouth, mingling with yours as your lips parted on a gasp. 

Then his lips were on you. Soft and coaxing, tempting you to respond in submission. 

You told yourself it’s the surprise of it that made you give in, the spectacle you had to continue for the guests, but you couldn’t completely deny the jolt of excitement that spurred heat into every crevice of your body, then melted it into a pliant surrender. 

You were vaguely aware of the camera flashes as pictures of you were taken. The sound of cheering and clapping barely registering through the haze of your heartbeat pounding in your head. 

There was no triumphant smirk on Steve’s lips when he reluctantly pulled away, which would undoubtedly shake you out of daze. Instead, there was a dark hunger that clenched your heart in fear and your cunt in anticipation. 

You found yourself surprisingly reluctant to step out of his embrace as the song ended and Steve took the opportunity to build the lie further by asking your mother to dance.

Trying to avoid dancing with Steve wasn’t as clever a solution as you first thought, because the bastard found other ways to instigate small gestures of intimacy that confused your brain and tickled your clit like a living tongue. 

Like him smoothly commenting how delicious that seasoned rib was and how you should try it, then promptly feeding you a piece of it.

With his fingers. 

Purposely slipping his fingertip between your lips along with the meat.

It was a split of a second, but enough to have a wave of heat wash over you and your thighs clench.

You thanked heaven that you picked a princess dress, because the layers of the skirt at least hid the movement that would otherwise betray you.

A gulp of wine couldn’t wash away the sensation, nor did it wipe the lewd image of Steve forcing his fingers into your mouth. Would they be salty? Would they feel heavy as he pressed them against your tongue? Would his rings feel cool? 

Then you didn’t even have alcohol to numb yourself. Steve made sure your glass was filled with water only as the celebrations proceeded. When you glared at him, trying to yank your hand out of his grip, he said he won’t have you sloshed on your wedding night.

“Don’t want you to worry it was only the booze that got you wet,” he sucked on your earlobe. 

But made it look so sweet, the way he pressed his cheek to yours and gently held your hand, that to the others it had to look as if he was whispering love admissions into your ear. 

The bastard played supportive and soothing as he caressed your back when you were saying goodbye to the guests leaving the reception late in the evening. Your mom took your teary eyes as an overwhelming, but positive emotion that made her all mushy as well. 

You couldn’t cling to her, or your dad, crying in despair that they were leaving you with a monster. Not when that monster was constantly by your side, being most respectful and charming towards them. Displaying a twisted care for you that eased your parents’ worries while irritating you. 

There were fireworks bursting in the sky in abundant splashes of color as Steve led you to the master bedroom. 

Everyone was gone, only the wedding planner’s team was rushing around like busy bees, cleaning up and packing leftovers. And they all pretended they didn’t see you. You thought some of Steve’s men were also circling around, but you didn’t know yet if it was to keep an eye on the workers, or if it was their routine to guard Steve’s mansion. 

Once inside the bedroom, you blurted out your need to use the bathroom and promptly locked yourself inside. Only for a few moments you entertained the thought of staying in and sleeping on the tiled floor, but you knew Steve wouldn’t allow that. He’d sooner take the damn door down than give you reprieve.

He wanted to wreck your body too much. 

And you feared how you may react to it. 

As you pulled up layers and layers of tulle, to use the toilet and clean yourself from the already obvious reaction to Steve’s touch; you accepted that your anxiety wasn’t for debauchery, but for the inappropriate eagerness of your body.

For fuck’s sake, you were dripping and coming on command when he defiled you with a gun!

How much stronger was your reaction going to be when he caressed you with his hands and mouth? 

After wiping yourself dry, you cleaned your hands and with your head held high stepped out into the bedroom. You still planned on fighting tooth and nail to not arouse from whatever he had planned. 

Having taken off his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves, Steve waited for you in the middle of the room. His eyes glinted with satisfaction when you stepped out. He crooked a finger at you, beckoning you to him. 

“I knew you’d come out like a good girl, Princess,” he crooned, not at all bothered by your stomping and glaring daggers his way. 

“Didn’t feel like watching a door being splintered into pieces,” you snapped, clenching your hands on the skirt of your dress as you stood right in front of Steve.

“Of course. That’s the only splintering you were concerned about,” he teased, running a single digit down the column of your neck. “But I know, Princess. I know there’s this curiosity that draws you to me. You may hate it, but your body is eager to learn what I’ll do to you.”

“It’s not. I’m not!” You protested, yet you didn’t flinch when his finger drew a scorching line from one collar bone to the other, then dipped lower to trace your cleavage. 

“I want to believe your words, Princess,” Steve said in pretend seriousness, “but let’s check in with your body, too.”

As embarrassing the thought of him flipping your skirts up was, you inwardly prayed he’d do it quickly. If he touched your pussy now, he’d find you dry. But if he prolonged the whole thing, you had no certainty it would stay this way. 

“I’m aware how fond of my gun you are,” his words startled you, stopping your heart for a split of a second then sending it into a fluttery beat. The memory of the warm muzzle dragging along your thigh and slipping under your panties spurred heat to pool low in your core. 

Shit! No! 

No, no, no. You couldn’t get wet! 

“But I didn’t think it’s an accessory appropriate for the wedding,” Steve’s mouth curved into a lopsided smile that only added to his criminally hot look. 

“So I had something special to be custom made for this occasion-” he touched your cheek in a sweet caress- “and for any future occasions… with my wife.”

Your breath hitched in your lungs when he called you his wife. He made it sound reverent, but at the same time his tone dripped with that dark triumph that reminded you there was no way out from his clutches. 

You watched Steve dip his hand into his pocket and then a glint of steel flashed before your eyes. 

A switchblade so sharp and polished so smooth that it seemed to be honed out of pure light. The handle was a shimmery white, with undertones of rainbow. Mother of pearl, you realized. 

Steve had his fingers wrapped around it, but purposely flipped it out, pinching the hilt between two of his fingers so you could see the silver initials engraved on it. Your initials, but with your last name being Rogers. 

Eyes widening, you went still as Steve brought the blade to your skin. Just the tip of it, you barely felt its touch, but your mind was already running with images of cuts and drawn blood. It should scare you, cause tears to fall out. Instead, you felt your pulse thundering in places that shouldn’t react to fear with excitement. 

Steve drew a soft line over the curve of your breasts and dipped the steel into the valley between them. 

He wrapped the fingers of his other hand around the front of your neck. His eyes heated up as your pupils widened in reaction, once again proving how weak you were for this single gesture. Keeping his hold firm enough you felt the silver of his rings pressing into your skin, Steve traced the blade along the trim of your wedding dress and then down your ribcage.     

“Are you afraid I’m going to hurt you?” Steve’s voice was deceivingly soft, as if he really cared if you were scared. 

You doubted he’d stop, even if you claimed that you are. You’d sooner expect him to mock you and then proceed to torment your body, proving to you how much you craved his depravity. 

But it wasn’t the physical torture you wanted to avoid. For how bad Steve was, how he fucked up your life, somehow you knew he wouldn’t harm you physically. Well, perhaps if you betrayed him. He’d kill you then. But as long as you followed his plans, you were certain he wouldn’t raise his hand on you.

Steve’s thumb brushed along your jaw in a seemingly soothing caress. You turned your face to the side, but he forced you to look back at him when you admitted in a defeated whisper: 

“I’m afraid you will make me like it.”

Fingers still curled around the front of your neck, Steve inched closer. Blue of his irises seemed to glitter an impossible hue up this close, mesmerizing you. 

You were a prey fully ensnared. 

“I will, Princess.” Steve’s lips teased yours. “I will give you pleasure that hurts so good.”

A tiny whimper escaped your mouth. You wished it was a sound of trepidation, but it held an unmistakable undertone of need. It was too late now, you felt a wet spot forming on your white undergarments. 

Steve kissed you softly, reverently; like a husband in love might kiss his beloved wife on their wedding night. Combined with the pressure of a sharp blade at your side, it made your head spin. 

“Stay still, please,” Steve squeezed your throat lightly, before releasing you and taking a step back. 

He walked around you, slowly making a full circle as he admired you. Teasing you by making you wait for what he does next. When he stopped behind you and you felt the puff of his breath on your nape, your fingers trembled. 

Then the cool blade pressed where Steve’s warm breath tickled you a second ago. He drew a sharper line down the middle of your back. You didn’t feel the sting of a cut, but he put enough pressure for you to feel a tingling scratch that dispersed into pleasant burning. 

You gulped when you felt him hook the knife under the lacing of your dress.

“I can just take it off.” You grumbled, frowning. It was a stunning dress and even though you wouldn’t be wearing it ever again, you weren’t happy with the idea of it being cut to pieces.

“You could,” Steve chuckled, “but then I wouldn’t get to hear you-”

You gasped as he swiftly cut through the first string.

“-make that lovely sound.” 

Steve relished in each cut, though you weren’t sure if he was more entranced with your little noises (which you tried to suppress, but failed at times), the act of cutting itself, or with your naked skin being revealed as the bodice of your dress parted. 

When the corset opened fully, dropping and exposing your upper body, Steve smoothed his hand along your back. Which elicited another gasp from you. 

You expected the blade to return, to draw dangerous patterns on your fragile skin. Steve’s warm, gentle caress sent a different kind of jolt down your spine, causing your tense muscles to relax in foolish trust. He pressed himself to your back, moving his hand around your front and boldly cupping your breast. A wave of heat seemed to scorch your face from the inside, but it also pooled between your thighs. 

He peppered kisses along your neck as he played with your breast; sucked on your skin as he switched his attention to the other tit. 

There was no logical thought in your head when he pinched your nipple hard and you arched; one of your arms flying up to grip the back of Steve’s head. It was an instinctive reaction of your body’s deepest need. 

Suddenly, Steve’s touch left you. Only to pull impatiently at your dress, forcing the abundant skirt to fall down. Big hands - one still holding a knife - clenched around your hips. He picked you up so easily, as if you weighed close to nothing. 

Then he was dropping you onto the grand bed. Before you even managed to push yourself up, he flipped you over onto your back. A split of a panicked thought almost had you inching away, reheating the idea to fight him. But one of Steve’s hands clenched on your ankle, while the other splayed on your belly - the one holding the knife. 

“Lie back, Princess.” Steve’s tone wasn’t harsh, but it chimed with certain urgency. 

You stilled. Though you preferred to think it was because of the blade he left on your belly in a warning, not because he asked you to. 

Definitely not because you couldn’t look away from him as Steve undressed in a few quick, practiced moves. 

The sight was so enticing you didn’t think of grabbing the knife and possibly changing the flow of the night to your advantage. 

Without his shirt on, you saw the wide plains of Steve’s chest and chiseled abdomen; saw the tattoos entwining his arms and upper body. Dark patterns, with a few splashes of rich color, that only added to the dark, thrilling aura of Steve Rogers. 

You swore that while Steve was a scary motherfucker in his usual wear, he’d appear an even more lethal demon if he approached his victims half-naked. 

Your gaze shifted downward when he pushed his pants down, but you forced it back up to his face. Mostly because you feared the sound you may make, if you saw his cock. Partly because you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of you staring. 

When Steve knelt on the mattress and then crawled forward, you dropped your head to the pillows and focused on the ceiling. A part of you craved to watch him, to await in trepidation, but you still held onto that sane part of your brain that told you it’s wrong to want it. Wrong to give in to him so easily. 

“You’re beautiful, Princess.” He repeated the words, just like he promised.

Calloused fingers traced up your legs. The sensation this touch evoked made you want to clench your thighs, but Steve’s knee was wedged between your legs, preventing it. 

Eyes focused on your face, Steve seemed to study and memorize every spark of reaction to his touch. He picked up the knife again. The grin that he flashed you as he brought the blade to your skin was all satisfaction and condescending praise. He didn’t say it, but you almost heard the Good girl. For doing as he told you. For waiting. For being so obviously responsive. 

He knelt above you as he trailed the knife along your exposed body. His gaze shifted between the glint of the blade and your face. As his aim traveled south, Steve moved along with it. 

Corner of his mouth tugged upward in a dangerous smirk when he slipped the tip of the blade under the white lace of your panties. 

Your whole body went rigid. Your mouth opened, your breath becoming ragged. 

And yet, when he slashed the fabric apart, you felt a new gush of slick. 

Steve cut the other side of your panties as well, then pushed your thighs further apart. Exposing your shameful reaction. 

“Princess,” he licked his lips, “it appears that you’re wet.” 

He tapped the wide side of the blade against your clit, the jolt of it making you clench around nothing. Steve’s eyes darkened and a low, growling kind of sound rumbled in his chest as he used the knife to flick away the lace that was sticking to your drenched folds. 

“You’re not wet. You’re dripping.” He seemed to be in awe of the discovery. 

It was in a sense a comforting feeling, to see more than just a cocky triumph. To see Steve affected by the situation. Perhaps not as strongly as you were, but with enough force to make you think perhaps it was a novelty for him as well. 

“Say it, Princess.” Steve’s gaze flicked back to your face; his own eyes full of dark hunger. “Say how wet you are, for me.”

Your lips clenched shut, a stubborn frown drawing your eyebrows together. It was humiliating enough that you were so lewdly on display for this bastard, that your body betrayed you and was ready to take him. Admitting it aloud would only strip you of all defenses. 

When Steve slapped your inner thigh, the sting of it seemed to zing directly to your clit. 

“Ohh!” You couldn’t suppress the gasp, but then managed to spat angrily - “Fuck, fine! I’m wet for you, you bastard.”

As much as you hated it, your anger was less about him demanding your admission and more about him not touching you where you most needed it. 

“Your husband.” Steve reminded you, with sinister glee. 

With his knee, he pressed your other leg down. Then dragged the knife along the skin of your inner thigh. This time you felt the prick of pain as he cut the tissue. You hissed, head lifting up to stare at the tiny, thin wound. A single drop of blood pearled at the end of it. 

Then Steve’s mouth was on it. Warm and sucking, and drawing a surprised moan out of you. 

He sucked and licked it clean, making you forget about everything else. His mouth moved up, closer and closer to your core. When he finally licked into your folds as if he was biting into a ripe fruit, you dropped down with a cry. 

Fingers gripping the sheets tightly, you rode sensations unknown to you until then. Muscles strained in pain as you held yourself stiff, still sensing that blade pressed against your skin. Steve had his arms wrapped under and around your thighs, keeping you spread as he feasted on your pussy. One of his hands was holding the knife against your abdomen, the sharp tip right on your mound. 

“Oh God, please!” Your eyes clenched shut. “Please, please, Steve. I-”

As he lapped at your clit, lashing it with rapid flicks then sucking on it so sweetly, you felt your orgasm building painfully high. You were heartbeats away from climaxing.

“Stop, please!” You begged. “The knife- I can’t- I need-” 

Even if you were pleading for him to stop what he was doing all together, Steve wouldn’t listen. Not when he was so close to owning you completely. You needed something slightly different and you hoped Steve would recognize the urgency.

Mercifully, he paused. Though he held his lips close to your clit as he looked up at you from between your thighs - his eyes reminiscing of the stars frozen in dark waters of the northern lakes. 

“What do you need from your knife, Princess?” He asked, tilting the blade an inch lower. 

It almost touched your clit. 

“Place it away, please,” you started explaining, sensing that he wouldn’t comply without a satisfying reason. “I- I’m about to come. And I will, um, move. I can’t stay still. I just, I never could. I can’t.” 

“You’re afraid I’d cut you, if you get all squirmy and arching?” Twinkle of amusement lit up Steve’s eyes.

“Please, Steve.” You feared tearing up, if he refused you. You also feared he would make you cum and cut you, and that you weren’t ready for that combination of pain and pleasure. 

He hummed, holding your gaze as he licked your clit again. Your muscles tensed anew, he had to feel them straining in your thighs where he held you. Then, very slowly, he untangled himself from you. Steve let your thighs drop to the mattress freely. He lifted the hand holding the knife and you sagged in relief. 

Steve leaned over you, bracing his weight on one arm. His broad frame cast a shadow over you. He brought the blade up to your face, you could see a fragment of your reflection in it. 

“Kiss it.” Steve ordered. 

You stared at him, bewildered. He waited, surprisingly patiently, holding the blade inches from your mouth. He called this knife yours. Had it custom made for you. Used it on you in ways you never imagined in a sexual encounter. Teased what more he could do. What he probably would do to you in the future. And he wanted you to kiss it as if in gratitude for all the lewd things it would unleash on you. 

Swallowing nervously, you lifted your head enough to press your lips against the steel. 

“Good girl,” he praised. 

Your gaze followed Steve’s arm as he reached toward the nightstand to place the knife on it. Then his hand swiped along your arm, caressing muscles that strained from still gripping the sheets. 

He coaxed you back into the moment with a sensual kiss. The way his tongue dipped between your lips was soft and seductive. You’d never expect someone like Steve to be able to kiss like that. 

Heat quickly returned in pulsing beats to your clit as Steve kissed down your body. He settled back between your thighs, with a moan tasting your pussy once more. Relentlessly, he licked and sucked you back to that edge. Then pushed you over it as he pushed a finger into you. 

Steve kept that finger pumping steadily into your fluttering walls as he trailed wet bites up your body. He was hovering above you. Mouth, glistening with your arousal, was a lick away from you when he thrust a second digit inside. The stretch made you keen and Steve drank up every grimace you made. 

“Touch me, Princess,” he tempted you, curling his fingers just right. “Come on. Touch. I know you want to.” 

If your brain wasn’t a post-orgasmic mush, maybe you could muster some stubborn will to do the opposite. But he was right, you itched to touch him, to feel the ripple of his muscles beneath your fingertips, to see how hot he ran. 

Hesitantly at first, you placed both of your hands on his shoulders. Your gaze found one of the intricate vines that weaved along his shoulder and up his neck, a branch sprouting from it curved down and over his pectoral. You traced it with one hand, your other instinctively moving to Steve’s back. 

When you traced the contoured muscles of his abdomen, fingernails scratching lightly at the narrow path of coarse hair leading southwards, Steve increased the pace of his fingers. It stirred the fire in your core into a burst, evoking another moan. 

“Lower.” Steve gritted out, putting more of his weight and heat onto you. “Wrap that small hand of yours around my cock, Princess.” 

It was dirty - his words and the squelching sound of your pussy as he fingerfucked you. 

But it also made you drop your gaze between your bodies, searching for a glimpse of that dick. It swayed heavy, half-hard, right above your hip. Your walls clenched unexpectedly as you watched it. 

This wasn’t the first cock you saw in your life. You were far from a blushing virgin. There was something about Steve, however, that made you feel nervous and out of your depth. It appeared that sex with him was a whole new, scary discovery. 

Steve urged you with another command and your hand slipped down instantly. Hot, pulsing flesh in your palm, twitching and hardening as you curled your fingers around the quite impressive girth. 

It would stretch you so deliciously. Steve didn’t need to voice it for your imagination to ignite with the phantom sensation. 

You tightened your hold, swiping your thumb over the widened, red head. At Steve’s deep moan, your eyes flew up to his face, watching his pleasure in wonder. He didn’t hide it from you, didn’t try to pretend he wasn’t affected. Still, you felt yourself more at his mercy than he was at yours. Especially when you sensed that small kick of elation at giving him pleasure with your touch. 

You smeared the beads of precum down his shaft and started stroking. It was a mismatched rhythm, your focus faltering every time Steve drove his crooked fingers against that sensitive, spongy spot inside you. 

When Steve sat back on his haunches, you stopped your movement. A rush of heat filled you with sudden shyness as his gaze roamed over your splayed body. 

Skin dewy, breasts heaving with quickened breath, legs spread wide. Your hand was still around his cock, your ring and wedding band catching sparks of light. Steve’s own fingers were buried deep in your cunt, your slick glistened on his palm and wrist. 

Steve moved his other hand up your body, marveling at your curves and softness. He gave your breast a playful squeeze before trading his fingers further up. Fingers encircled the front of your neck in a familiar way. 

“You’re a fucking perfection, Princess.” 

Then he was withdrawing his fingers from your heat; milky slick sticking in a web between his digits. He knocked your hand away and spread your wetness all over his cock. 

He held your gaze as he dragged his dick between your puffed folds and into your hole. A pause for you to catch your breath, then he was thrusting in one fluid, firm stroke. 

A curse bubbled on your lips, stretching into a moan as he split you. Unable to reach him at the moment, your hands fisted the shits, gripping and twisting the fabric. Nipples stiffened into hard peaks, your chest arched upward at the same time as your head bowed back. 

There was no second to adjust, no mercy. Steve pounded into you roughly, setting a steady tempo. He watched your body move along the mattress, at least as much as his hold on your throat and your hip allowed. Your breasts swayed with each thrust, your thighs shook with each slap of his hips into you. 

He watched your eyes glaze over as an orgasmic haze crept over you anew. Your pretty mouth stayed open, letting out all the sweet noises. It took barely a few of his thrusts and you were cumming again. 

Everything was still spinning in your head when Steve yanked your hips more upwards. Your buttocks rested on his thighs, legs thrown over his hips as he fucked into you. Grip on your throat tightened more and more. Your eyes flew open, one of your hands grabbing onto Steve’s wrist. Unbothered, he kept choking you lightly. At the same time, his other hand sneaked across your abdomen. 

With your airflow limited, every sensation seemed to heighten impossibly. The stretch of his cock, the pressure of his hand on your lower belly. The coil tightened and tightened, and when Steve swiped his thumb over your engorged clit, you shattered with a soundless scream. 

Steve released your throat and the gulps of air you instinctively tok between raw cries seemed to prolong your orgasm. It twisted into a craze that felt agonizingly good. 

So good it caused you to cry, salty streaks dripping out of the corners of your eyes and down your temples. 

Through the thunderous buzz of blood pounding in your head, the muffled sound of Steve’s voice reached you. Your brain was unable to function enough to recognize it, but it sounded like your name. And something akin to ‘Atta girl. 

When Steve shifted, you welcomed his warm heaviness like a comforting blanket, mapping his sweaty back with your hands. He was still moving, speeding up, as he braced both of his forearms on the mattress. His breath was hot against your skin, his lips starved as he kissed and nipped. 

He rested his forehead against yours as he came with a loud moan. Warmth of his spend filled you and though you didn’t think of it now, later you would be thankful for the little contraceptive implant you had. As the fog of pleasure held you in its grip, you didn’t care for the consequences. Not when Steve was still rocking slightly into you, his cock twitching. 

You sighed, scrunching up your nose, when Steve pulled out a while later. Your pussy throbbed in protest, or maybe it was from the ache that was starting to make itself known. You leaked, too, which would make you really embarrassed if you weren’t too boneless to care. 

You managed to wipe at your temples and cheeks, where remnants of tears still wetted your skin, before Steve was touching you again. He flipped you onto your belly then licked a line up your spine with a broad stroke of his tongue. 

“Aren’t you done?” You huffed, fearing you may not be able to survive more. 

“Far from it,” Steve laughed and playfully slapped your ass. 

You were thankful that he spent quite some time just kissing and touching your back, your ass and your thighs. Whether he was giving himself enough time to get hard again, or if he was this dedicated to learning your body. 

When he sat on your thighs, his knees braced on the outside of your closed legs, and squeezed your asscheeks, you expected him to play there more. Instead, you felt him spread you enough to expose your pussy. He slid inside slowly, but it still took you by surprise.    

Steve laid on top of you, balancing his weight on his arms as he pulled back and thrust back in. The angle unraveled a completely new type of sensation.

“Oh my- fuuuck!” You couldn’t help the unladylike, high pitched squeal. 

Nails scratching at the sheets helplessly, you spluttered mewls as Steve purposely rocked his hips back and forth. 

“Awww,” he cooed, “is that the spot, Princess?” 

Then he pulled back and slammed back in. Each thrust grazed that ultrasensitive area; each time he sunk deeper and deeper, too. 

If you were moaning and crying when he fucked you the first time, these sounds were a symphony of pitiful and needy that surpassed others. At one point your mouth just hung open, saliva seeping out of the corner and staining the mattress. 

Your toes curled and you helplessly kicked your feet up and down, unable to shift in your position to ease the increasing, maddening pleasure. With your cheek pressed to the mattress, your gaze mindlessly focused on the ring on your finger where your hand rested beside your head. 

Steve’s fingers entered your vision, brushing along your hand and intertwining with your fingers. A mockery of softness in the ruthless way he was fucking you. 

Your cunt tightened around him, producing more slick the longer he railed that tormenting spot. The sound of him fucking you turned more and more squelching. 

“I want you to soak the sheets,” Steve grunted. When you made a noise of protest, he paused to force your legs wide apart with his feet. “Come on, Princess. Make a mess.”

And you did. 

Hiding your face in the bedding didn’t suppress the string of cries as you climaxed, squirting a small pool of release. 

Steve fucked you through it. Each of his hard thrusts ripping your whimpers into a choked single vowel as you went lax beneath him. 

“Fuck, Princess.”  He groaned, feeling your wetness drip down his balls. “I would wife you up for that alone. You really-” his hips snapped harder and faster- “are. Fucking. Perfect.” 

Your fingers remained intertwined, Steve’s face buried in the crook of your neck, as he came. Perhaps it was the angle at which he was buried inside of you, or maybe this time his orgasm was much stronger, but you felt every throb and every spurt more clearly than before. Felt yourself full with his cum and dripping excess of your combined spend. 

Long, long minutes later, when Steve pulled out and dropped next to you onto the mattress, you didn’t even blame him for not having enough power (or decency) to get you a wet cloth. 

Honestly, you didn’t have any strength to get up either. 

It was later, as you resigned yourself to falling asleep in the mess that you made, that you heard the sound of a drawer being open. Then a soft, wet wipe was pressed to your inner thigh. It was a surprise. Felt a little weird, too. But you rested quietly as Steve wiped you and himself clean, tossing used tissues into the bin hidden behind the nightstand.

When he laid back down on the unsoiled side of the bed and reached for you, you glared at him. 

Yes, he fucked your brains out. You seriously doubted there were any functioning brain cells left. Yes, you were officially married. Still, it didn’t mean you were going to play a docile wife in every aspect of this torment. 

“You want to sleep on the stained sheets?” Steve arched a single eyebrow. “Swallow your stubbornness and scoot here, Princess.” 

It was voiced as if he was giving you an option, but he didn’t wait for your decision. Astonishingly easily, he sneaked a hand under one of your thighs and simply lifted you enough to relocate you. 

Nestled to Steve’s side, with one leg hiked over his thigh, you willed yourself to stay awake long enough to sneak out when Steve dozed off. Unfortunately for you, your will was too fucked out. 

You fell asleep snuggled to the ruthless mafia monster.

[ln4bub]

Okay so how about 21+39 + Oscar. like seven minutes in heaven or spin the bottle situation. (Only if you want tho)

I saw this request and I just had to write it immediately, this fits Oscar so well

———————————————

Oscar was never really one for emotion, he was almost impossible to read. So when he reluctantly agreed to play Truth or Dare with you, Logan, Robert, Arthur, and a few of your female friends you were surprised. He was always a ‘stay in the corner and observe’ kinda guy, but now he was sat in a circle, an ice cold beer in his large hand.

“Y/N, it’s your turn.” Logan nudges you, forcing you to take your eyes off Oscar. “Oh, uh dare?” You say, doubting your own choice. It’s Arthur who speaks up, a devious smile on his face.

“I dare you to do that minutes in heaven thing that Logan had to do with a driver of your choosing.” He tells you, the smirk on his face suggesting that he expected himself to be picked.

You stand up, smoothing down your dress before walking over to Oscar and extending your hand. “You coming?” You ask, eyebrow quirked. “He hopes so.” Logan laughs, sending the circle into a fit of giggles. Oscar rolls his eyes before pulling himself up and grasping your hand in his, leading you away to the closet. Arthur trails behind the two of you, locking the door after you enter. “We’ll start a seven minute timer for you, if you want to leave early then knock on the door three times.” You and Oscar confirm that you’re good to go before you hear the soft pad of Arthur walking away.

The two of you are left illuminated by the pale yellow lighting of the closet. The shadows cast over Oscar’s face, revealing a gentle smile. “We, uh, we don’t have to do anything. I have no expectations of you and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Oscar rambles, his eyes avoiding yours.

“Oscar.” You say, attempting to interrupt his rant.

“I don’t want to assume that you picked me because you’re attracted to me, I mean don’t get me wrong I’d like to hope that that’s why but if it’s not that’s totally okay.” He continues.

“Oscar.”

“What?”

“Shut up and kiss me already.”

He freezes, lips parted and eyes wide. “You really want that? With me?” He asks. You giggle slightly at his reaction. “Why else would I pick you Oz?” You question, hand coming to cup the back of his neck. He leans in, your breaths mingling in the small space. His lips touch yourself, briefly and softly, but you know they’re there and you whimper, pushing your lips harder against him.

Once he senses your eagerness he’s quick to reciprocate it, his lips moving perfectly with yours. His hand comes to rest on your jaw, his tongue now sliding against your own.

“Oscar, we have seven minutes. Do something please.” You beg against his lips, causing him to groan in response and rest his forehead against yours. “You want me to touch you? To make you cum with everyone outside?” He asks teasingly, shocking you with this switch in demeanour.

“God yes please Oscar.” You whine, grinding your hips against his thigh resting between your legs. His large hand comes to rest under your dress, sliding your underwear to the side and feeling the slick gathering already.

“Is this what I do to you?“ He asks and you nod in response, unable to find words as his fingers find your clit. “Poor girl, you must be so needy. Desperate.” He whispers, placing kisses across your neck as your hand tangles in his hair. You pull lightly when his finger slips inside you, making him moan against your skin.

He curls his fingers against your walls, your back arching in pleasure as you let out a moan of his name. “Oh god, right there, fuck- please.” You babble incoherently as a second finger joins his first.

“So tight for me baby, I want you to cum on my fingers so I can lick them clean. Have the taste of you in my mouth for the rest of the night, d’you want that?” You barely comprehend Oscar’s words, his fingers moving at a rapid pace. Your moans become more high pitched, joined by the slick sounds of Oscar’s fingers moving in and out of you.

“So close Oscar, please, please, please.” You whine, grinding your clit against the palm of his hand as he continues his actions.

“I know Y/N, I know. Soak my hand for me come on, we haven’t got long.” He reminds you, hitting the spot that makes your legs turn to jelly. Your mouth drops open, a moan on the verge of slipping out before Oscar’s mouth covers your own. He muffles the loud moan of his name with his tongue, feeling your walls spasm around his fingers.

“There we go, good girl. Let it go f’me.” He tells you, slowing his fingers but continuing to draw the remnants of your orgasm from your body. When you’re spent he slides his fingers out, sucking them clean with a groan.

Arthur’s knock sounds and the lock clicks open. The two of you hastily pat down your hair and clothing before stepping back into the room. You’re a sight to behold, hair and lipstick messy, dress hitched slightly too high and legs trembling. Oscar’s not much better, flushed cheeks, ruffled hair and a sly grin on his face.

“So, what did you two besties get up to in there?” Logan asks, smirking as you both go beet red. “Didn’t sound like anything people who are ‘just friends’ do.” He adds, quirking an eyebrow. Arthur slaps his hands onto Oscar’s shoulders. “Right there Oscar, so good, oh god.” He mimics, everyone laughing at the way you both side eye each other in awkwardness.

Oscar grabs your hand, pulling you out of the party to finish what you had started. But not until he tells Logan that you’re not just friends, and now everyone knows it.

[kayentokk]

Easy Peasy Sukuna Squeezey(Part 1);A Lot More Ice Cream

Pairing;Sukuna x Fem! Reader

Summary;Sukuna always knows what to do when you’re upset, but this time he thinks he’s gonna need a lot more ice cream to fix the problem. 

Contains;feelings, some sadness, cheating mentions, angst kinda (not in a death way), comfort(Sukuna comfort), 🥹

wc; 1,261

A/N;uhmmm y’all I think imma make this a series. Cuz I wanna drag it out and I have more ideas for this storyline, so bear with me. And I hope you enjoy the first chapter!

Series M.list Next

The smell coming from inside was musk, and humid. You could feel it radiating through the door. You knew this was coming, hell this is what you came over here for. But it still hurts like a bitch to know your boyfriend, ex, is in the middle of sex with one of your mutual, ex, friends. 

You were tipped off today by one of your ex’s friends, the only reason he told you was because quote unquote he “can give you a better time than that prick.” At the time you thought, he’s probably not wrong, maybe you’ll even take him up on the offer after this. That’s not likely though. You’re just, rightfully so, in your feelings and feeling angry about the whole situation. 

You still wanted to see for yourself though, so you went to his apartment. You quietly unlocked the door and turned the knob, you just needed to know for yourself. You didn’t want to be privy or see the adulterous, disgusting act. 

As if the clothes, that obviously belonged to him and his little- thing, that were in a trail leading to the bedroom weren’t enough, a loud, keening, high-pitched whine was let out. You didn’t need to see or hear anymore, that was enough. 

You had tried to tried mentally prepare yourself before you got there, deciding to walk there for the commute instead of driving because you could clear your head better, but nothing prepares you for betrayal. And this was betrayal at its finest. 

You placed the keys on the counter, opened the door, and slammed it shut loudly on your way out. You were hoping to startle them, but you’d be long gone before they got a clue. 

You didn’t want to go home, so you didn’t. It’s not like you had anything waiting on you there, besides the memories that were once happy of you and him. And that’s just depressing. 

After walking for a while, you noticed where you were headed. Sukuna’s house. It was only natural to want to go there. Sukuna is your best friend, of sorts. You guys grew up together, you went to the same schools your whole life, and your mothers were best friends. So you guys were destined to be close in some way. 

You stopped yourself right across the street from his complex. All the intrusive thoughts immediately rolled in, what if he has girls over? Or he’s having a party? Or maybe he’s not home?   M-maybe he doesn’t want to-

“Hey,” a gruff voice greets you.

It’s Sukuna. 

He’s in his car, the windows are rolled down and the music is low so that you can hear him, he has a couple of bags in the front seat, he must have just been returning from somewhere. 

“Hellooo? Earth to y/n?”

You snapped out of it, “hey,” you greet him lowly.

“Were you coming to see me?,” he asks reaching for his phone from his back pocket, “I didn’t think I got a message from you.”

“You didn’t. I didn’t know I was coming here either to be honest.”

“Oh…well, are you gonna get in or what? It’s freezing outside and you’re letting all my heat out of the window you psycho.”

It’s cold? Yeah, it is the middle of winter. You hadn’t noticed until he mentioned it. He moved the bags to the backseat without even having to get out of the car, the perks of having long arms, and you got in. It was warm, and your fingers started to defrost.

He parked the car in his designated spot, and you went to get out of the car but not before he stopped you by grabbing the hood of your coat. You turned your head and looked at him. His bright garnet eyes were piercing right through you, and you wanted to break. You wanted to crumble and cry and scream, you hate that look. Like he knows something is wrong. 

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong? or we jus’ not gonna talk today?” 

Your lip quivers and at that small twitch Sukuna’s face drops. The normal irritated grimace that dawns his face is replaced with something else, something you’ve never seen before. It’s almost a saddening expression, it doesn’t suit Sukuna at all, you think. 

In all the years you guys have been with each other, Sukuna thinks, he’s never seen you look so delicate or fragile. He’s seen you cry over getting a “boo-boo” or “ouchie” when you were small, he’s seen you cry over being reprimanded, hell he’s even seen you cry during your period, but all those things he could fix. A bandaid, a cookies and cream waffle cone, and a movie. Easy peasy, Sukuna squeezey. But a part of him felt like this ouchie would be harder to fix if he could fix it at all. 

“He cheated ‘kuna,” you spoke plainly. It was harder to admit than you thought. You immediately felt repulsed from it.

He didn’t know what to say, he was in utter shock and he wanted to kill the dirty bastard. How could he? You devoted yourself to him and you cared and treated him with all the kindness in your heart. Sukuna was so enraged and he also felt….sad? This wasn’t the usual agitated feeling he got when you were upset, this was different. He knew this was different. You weren’t even crying yet, just sitting silently in pure consciousness. 

You didn’t really want to talk about it if you’re being honest. Your boyfriend-ex, cheated on you. What else was there to say about it? But the silence was killing you.

“You could say something y’know,” you sniffled bringing a hand up to rub your nose. “It’s more embarrassing if you don’t,” you chuckled dryly.

Sukuna, however, didn’t find it funny. Nothing about this was funny. And it was becoming apparent to him, that he’d need a lot more ice cream. 

What do you want him to say though? If he told you he’d kill him that wouldn’t solve the issue or lessen your hurt, If he acts out of character and said sorry you’d just think he’s taking pity on you and he knows you hate that. 

So Sukuna does what he knows best, he “ignores” it. When you were both in your adolescent stage and you were mad at him about something harsh that he probably said that’s what he did. 

He’d still talk to you even if you were ignoring him, which pissed him the hell off by the way, he’d do anything you wanted. And eventually you’d forget why you were mad at him in the first place, it was his way of apologizing. That was the only way he knew how to treat you without you feeling like he’s pitying you.

So he turns off the car, gets out, grabs the bags he put in the back seat, and when he sees you’re still in the car he gives you a nod and says, “come on, we don’t want you to freeze do we?” And you smile, it’s only a fragment of what it normally is, but you smile. And Sukuna feels relief, of course if you wanted to talk about it he’d listen. But right now, it’s freezing outside and he doesn’t think a car is the right place to have that conversation. All the people passing by while you’re hyperventilating and crying over your jerk of an ex is not exactly what you want to happen either.

So you follow him into the apartment. 

@/cafekitsune for the divider

[spookyspecterino]

I'd love to see an Eric x Reader where they share a first kiss together.

Love this ask. Thank you for requesting it! It went longer than I originally planned because I have a flair for the dramatics.

Focus on Me

Eric x GN! Reader

CW: Panic attacks, fear, fear of death, mentions of blood, some language.

Three days. Three days since New York became an unrecognizable, empty shell. Three days of maddening silence. Three days of existing in absolute total fear.

The helicopters have stopped flying overhead. There’s nothing in the sky anymore. Everything has just stopped.

The silence is unbearable. At least now the ambient sound of the storm—the torrential rain and howling wind—fills that awful, strange void.

Every sound, every movement, even the water dripping from your clothes, has you and Eric pausing in step. The creak in the floorboards, the way the crumbling building shifts against the outside wind, it’s nerve wracking and makes forward progress slow.

This building wouldn’t have been your first choice, but you and Eric needed to get out of the storm. The giant holes in the side of the complex were blissfully ignored until you were both inside and the strong wind whipped through them. You counted your blessings that the concrete stairs were even intact.

Eric’s hand is on your shoulder as you get further into the building. It eases your nerves, as you know it comforts him as well. It’s the only source of warmth you can feel through the ice-cold adrenaline and the chill of your damp clothes. A warm spot of hope.

You’re positive he can feel you trembling. Scared shitless. Expecting to die at any moment.

It’s so dark in that hallway, the only source of light is from the night sky, through the shattered windows. The storm wind howls through the glass cracks creating an eerie whistling. The rain pounds, lightning flashes give you quick snapshots of the apartments around you. There’s an open door to your left, which seems like a good option.

Lightning flashes again and illuminates the dark red stain leading through the door. Never mind.

The clap of thunder moments later startles you so bad you flinch and duck. Eric’s hand squeezes your shoulder, reassuringly. Without thinking, you grab his hand and hold it in place. An anchor to keep you calm, to keep you sane. A reminder that you’re not alone.

You pass the red stain with careful steps. Part of that apartment must have a hole in it because the sound of rain is clearer, every pounding raindrop echoes off the walls.

The last door to your right is wide open.

Lightning flashes again. Another snapshot. Coast is clear, no trail of blood this time.

Every muscle tenses up, bracing for the thunder to follow. Push on. You repeat this in your mind as the noise rolls above, gentler this time. You can’t afford to lose your nerve.

Eric’s hand moves from your shoulder to your lower back as he shifts to stand next to you. His other arm wrapped around your waist. He’s taking more of a lead as you pass through the doorway together. His breath comes out trembling and slow in your ear.

This apartment has more windows, letting in enough light to see around the room. In the context of everything, it looks strange. It’s still neat and undisturbed—the couch has a blanket and cute pillows, the coffee table has a tv remote on it, the living room floor is covered in a long, plush carpet. It’s a time capsule, back to the last hours of normal life within the city.

Eric points to the couch and back to you.

Shaking your head ‘no,’ you grab the blanket from the back of the couch and lay it down on the carpet. Somehow, sleeping on the ground feels better—what if the springs in the couch make noise? The idea of shifting in your sleep and creating noise has become a constant fear every night.

There’s been so many new fears in the last couple of days.

Eric watches you, then begins sitting on the ground too. He takes his suit jacket off and hangs it off the coffee table to dry. He’s busy setting up his spot to sleep, smoothing out his side of the blanket and taking one of the couch pillows. He hands the other to you. It feels like a really strange sleepover.

Lightning flashes again and you get a clear view of Eric. His tie is still on.

Your fingers find their way to his shoulders first as you reach out blindly in the dark. They’re broad, well defined, and you’re surprised at first. Eric freezes, thinking something is wrong, but you continue on your way to his tie, gently pulling it loose and unwrapping it from around his neck. He watches you, sitting up a little so you can reach better.

So distracted by your task, the following clap of thunder above barely registers. Neither of you flinch.

“My mum taught me how to fix my ties.” His voice is barely a whisper, but it mixes in the space between you with your own breath.

In the dark you’re only inches apart.

You pull the tie off and lay it down on the coffee table next to his suit jacket.

“What’s she like?” You ask with a matching whisper.

God, the sound of your own voice is strange to you now. Raspy, raw, unused. And Eric’s…you almost forgot he was English.

“My mum?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s kind…” He swallows back the rising emotion in his voice. “Always so kind. She didn’t want me to—to go.” He takes a ragged breath; the harsh noise is enough to make you tense and pull him closer to you. It’s an action of panic at first, but it quickly turns into a hug as he presses his face into the crook of your neck.

At least now his choked sobs are muffled.

Running a hand through his hair, you try to calm him. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

There’s a sniffle and he pulls back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Here, lay down.”

You lay down too, guiding his head to the pillow. His nose nudges yours in the close space—you can feel his breath on your cheek. His hand grips the side of your shirt. He might still be crying; his eyes are shiny in the dark.

Your palm rests against the side of his neck, cupping his jaw—it stays there. “Tell me what England is like.”

Another flash of lightning. His face is so strikingly handsome in the light. Droplets of water fall from his brown curls onto his forehead.

“Um…well…” He begins unsteadily. “It’s very tight.”

“Tight?”

He nods, nose brushing against yours again. “The roads don’t get wider than two lanes. One going each way. All the houses are linked in long rows—almost like the neighborhoods here.”

“Is there traffic?”

Eric laughs once, a quiet laugh that comes out more like a long breath. It’s enough of a laugh to hear the humor in his voice. “There’s nothing but traffic.”

“Why’d they make the roads like that?”

“Not enough space.”

“Oh.” You ponder. “That makes sense actually—being that it’s pretty much an island."

“An island, yeah.”

“An island full of traffic.”

He laughs again, breath mixing with yours. “The U.S.—it’s quite big, so you can make your roads wider. More lanes and the like.”

“Ah…”

There’s a moment of silence where just the rain pounds overhead. Silence, that dreadful thing forced upon you now. Eric’s laugh, however small and subdued, was a wonderful sound.

“What made you want to be a lawyer?”

“I dunno. I… my dad said it was a good profession to do and—and it seemed very grown up.”

“You must be very smart to get into Law School around here.”

You win another laugh out of him. “I don’t know about that.”

“No, I’m serious. They’re extremely competitive.”

“It was expensive to get in.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

“What about you, are you going…” he pauses, his voice deflates a little, “…Were you going to school?”

You remain undeterred, you have to. “No, too expensive. Just working and trying to figure things out.”

“You didn’t have any plans?”

“I had plans, short-term stuff, but I’m not really a ‘plan your life out’ kinda person.”

“That actually sounds nice.”

“I’d like to think so.”

Another bout of silence. Eric is no longer sniffling; he watches you curiously.

“And your soccer teams—"

“—Football—”

Maybe he can see your teasing face in the dark, maybe he can’t. “Mm. Tomatoe, tomato. So, your soccer teams—”

“Hm, no. Football.”

“I’m not calling it football—you’re going to get me all confused.”

Eric laughs again and leans his forehead against yours. “It’s really not hard to separate them out—you’re doing this on purpose to get a rise out of me.”

“A rise? Jesus, you’re so British. Are you going to let me finish my question?”

“I’ll let you finish your question if you call them football teams.”

“You are a stubborn one. I feel like most people would have moved on by now.”

“Does that surprise you?”

You make a noise. “No, actually I like it. But anyway, Football—”

“—Thank you, darling—”

“—Hm. It’s a big deal, right?”

“Oh, huge. Did you even need to ask?”

“I guess I could have figured it out when you forced me to call it football in my own country.”

Eric’s grip on your shirt has relaxed now, his hand rests on your hip. “Is football a big deal here?”

“Football—football, or soccer—football?”

“Ah, well played. I see what you’re doing now.”

“I will make you say the word soccer.”

Somehow, he leans even closer.

“Not a chance.”

“Ha. Well, football tickets are sold out months in advance, sometimes before the season even starts, so that might answer your question.”

“They’re sold-out like that in England too.”

“But which football am I talking about, Eric?”

He snickers. “The one where they throw and kick the ball.”

“Oh, that’s very funny. Very clever.”

“I do know—”

From back in the room something creaks. Pressure on a floorboard, something moving, something big. Eric freezes. Your body goes cold.

Click-click-click.

Another couple of pounds on the ground. These are closer, you can feel the vibrations through the floor.

In the back of the apartment, leading to a bedroom, a door slowly creaks open. The rain sounds much closer now and the clicks continue, vivid and clear.

This apartment has a hole in it to the outside.

Eric is back to gripping you like his life depends on it. Your hand trembles against his skin.

Pound. Click-click-click.

The indifferent storm above sends lightning down again, as if it’s saying 'Hey, look at this'. The rapid succession of flashes gives you a view of the doorframe and the monstrous creature slinking through it.

Its body contorts and bends, long legs folding in as it fits itself into the room without disturbing anything. Scales and plates shift and move fluidly along its back. You didn’t think it was possible for it to be this nimble.

Click-click-click.

Eric, watching your tearful eyes track something over his shoulder, very carefully and very slowly starts to turn and try to get a glimpse of it. Your hand on his cheek tightens and stops him, turning him back to look at you. The message is clear as his breathing starts to quicken.

Look at me.

He purses his lips in an effort to keep from breathing through his mouth. He’s shaking as much as you are now.

The creature swings its head around in the dark, opening its face plates and clicking out. The way it opens up, the sound it makes is almost enough to make you shudder. Who knows why, but it moves toward you and Eric. Its massive silhouette stands out against the apartment’s lighter walls. You keep watching it, trembling and on the verge of tears.

The thing’s leg bumps the coffee table, and your mouth drops open at the sudden startlingly loud shriek of wood scraping against wood. Eric is quick to cover your mouth with a hand, holding you in place, keeping you quiet. He presses his mouth up against the back of his hand, trying to keep himself quiet too. Tears spill over onto your cheeks; they mix with his. Your faces are pressed together. Even though he’s terrified, he’s still gentle.

Click-click-click. Pound.

It’s so close now that those alien noises vibrate through your body. It’s so heavy that when it steps on the floorboards it almost bounces you.

And the thing smells.

It smells like death, decay, and rot. You’re never going to forget that smell as it wafts over you and permeates your clothes.

More tears fall, it’s impossible to rip your eyes away from the creature’s silhouette, it towers nearly to the ceiling in one long, thin body.

You wish more than anything that the lightning would stop. You don’t need to see it in clear detail. You don’t need to see the bits of viscera hanging from it or the dark red stains leading up its grotesque arms.

Eric’s hand moves a fraction out of the way to hold your cheek. Your eyes flash to him just as he replaces his hand with his mouth.

It’s reckless beyond measure, but the action makes you instinctually close your eyes. There’s no movement, there’s no bloom of passion, but the warmth spreads through your face. It’s an act of desperation in what may be your last moments together.

The creature’s feet pound on the floorboards again. Are they getting further away? You don’t dare open your eyes. You focus on the feeling of Eric’s mouth against yours. If this is when and how you’re going to die, you want to think about how soft his lips feel. You want to think about the way his curly hair looks as it dries into a tangled mess. How his shoulders felt under your touch and the breath of his laugh and the way his words sounded when he smiled.

It works, you almost feel at peace. It's just the feeling, the idea of it all ending any moment that keep you trembling.

But the footsteps are getting further away. The hinges of the door leading out into the complex’s hallway creak as the door is pushed open.

It’s leaving. It’s leaving.

After you can no longer feel the pounding footsteps or hear it anymore, you open your eyes again. The apartment is empty. It’s gone.

Eric is also looking around. He pulls back a little, separating your lips. The absence of warmth sends shivers down your body. And then you start trembling again, left to deal with the struggle of survival. The adrenaline, the short supply you had left, is used up—your body is suffering.

Shell shock is the first thing you think of, but Eric’s eyes catch yours and you snap back to the task at hand. Fortification. Leaving and following in that thing's footsteps would just mean a grisly death in the dark. You'd have to make due and close off all the exits.

It takes ages to sit up. There are moments when you think you hear something, only for it to be your imagination. There are moments when you question if you’re still alive.

Eric gently takes your hand; he helps you to your feet. Moving so, so slowly and carefully. It’s Eric that guides you through the next few minutes, directing you to help him move furniture in front of the door. Picking it up slowly and delicately. Closing the back door, which does indeed lead to a hole in the wall. He always stands near you; his hand guides you either by your shoulder, your hand, or your lower back.

Eric, the man you found shaking and traumatized in the rain, helps you and leads you.

Once the furniture has been moved, the apartment no longer looks like a time capsule of normality. It matches the rest of the city—disorderly and inherently wrong.

With your task complete, you lean against one of the walls, holding your mouth shut. The shaking in your legs becomes more pronounced now that you’re no longer moving. Your heart is pounding out of your chest. The dark room spins around you. Through your fingers you take small gasps of breath.

Eric knows what a panic attack looks like. What it feels like. How it cripples a person.

“It’s alright.” He breathes, as he comes over to hold the sides of your face. “We’re alright.”

Your hands reach out and cling to him, pulling him closer. His body flattens against you on the wall. His forehead leans down to yours.

“Eric…”

He lifts your face up, smoothing out your cheeks, trying to calm you down. “I’m here. Right here.”

You do the only thing you can think of. The only method true method that can dispel the thoughts of your near death. Closing the short distance between your faces, you kiss him.

This time, he moves. This time it’s not a kiss with your imminent death looming right over you; it’s relived, it’s desperate, it’s a plea to wake up your body and revive yourself.

We’re alive.

The kiss is wet, you can taste the tears on his lips as he sloppily molds them to yours. The light stubble on his face scratches you, but it hardly registers. The kiss gets increasingly desperate—you both needed this, you both wanted this. You could have died and never experienced this and now you’re making up for that.

Your fingers tangle in his still wet hair. They grab the back of his neck; they grab his shoulders as he flexes and runs his hands up and down your sides. If you pull away to take in another gasp, Eric is quick to close the distance again, forcing you to take in air through your nose.

But you’re tired beyond measure, running off nothing but pure fear and adrenaline for days and nights on end. How Eric keeps himself together after being through the same things you have is something you’d like to learn one day, but tonight—fuck, tonight you need to sit down before your legs give out.

You pull away again, trying to gasp out something. Eric’s lips chase yours, but your body has had enough finally, and you give in, sliding down the wall before he catches you. By the way your head lolls back, and your arms fall to your sides, he understands.

Always so gentle, always so caring, Eric leads you back to the blanket and lays you down in his arms. Pressing your face into his collar, you feel just safe enough that you might be able to sleep. Exhaustion pulls at your consciousness, but images of the hideous alien are vividly playing out in your mind’s eye.

Only Eric’s voice, barely above a breath, but warm in your ear is enough to soothe you. He murmurs about how you’ll both be on the boats tomorrow. Tomorrow, you’ll be safe. Everything will be ok tomorrow. He peppers your forehead with light kisses in between words.

Before your world fades into nothingness, you stretch up to kiss him under his jaw. The last thing you hear is his quiet sigh.

Eric didn’t sleep much that night, too busy making a plan in his head to get you both to the south st. seaport. If he had to carry you, he would. He would do anything for you. And if this all somehow turned into a happy ending, then he would be right next to you to share it, to see you smile again, to hear you tease him.

If it doesn’t, then he has to find a way to kiss you one more time before the end.

[callie-the-creator]

insomniac

sfw. warnings: reader is fmab, mentions of kira and his murders, l can’t sleep, etc.

author’s note: i miss l so much. :(

l sat in his characteristic crouch on the edge of his chair, fingers entwined, eyes intently focused on the monitors before him. the task force headquarters was dimly lit, the flickering screens casting a bluish hue across the room. he had spent countless hours reviewing evidence, piecing together clues, and trying to identify kira, but the elusive criminal mastermind continued to evade him. l won't rest or, at the very least, he refused to. his main focus consisted of two things: keeping y/n— his girlfriend— safe and away from any danger and catching kira (l had dedicated the past few years to the investigation pursuing kira), a figure known to kill those whom he deems morally unworthy of life.

so many criminals have died.

his mind raced with possibilities, tracing and retracing steps, connecting and disconnecting dots. his suspicions often circled back to the same few individuals, but without concrete evidence, he was trapped in a maddening loop of speculation. he needed proof, something tangible that could lead to an arrest. the gnawing uncertainty kept him awake, denying him the rest his body craved.

as the hours dragged into the early morning, l's eyes, bloodshot and weary, drifted to the cot where his girlfriend, y/n, lay sleeping. her presence had been a rare comfort in his life, a steadying force amidst the chaos. she stirred slightly, her breathing deep and rhythmic, oblivious to the turmoil that raged within him. "y/n...?" he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. he wasn't expecting an answer; he just needed to hear the sound of her name, something to anchor him to reality.

she groaned softly, her eyes fluttering open to meet his. "hmm...whaaaat?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. it was clear she wasn't pleased about being woken up, but she tried to focus on him nonetheless.

l hesitated, his mind teetering on the edge of a precipice. he knew what he was about to ask could shatter the fragile peace they had, but he couldn't suppress the question any longer. "would you betray me?" he asked.

y/n blinked, her drowsiness giving way to confusion. "what are you talking about?" she inquired, pushing herself up on one elbow. "why would you ask something like that?" she added.

l’s gaze remained fixed on her, searching for any hint of deceit, any flicker of guilt. but all he saw was a concern, her eyes wide and earnest in the dim light. "i’ve been thinking…” he began, his voice steady but laced with tension, "about kira, about the people who might be capable of such things. and it occurred to me that...i don't know if i can trust anyone anymore." he said, sadly.

she sat up fully, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, her hair all messy. "l, you know me," she said softly, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. "we’ve been through so much together. how can you even think i would betray you?" she questioned, despite knowing very well that l had every right to not trust her. after all, he was the head of the investigation and thus the arch nemesis of kira. he must remain vigilant, it is all he can do to ensure his safety.

"i don't know what to think anymore…” he admitted, his tone betraying the depth of his internal struggle. "i just…can't afford to make any mistakes. you know that.” he sighed. this was the last conversation that he wanted to have with y/n, despite it needing to be addressed.

y/n reached out, her hand covering his. "listen to me," she said firmly, her touch grounding him. "i am not kira. i would never do anything to hurt you or anyone else. you have to believe that." she partially pleaded with him. if they wanted to put their relationship on ice because of this minor bump in the road, then so be it, but y/n is sure that it would only result in hurting them.

l’s eyes softened, the storm within them momentarily calmed by her words. he wanted to believe her, to cling to the hope that at least one part of his life remained untouched by kira's darkness. "i want to believe you.” he said quietly, "but i can't let my guard down. not even for you,” he said matter-of-factly. “i’m sorry…”

y/n sighed deeply. she then slid out from under the warm blankets, her bare feet meeting the cold floor with a shiver. standing beside him, she gazed down at him, his hunched form bathed in the eerie glow of the computer screens. leaning down, she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, her lips lingering there for a moment before she ran her hands through his unruly black hair. "can you at least come to bed then?" she asked softly.

the night had stretched on for far too long, and the first light of dawn would soon pierce the gloom. l shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling almost imperceptibly. "don’t know," he replied, his tone detached and distant, eyes never leaving the monitors.

y/n let out a small, plaintive whine, her worry for him bubbling to the surface. she wrapped her arms around him from behind, pulling him into a tender embrace. "please?" she murmured, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. "you need to rest. just a little while…”

l felt the warmth of her breath against his skin, the comforting pressure of her body against his back. for a moment, he allowed himself to be still, to feel the weight of her concern and the depth of her affection. he glanced at her, then at the clock on the wall, the numbers blurring slightly in his tired vision. his gaze returned to her, meeting her pleading eyes. "fine," he said finally, his voice tinged with reluctant resignation before mustering a small, almost imperceptible smile. "but five minutes is all you’re getting."