#and shout out to all the power bottoms that make it possible

[wolveria]

I said he was a top. I didn't say he was a dom.

[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.

[takumiraine]

Once Upon a Time chapter 7

<first> <prev> <next>

Danny is still going thru it. I’m not going to put it on Ao3 until I’m done with it. I have no idea about a master post though.

Some blood and a bit of puke in this chapter.

—

Danny was furious. Furious and terrified and alone.

Jason. His one friend. Red Hood. The man who had sworn he wasn’t a Bat. They were the same person. They worked with Batman. Bruce Wayne funded the Justice League. Bruce Wayne was Jason’s father.

He was going to be sick.

Danny stopped running to throw up in an alley, half bile, half swallowed blood. His nose was still dripping and oozing and throbbing and the force of his heaving set it bleeding in earnest again. He swore, spitting on the ground, before flattening himself into the shadows as the trill of police cars sped by, heading the direction he had just left.

He had to find a way to contact Tucker and Sam. Tucker was monitoring the GIW passively, and it was set up to know if anyone searched for him. If there was suddenly more chatter or a mobilization. But if the Bats were watching him…

Danny checked the street and darted another couple blocks before pressing against another wall and checking. When he got to his building, he scampered up to his apartment and locked himself in. Not that the locks would do anything against anyone that seriously wanted to hurt him but…. He moved his bed up against the door too.

Danny went to sigh out of his nose and spattered half clotted blood everywhere again. “Ancients fucking damn it!” Danny felt tears springing to his eyes at the thought of yet another mess he’d have to clean up before he could pass out. He went to the bathroom and growled at his reflection in the mirror. The break in his nose was obvious and he knew that if he didn’t fix it now, it would slowly fix itself over the next week or two.

If he had a shitton of food and a way into the Zone without drawing suspicion he could heal it in a couple hours but…

A deep breath in and a gritted yell out, and Danny was able to reset it, icing it in place with the little bit of his powers he was able to use without drawing attention. Gotham had a lot of random cold spells from that one supervillain. Danny wasn’t going to argue it.

He changed his shirt, and washed out the blood in cold water, gingerly wiping off his face as he went. Once it was laid in the kitchen sink to dry, Danny took the duct tape he had in his drawer and taped his windows shut.

The point was to make it obvious if they were tampered with and make a lot of noise in the process.

From there, he pulled his blankets into the tub, crawled on top of them and went to sleep, thankful it was the weekend. He would get the blood off the wood in the morning. He didn’t sleep well, waking up with barely muffled shouts and gasps for breath as the memories of broken bones healing while being used, burns so bad he couldn’t feel them regrowing nerves, the concussive blast of the Fenton Bazooka, the shredding feeling of the Fenton Ghost Peeler haunting his unconscious mind.

The irony of his parents handing over their otherwise harmless weapons to the GIW who upgraded them into the most painful versions possible under the guise of protecting him from Phantom was not lost on him.

He did not go to campus Saturday or Sunday, but showed up for his Monday class the slightest bit late, anxiety chewing through him like squirrels liked to gnaw through cables. Jason was in their usual spot, but Danny slid into one nearest the door, frowning when he caught Jason looking at him. He knew he was still all bruised up, he had to ration again, and aside from some bottom of the barrel cheap ass junk food, he hadn’t eaten this weekend at all.

He could feel Jason’s eyes on him most of the lesson, and Danny kept his head down, scrawling his notes the best he could with battered and split knuckles. He felt one of the scabs tear and absently lifted it to his mouth, making sure he didn’t bleed all over his notes. From across the room, Danny felt something from Jason’s core and used his own to push back “no” and “asshole”.

Jason might not be able to tell exactly what Danny meant, or even why, but he should be able to get a vibe. Judging by the small flinch, barely perceptible even when Danny was looking right at Jason, Danny was fairly certain his point was made.

The end of class came and Danny was the first one out the door, pushing his core down to nothing and ducking down another hallway and into a doorway of an empty classroom. He sat against the wall there to do his homework, rather than being predictable and going to the library.

Jason was well aware that he had fucked up. Danny looked half dead, more than the first time, with bruises on his face and hands and up his sleeves. Then Danny’s knuckle split and he sucked it into his mouth. Jason felt a pile of things swirl around the place in his stomach the pit occupied. Guilt tinged with arousal, followed by embarrassment at the arousal in this situation and then…. He felt like a wall slammed into the pit. He didn’t flinch, not anymore, but there was a hard blink in response. Danny’s glare told him all he needed to know. It had come from him. Somehow.

Then class was over and Danny bolted almost immediately. By the time Jason made it out of class after him, he was gone.

The next couple of classes went the same way.

Jason needed to find him, to talk, to explain, to apologize, to ask him how the fuck he knew. He almost got his chance on Wednesday when Jason was in the library with Babs, shelving books silently with her. Danny snuck around the corner and startled so hard he dropped the book he had been planning to check out, probably for their lit class. He looked between Babs and Jason for one tense moment, and Jason watched him go pale(r) in the bright lights. He opened his mouth and reached out a hand, and Danny flinched away, fear slamming into Jason like the force of that bomb. When he could breathe again, Danny was gone.

“He’s afraid of us…” Jason muttered, confused. “He took on six goons in the middle of the night and got stabbed, but still walks around Gotham at night without fear…. But he’s afraid of us.”

Babs looked up at him. “We need to find out what happened.” Her voice was matter of fact. “Before B stumbles into it and makes things worse.”

“I know.”

Friday, Jason got his chance.

Danny was creeping across the courtyard and Jason was just happening to cross at a different point. “Danny!” He called, just loud enough to be heard. He had his hands up, empty, as he approached. He was ready for the fear slamming into him this time, and ate the angry that followed behind it. “Wait. Please. It’s important.” Danny didn’t move, didn’t run, though he was scoping out exits. Jason made sure to leave him with several.

“You have one minute. Any other…. Associate…. Joins you and you don’t get another chance.”

“Fair. It’s just us.” Jason came close enough that he could talk without being overheard, hands still up. “I want to say I’m sorry first. I wanted to tell you, but it isn’t something I can really tell people and the relationship is complicated and we don’t really work together. But that’s not the point. B wants to know how you knew it was me and how the pit got to you. We tried to look it…. You… up but there was a weird firewall? Some account required shit and a number. One of the…. Others… called it and it went to a government information warehouse? She pretended it was a wrong number and it was on a burner that we destroyed after but- “

Danny looked ashen. “You called the GIW?”

“You know them?”

“They want to kill me. Again.” Danny crumpled to the ground, hunching in on himself. He took a step closer to hear what Danny was whispering. “-gonna fillet me… don’t have the shield, need to warn Tucker and Sam and…. No not Jazz. She’s normal… she’s safe… they don’t want her… they only want me… my fault…my fault…”

When it turned into Danny just repeating “my fault” over and over, Jason knelt beside him. Danny flinched, curled in deeper, but Jason just gently placed his hand on Danny’s shoulder, reminding him quietly of where they were and that he was safe.

It took time, but slowly Danny’s rapid and shallow breathing returned to normal. He looked up at Jason. “Why…? Why are you doing this to me?”

“We didn’t mean to call the government. Everything ever associated with you has had a firewall around it. Oracle can’t break in without alerting them. Why are they after you?”

“Batman and the league called them.”

“I…. They’ve never worked with the government.”

“Right.”

“Seriously.” Danny still looked skeptical Jason raised a hand calmingly. “Okay. Let’s pause that. Why do you think they would call them on you. What happened?”

“There was a lot of… weird and dangerous stuff happening in my town…. With me. I kept calling the league and leaving them messages. First asking for help… then asking for someone to just talk to me… make sure I wasn’t… going to hurt someone. Then the GIW showed up…”

“What does GIW really stand for?”

“We always called them the Guys in White, because that’s all they wore… but..” Danny took a fortifying breath. Jason noticed he was shaking. “Ghost Investigation Ward. See… my parents… were inventors and I accidentally turned myself into a halfa when I fixed something of theirs…”

Jason stared. It was a lot to take in. Bruce wouldn’t have ignored a kid asking for help. Hell, Supes or the Flash could have been there and back in less time than it took him to have a cup of coffee. So many questions ran through Jason’s mind, starting with why had he been the one the universe picked for this? Dick and Tim were both more emotionally available, able to give more than just a ‘there there’ or ‘that’s rough buddy’. Instead of the reasonable questions, like ‘what kind of weird things?’ or ‘what are you capable of?’ Jason just asked “Halfa?”

“Half ghost. Half human. Technically I died in my parents’ basement. But also I didn’t.”

“Is that how you knew it was me?”

“Yeah. Gotham has a little ambient ecto, all the violent deaths here. Not as much as home but, it works. You died once too though, pretty… permanently. But your core was still weak. It’s formed up a lot more with me, but it’s…. Like a fingerprint.”

“I need to tell B. That you’re being hunted by the government guys and why you think it was him and the league that sold you out. He’s going to want to crack the firewall, and probably hear your side of the story himself.”

“Just… when they come give me as much of a heads up as you can. We were… or you pretended we were friends. You owe me that much.”

“If I have to take on those dicks myself, I will. I won’t let them keep hunting you here. Those of us that died but got better have to stick together.”

Danny still looked suspicious. Jason didn’t blame him. “When he cracks the firewall, he’s going to learn who I really am. If…. If he wants me to trust him, I need to know who he really is.” Danny eventually said, quietly. Jason didn’t blame him.

“I’ll tell him that.” Jason didn’t know what Bruce would say to that. He assumed the answer would be as close to ‘No fucking way in any hell that exists or was ever imagined’ as Bruce got. But he would ask.

Danny nodded. Seeming smaller and way older than he should. Looking like a man that hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in years. Like every drop of anything worth anything had been wrung out of him. Jason knew that feeling. He wanted to make Danny feel safe again. If Danny really did try to avoid hurting people, he deserved safety.

He could have outed Jason to the whole town. He didn’t. Jason thought that was something. “I’ll talk to him.” Jason promised again.

[jae-bummer]

Safe Place

Request: lee know and 10? please? :)

Prompt:

10) "Just say you want me and I'm yours."

Pairing: Stray Kids Lee Know x Reader

Genre: Fluff

.

"I'm telling you, they're into you, man," Han gasped, smacking his knee for emphasis.

"Why would I care if they were?" Lee Know sighed, not even bothering to look up from his phone. It wasn't like your affections mattered to him.

Or at least that's what he told himself.

"Why would you-" Han breathed, his brows furrowed with exhaustion. "Don't you want to know if someone likes you or not?"

"It's not going to affect me either way," Lee Know said finitely.

It didn't matter if his stomach did an obnoxious little flip every time you entered the room. It didn't matter that you were literally better than any perfume (how could a human be his favorite smell?!) And it definitely didn't matter what Han said. He'd believe it when he heard it with his own ears. He wasn't opening himself up to hurt just for the hell of it.

"Just give up, Hannie," Hyunjin grumbled, plopping onto the couch beside his distressed member. "His heart is not going to grow two sizes this day."

"Watch your mouth," Lee Know said, his tone remaining bored. "I know where you sleep."

"If you haven't killed me yet, you're not going-"

Lee Know looked up with an icy glare.

"To give up trying," Hyunjin quickly finished after clearing his throat.

Nodding to himself, Lee Know looked back his phone. These two wouldn't catch him slipping today.

..

"He's crazy about you," Felix nodded, pushing another brownie in your direction.

Shaking your head as you pushed it back, you let out a small burp. "I can't do another one, Lix. I'm going to burst."

"Brownies aside," he hummed. "Are you going to acknowledge what I said?"

After a moment of silence, you sighed. "He can like me all he wants, but that doesn't mean anything unless he actually tells me."

Felix sucked on his bottom lip, lost in thought. He was probably thinking through what was on your mind as well. Was Lee Know capable of being vulnerable enough to even show that side to you?

"You've gotta make him feel safe," Felix nodded slowly. "He'll admit it if he knows he's not going to get his heart broken."

You pressed your face into your hands and groaned. "Have you stopped to consider one thing?"

"Hm?"

"Do I even like him like that?"

Felix stepped back, aghast. "What do you mean? Of course you do!"

"That sounds an awful lot like gaslighting," you grumbled.

He smacked a hand over his mouth before lifting his brows. "I just always assumed!" came out muffled from behind his fingers.

"Why would you assume that?" you laughed nervously, trying to deep dive in your recent memory of interactions with Lee Know. Sure, he was good looking. And yeah, he was a good listener.

And maybe you'd be the first to admit that when he did that crooked smile with the little nose crinkle you died a little inside, but otherwise, you were totally normal. He was totally normal. A possible love connection had never crossed your mind...not that often at least.

"You're just so..." Felix started before waving his hands in the air. "Around each other."

"Please explain what..." you laughed, mimicking his hand gesture. "Means."

"Squishy, cute, perfect together," he sighed. "He gets so giggly and soft when you're paying attention to him. He's only ever like that with us."

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms. "I know you want us to be this cute little rom com, but-"

"No, Y/N," Felix hummed. "I want you two to be happy. And I think that could really be with each other."

..

"You got this! " Han whisper shouted. He rubbed Lee Know's shoulders as he hopped up and down. "It's going to be great."

Lee Know bit his lip, grappling with the feeling of nausea washing across his lower torso. He hated giving anyone the power to make him feel like this, even if it was you.

For what felt like weeks, Han had chipped away at his armor. The protection he had so carefully carved out over the years was picked away by his overbearing (in a good way he guessed?) best friend. It was true that if Han didn't push him in other situations, he wouldn't be nearly as happy and successful as he was. What if this was the same?

On good days, he trusted Han with everything he had. On bad days, he could only trust him as far as he could throw him.

And that big head of his was heavy today.

"This is the worst idea you've ever had," he hissed, spinning around to face Han. "Are you sure they like me?"

"Positive-" Han started. "-ly definitely a maybe."

Lee Know's eyebrows lowered, his hands latching onto Han's biceps. "What," he whispered.

Han cringe-smiled, wary of how quiet Lee Know's voice had gotten. He would almost prefer him to be loud about his confusion. He knew how to handle that Lee Know reaction. This one only inspired nervousness.

"I talked to Felix," Han said meekly. "He talked to Y/N-"

"This sounds a lot like a game of telephone," Lee Know said through barred teeth. "If I make a fool of myself..."

"You're not," Han cooed, looking his friend in the eyes. As Lee Know's hands drooped back to his sides, Han grabbed his shoulders again. "You know we wouldn't ever set you up to be knocked down, right? This is going to go great."

Or at least he hoped it would.

..

You tucked your legs under you as you settled onto the practice room couch. Quickly glancing around, you tried not to let yourself think too deeply about what was going to happen.

"He said he wanted to meet me here?" you croaked, looking anxiously toward Felix.

Your friend's expression was soft as he set a hand lightly on your knee and gave a gentle squeeze. "He did."

"To talk," you said, repeating what Felix had said on the way over.

"Mmhmm," he hummed, lazily scrolling through his phone.

"Is he on the way? Is-"

"Y/N," Felix grinned, looking up again. "It's okay to be nervous. You know that, right?"

"Nervous?" you scoffed. "What reason do I have to be nervous?"

Felix lifted his brows, letting you answer the question yourself.

Whether it was unsaid or not, you had every reason. Just a few nights ago, you had been convincing yourself and Felix (well, maybe not Felix) that you had never really considered Lee Know in the way he was insinuating you should. When you had pointed the gaslighting finger at him, you supposed your other three fingers were pointing right back at you. No matter how many times you told yourself things just weren't like that with Lee Know, a little patter in your heart suggested otherwise.

He made you feel things.

Good, amazing, but completely terrifying things. Things you hadn't wanted to observe too closely until your friends held them out for you to examine.

Taking a deep inhale through your nose, you slowly blew it out of your mouth. "I'm nervous."

"That is a really healthy admission, Y/N," Felix chuckled sarcastically. "I'm proud of you."

"Shut uuuup," you groaned, slumping down against the back of your seat. "Is he on the way or not?"

As if waiting for your signal, the door slammed open. Jumping a bit at the sound, you watched as someone's hand pushed Lee Know aggressively into the room. Stumbling forward, he quickly regained his footing before looking up with a nervous smile. "Hey."

"Hey," you said weakly, feeling your mouth already curving up with amusement.

"Time to go," Felix hummed, springing up from beside you and making his way toward the door. "You two have fun."

"Wait," you gasped, furrowing your brows. "You're leaving?"

"Got things to do," Felix smirked, nodding at Lee Know as he walked past. "You two might want to lock the door for some privacy. You know what? I'll just do it myself on the way out..."

"No," Lee Know muttered, shaking his head. "We're fine."

"Suit yourself," Felix shrugged. Opening the door only wide enough for him to slide through, he closed it behind him again.

Directing your attention back to Lee Know, you gave a small wave.

He let out a huff of a chuckle before walking slowly toward you and plopping on the couch as well. "So..."

"So," you nodded. The air was heavy with tension, an awkward silence going longer and longer between the two of you.

It was never like this when you met. Things always seemed to be so easy before, albeit occasionally shy. You refused to have whatever was going on ruin that.

Pushing forth every ounce of courage you had, you finally chanced looking up from your lap and into Lee Know's eyes. He had been quietly watching you, the direct contact causing his breathing to stutter.

"Why are we making this so painful on ourselves?" you said quietly. "Just say what you'd like to say."

"M-me?" Lee Know exhaled. "Han said that you..."

He trailed off, a small line appearing between his eyebrows when he began to think too deeply.

"But Felix-" you started, shaking your head in confusion. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured down your back. Had Lee Know not wanted to talk to you at all?

"I'm going to kill them," Lee Know hissed, springing to his feet. You came to the realization at the same time he did. Your friends had set you up. "I'm going to shove them both into the air fryer, I'm going to crank it to-"

A strangled laugh escaped from your throat as you grabbed his hand. Stopping mid-sentence, Lee Know immediately sank back down beside you. "They...they framed this up to be..."

"A confession?" you said weakly. You were crestfallen. A sour feeling twisted around your chest and plummeted to your gut. No matter how much you had tried to prepare yourself, it was all a wash.

"Well, yeah," Lee Know huffed. "They...they think we have feelings for each other...and we just haven't realized."

"Pfft," you scoffed, the hurt emotions already surging to the forefront. "Don't you think we'd know if we had feelings for each other?"

"Definitely," he nodded irritably. After only a few seconds, the nodding grew softer. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" you croaked.

"I..." he trailed off, his eyes trailing everywhere but towards you. "I mean, I had kind of hoped..."

You remained cautiously silent. The preemptive hurt was being pushed out of your chest as optimism surged in.

"It was a nice idea," he said finally. "That's all."

You opened your mouth to speak but were unsure of where to go next. Was this him admitting that he liked the thought of you two together? In his funny, little, Lee Know way, was he being open with you?

You thought back to your conversation with Felix and recalled the words you had cast off so easily. You've gotta make him feel safe. He'll admit it if he knows he's not going to get his heart broken.

Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath before opening them again. Reaching forward, you set your fingers lightly atop of where Lee Know's hand sat on his knee.

Looking down in alarm, he looked back up again, and searched your face. "Y/N?"

"Just say you want me...and I'm yours," you said, ripping off the words like a Band-Aid.

Lee Know blinked, trying to understand. When your words finally dawned on him, it was as if he was blossoming before your eyes. His smile grew wide and his breaths heavy as he continued to look at you.

You sucked in your bottom lip, waiting. The action immediately drew his attention. Just when you thought his smile couldn't have gotten any bigger, the corners tugged even higher. Launching forward, he gripped your face between his hands and pressed his mouth against yours. What had been so quiet and fragile only minutes before, now pulsed with an electricity and fervor you weren't expecting. Gripping his wrists, you kissed him back, the surge of emotions making you feel as if you could cry.

At the edge of your senses, you could hear what sounded like faint shouting. Pulling only a centimeter or so away from Lee Know, you both looked at each other in confusion. The practice room door flung open as Felix and Han fell through, toppling over each other to land on the floor.

Felix looked up with a sheepish grin. "Told you both that you should probably have locked it."

[kotton-kandy953]

━ 𝙳𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙻𝚈 𝙱𝙴𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝙳

➛ various!yandere!male oneshots x fem!reader

title page┆word count: 2k┆warnings: cursing, description of a dead body, HEAVY blood/gore depictions, implied torture, manipulation, murder

FRIGID ━ boyfriend ! shoto todoroki x fem ! reader

⤷ 𝕿𝕳𝕰

bloodied teenager cut his pretty, Heterochromic eyes at the red mess he had made below himself. He lifted his hand, wiping the blood off his bottom lip with his thumb.

His hands were clad in black gloves.

To not leave fingerprint evidence, maybe?

His chest rose and fell rapidly. Deep, heavy breaths escaping his lungs, the only thing keeping his tired figure going is pure adrenaline.

And the thought of his beautiful girlfriend.

Even so, the boy still felt burning hatred for the pathetic being by his feet.

With a sigh, he pulled back his hood and wiped the sweat off his forehead. His short, half white and half red hair being revealed.

He ran a hand through it, getting the two-toned locks out of his face only for them to fall back in place.

The half-and-half boy thought it was all over until the body below him began to squirm and writhe in agony.

His gaze quickly jolted to their direction, clenching his teeth in frustration.

"P- please! Spare me!!..." The person lying at the teen's feet called. The teen only stared dead at them, his eyes void with all human feelings and emotion.

He wasn't thinking straight, all he could think of was how much this person made his girlfriend happy. How they made her smile.

How they managed to comfort her when she was sad or angry.

How he wished he was the only one allowed to do that.

The more those thoughts rushed back and forth in his head, the more he lost control.

It was sending him straight over the edge.

He subconsciously clenched his left fist, smoke emanating from it.

He could care less about their pathetic pleads for mercy. About their cries as he makes their blood paint the ground red.

"...please... j- just let me go!" They shouted, choking and gargling on their own blood in their mouth. Tears streamed down their bruised face, along with blood rolling down their nose.

The boy rolled his eyes at his pleading victim. He could've sworn he had already tortured and beaten them enough for them to be bleeding out on the ground, dead — or dying, at the least.

They should've died of blood loss minutes ago, he thought with his stoic expression still present.

His face was unfazed and uninterested in their desperate weeping and begging for mercy.

Their face was bruised and broken, as if they were beaten up over and over again.

Not saying that's not what has been happening for the past few hours.

Their body was weak and it even hurt for them to breathe, but the boy could care less.

Sighing his eyes, the teenage boy finally spoke, "Shut up."

He lifted his right foot and kicked the person's stomach. They jerked in pain and coughed up more blood, knowing that they couldn't fight back against him.

The boy had the power to kill them right then and there. He could have even killed them from the start.

But he didn't.

He's going as slow as possible on purpose.

He wanted them to suffer.

To suffer for all the moments they've spent with Y/n.

To suffer for all the moments they made Shoto resent them even more.

"You've lost too much blood and you're probably in indescribable pain," The boy reached down beside their body, grabbing a large golf club he had set down not too long ago.

"You're not going to live much longer."

The boy activated his quirk on his left side, slowly heating up the metal golf club, making it flush a soft shade of red.

He lifted it up above his head with a death grip, his eyes locked on the person below him.

"So I might as well put an end to your suffering already."

• • •

You placed your phone back down onto your bed after it went back to voicemail.

What the hell, Shoto!?

It has been two, no, almost three hours since you last heard from your boyfriend Shoto Todoroki.

He had promised to arrive at your home by 2pm but now it's almost five.

"What the fuck could he possibly be doing!?" You sat down on your bed while scrolling through your contacts list until you found his.

"And why couldn't he just text me sooner to let me know that he'd be late!?"

You angrily read at the texts you spammed him only a few minutes ago. He had left you on delivered for hours which isn't very common for him.

Calm down, clam down... You took a deep breath, he probably just misplaced his phone!

Your attempts at calming yourself down worked for a little, before you started thinking of the worst possible scenarios.

But there have been many disappearances lately... you placed your phone in your jacket pocket, and everyone that's been going missing has had some sort of relation to me...

You felt your heart pounding against your chest, But that doesn't mean Shoto was kidnapped!

You slowly stood up and walked towards your bedroom door.

He would never let himself get kidnapped...

...Right?

You swung your bedroom door open and ran to your front door. You called out to your parents that you were leaving, but you left before they could even uttered a response.

I have to get to Shoto's house as fast as I can!

• • •

Shoto grunts as he swings the red, hot, golf club down onto their already bloodied  and broken body. More blood splatters on his face and black hoodie as he repeats this heinous action in cold blood a few more times.

Finally, he lifts the club and rests it on his shoulder.

"Shit..." He muttered quietly to himself, "...I must've lost track of time."

He kept his cold expression as he licked the splattered blood off his lips.

The persons face, or what was left of said person, was mangled and beaten far beyond recognition. It was just a disgusting , gory, mess.

He dropped the heated golf club onto the ground, causing it to clang loudly against the cement floor of the basement. The large club fell right beside the mutilated corpse beside his feet.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, Shoto used his ice power to regulate the temperature of his body.

After doing so, he kneeled down beside the body and grabbed their wrist. He was checking for a pulse or any other signs of life.

nothing.

Finding out that they were gone, a very soft smile, crazy, appears on the boys face.

He dropped their broken wrist and stood up, his slight smile growing wider.

Once standing upright, the heterochromic eyed boy coldly stared down at the crimson mess he had made beneath his shoes.

His eyes were dark, full of resentment and zero remorse for the heinous act he had just committed.

More blood than one could ever imagine coming from another human oozed around the corpse. Shoto slowly took a few steps back to avoid staining his shoes further.

Shoto's smile softly faded as he wiped the blood off his face, only smearing it further. He slowly took his gloves off and threw them on top of the bludgeoned dead body.

He walked over to a stack of boxes and grabbed his phone, examining each and every text and call notification he received from you.

Y/n is still waiting for me at her house... he thought as he read the texts you sent.

"She's probably worried sick..." he mutters to himself, "...This took way longer than anticipated."

The heterochromic eyed male turned around and placed his phone is his pocket, preparing to leave the basement.

He glanced up at the stairs, and what he saw made him freeze in surprise.

"Sh- Shoto..." said a trembling and crying female voice. He took a step back, almost tumbling on his own two feet.

"Y/n..."

You were about to run up to your boyfriend and hug him, but what you had saw shook you to your core.

Blood.

It was everywhere.

Crimson blood was all on the floors and your boyfriend's pretty face.

And on the dead body lying only a few feet away from him.

You placed your hands on your mouth, the strong, disgusting, stench of blood made you feel dizzy.

Shoto put on his normal, neutral expression but you could tell there was an emotion he was masking behind it.

What was that masked emotion, exactly?

You didn't know.

But what you did know was that your seemingly loving boyfriend has turned into a cold-blooded monster.

You ran to the bottom of the stairs, keeping a distance between you and your bloodied boyfriend.

Tears streaked down your (s/c) face, you couldn't ever believe that he would do such things as this.

You choked back sobs as he reached his hand out to you.

"Y/n..." He begged, "Y/n, listen to me..."

Shoto started to slowly take a few steps towards you. Before he got any closer you backed away out of pure fear.

Your hands fell limp at your sides. "Wh- Why the hell should I listen to you!?" You shouted at him with clenched fists.

He relaxed his expression once more and shoved his hands back in his pockets.

He tilts his head and asks, "What are you—"

You stomped your foot to the ground, "-You know exactly what I'm talking about, dammit!!"

You paused, biting your lip as tears of frustration rolled down your cheeks.

"You went on hiatus for three goddamn hours and when I finally find you... yo- you're..." you trailed off.

"Just let me explain..." He took a step closer and you took a step back once more. You both repeated this until your back hit the wall behind yourself.

You mentally cursed yourself for not retreating up the stairs and calling for help

He reached his hand out to caress your face, you flinched at the feeling of his red-stained hand against your soft skin. He stared deep into your (e/c) eyes, his filled with pure love and adoration for you.

The way he touched and looked at you made you feel sick to your stomach. How could someone brutally murdered another human being and still manage to act as if nothing happened.

How psychotic could a person be to do that!?

"I wouldn't kill somebody without a proper reason, Y/n." He said quietly, almost a whisper.

You brought up your trembling hand and took his off your face. The more he touched you the more disgusted you felt.

"Then... then why?" You muttered, "Then why did you do it...?"

Shoto Todoroki takes note of your expression and body language.

You were deathly afraid of the boy— no, the monster standing in front of you.

He didn't want to make it worse by telling the truth. That he killed an innocent person out of pure jealousy and love for her.

That would make him sound crazy.

So he lied.

He lied to you about everything.

He sighs quietly, "The many unexplained disappearances... the one who mangles their face beyond recognition... was them."

He silently gestures to the mutilated corpse behind him.

You look beyond Shoto's shoulder, your petrified eyes rested on the brutal murder scene. You tried your hardest to resist the urge to throw up right there.

You fixed your gaze in his mismatched irises. "B- but you still murdered them without proof of them being behind this!"

He reassuringly placed a hand on your shoulder, "I do have proof, Y/n."

He glanced behind himself, "They even tried kidnapping me, Y/n."

His eyes locked with yours, "You have to believe me."

You looked him in the eyes, they were sincere and full of love. And there was no visible sign of him being dishonest.

I should trust him.

Shoto would never lie to me...

...Right?

Back to Title Page?

[vermilionsun]

As promised, here is the Mhin/Vere Hate Sex Oneshot, well-cooked and served on a silver platter. Enjoy <3

Word count: 3.5k Rating: Explicit Fandom: Touchstarved (Red Spring Studio) Categories: Other Relationships: Mhin/Vere, Mhin & Vere, Vere & Leander, Mhin & Leander Tags: Hate Sex, Smut, PWOP, Rough sex, Fingering, Biting, Dirty Talk, Against the wall, Jumbled dynamics, Top Vere, Power Bottom Mhin, Forced Proximity (kinda), Poor Leander

The night was young as patrons made their way down to the Amaryllis district, crowding the streets and specifically, once again, the Wet Wick. The sound of laughter and music filled the air, creating a lively atmosphere that drew people from all corners of Lowtown.

Mhin arrived at the bar just as the sunlight disappeared behind the horizon. They looked over the pub with disdain; it was already bustling with people.

Mhin slid into the establishment, immediately assaulted by the pungent blend of cheap alcohol, sweat, and overpowering cologne that permeated the air.

Leander had switched with the bartender, and on the counter was Vere, nonchalantly sitting cross-legged, blabbering about his latest escapades in the city to anyone who would listen while sipping on a glass of wine.

Mhin pinched the bridge of their nose and let out a soft groan before reluctantly approaching the counter. They begrudgingly took a seat on an empty stool on the other side of the bar, trying to make themselves as small as possible.

Vere's eyes narrowed as he spotted Mhin, a sly smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he observed their deliberate attempt to place some distance between themselves and him.

With a feigned casualness, Vere spun around so that he was facing Mhin directly. "Look at what the cat dragged in," he said with a playful tone. He leaned against the counter, his eyes locking with theirs for a breath.

As he finished serving a customer, Leander glanced toward the newcomer. A slight smirk tugged at his mouth as he saw their slumped physique. "Rough day?" He asked in a low voice.

Mhin rolled their eyes before looking up at Leander with a mix of annoyance and exhaustion. "When is it not? I came for the payment, nothing more." They spoke in a clipped tone, their gaze drifting over to Vere briefly, then back to Leander.

Vere leaned back against the countertop, his arms crossed over his chest, as he watched the exchange between Mhin and Leander with a thinly veiled curiosity. He called out to the pair with a jocularity that was almost mocking. "Oh, don't mind me; I'm just enjoying the show."

Mhin shot a glare at Vere before turning back to Leander, clearly irritated by the interruption. "Let's get this over with," they muttered. "I have places to be." 

Leander raised an eyebrow, noting the faint shadows under their eyes and the tension in their posture. "Ah, right to business as usual. Always one for small talk, aren't you?" He teased.

"I've got it all ready at the back for you—don't go anywhere." Leander pushed himself away from the counter, making his way towards the back of the bar. "Though, I doubt you were planning to," he added with a hint of humor in his voice.

He rummaged around for a moment but was stopped when a panicked acquaintance of his ran up to him, breathless and frantic. "Leander, you have to come quick! There's trouble on the main street," they exclaimed, their eyes wide with fear.

Leander's smile slipped from his face, replaced by a look of intense focus. His eyes hardened, and he turned to face them fully. "Trouble, you say?" he asked seriously. "What kind of trouble?" Simultaneously, faint echoes of shouting and crashing could be heard from outside the bar. 

Mhin didn't even bother to pretend to be disinterested. Trouble in Lowtown was nothing new, but the unexpected interruption left a sour taste in their mouth.

Leander straightened up, cursing under his breath as he grabbed his coat and gave his acquaintance a nod.

The door burst open, and a horde of frantic individuals flooded in, unleashing a cacophony of chaos as the street's turmoil spilled into the tavern. People were knocking over tables and screaming in panic, sending drinks and debris flying through the air. Leander sprang into action, pushing his way through the panicked crowd to assess the situation.

Meanwhile, Mhin found themselves being pushed around in the mayhem, struggling to keep their balance as they tried to make their way towards the nearest exit. They lunged towards the nearest door, propelled into a small storage room by the relentless force of the crowd, the door slamming shut and locking behind them.

Mhin stumbled inside, landing less than gracefully against a pile of crates. They let out a soft grunt of annoyance as they dusted themselves off and tried to open the door handle with no particular luck. 

"Fantastic," they muttered sarcastically under their breath to no one in particular, their irritation growing by the second. 

They whirled around, frantically scouring their cramped surroundings for any possible exit, their eyes darting in a wild search for a way out. The tiny room was cramped and dimly lit, filled with bottles and miscellaneous supplies.

When their eyes landed in the left corner, they were met with large pink glowing pupils and a fluffy red tail lodging in the shadows—Vere.

"And of course, it had to be you." They took a deep breath, trying to maintain their composure.

"Well, fate has a curious way of bringing people together, doesn't it? Even those of us who would prefer to stay far apart." The man purred lowly, his eyes narrowing in amusement as he slowly emerged from the shadows.

Mhin's eyes followed Vere's movements as they leaned against the wall, creating as much distance between themselves and Vere as the small room allowed, crossing their arms defensively. "I don't believe in fate," they retorted dryly, their gaze never leaving Vere. "Just bad luck."

Vere chuckled darkly, advancing with deliberate steps towards Mhin; narrowing the gap between them, arms loosely draped at his side, exuding an air of calculated confidence. "Bad luck, fate, coincidence—call it whatever you want. Either way, we're stuck in here together, whether we like it or not."

Mhin tensed as Vere drew closer and fixed him with a scowling glare, their voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, it's an absolute pleasure. Trapped in a tiny room with a pompous smartass. Just what I always dreamed of."

Vere feigned a look of mock offense, placing his hand over his heart as if wounded by their words. "Oh, I'm hurt. You really know how to flatter me. But don't worry, I won't let your scathing wit get to me." He leaned against the wall directly beside Mhin, his proximity causing him to brush against them slightly.

Mhin tensed, the brief contact sending a shiver down their spine. They tried to hide their discomfort and keep their cool, but the close confines of the storage room made it increasingly difficult. They shot Vere a glare, their voice dripping with annoyance. "Do you always invade people's personal space like this, or am I just lucky?"

Vere relished in the fact that he was getting under their skin, even if it was just a little bit. "Oh, don't flatter yourself, darling. I'm this close to you because there's nowhere else to go. Unless you'd prefer, we stand back-to-back in this glorified shoebox."

Mhin clenched their teeth, their annoyance growing with every word that left Vere's mouth. They couldn't decide what bothered them more—his close proximity or his infuriatingly casual use of the term 'darling.'

"I'd prefer you just shut your mouth. And don't call me 'darling' ever again."

Vere could practically see the steam coming off of them, and it only fueled his desire to rile them up further. He feigned innocence, his smirk faltering for a moment before returning full force. "Oh, why? Does it make you uncomfortable, darling?" He said the word again intentionally, his voice dripping with a mock show of affection. He leaned in closer, closing the remaining space between them; their bodies almost pressed together.

Mhin's breath caught in their throat, their heart rate quickening despite their best efforts to stay calm. They could feel the heat radiating from Vere's body against theirs, a mix of irritation and nervousness coursing through them.

"Back. Off." They warned through clenched teeth; the tension between them nearly palpable.

He ignored their warning and instead moved even closer, his body now fully pressed against theirs. He leaned in until his face was mere inches from Mhin's, their breaths mingling together in the confined space. "Make me, darling."

Mhin's pulse was racing now, their breath coming in short bursts. Their mind was a tangle of emotions—frustration, irritation—but, to their horror, a hint of something else they refused to acknowledge.

They scowled at him, their voice shaking slightly. "Don't test me."

But Vere only chuckled in response, the sound sending a shiver down Mhin's spine. His eyes bore into theirs, a mix of challenge and something darker lurking beneath the surface. As much as they wanted to push him away, a part of them was inexplicably drawn to his intensity. It was a dangerous game they were playing, one that could have consequences they weren't prepared for.

"Oh, but where's the fun in that? You're so amusing when you're all worked up like this, darling." The foxian deliberately placed his hands on Mhin's waist.

In a swift motion, Mhin retracted their dagger, pushing it against Vere's pulse point, right above his collar, heart pounding in their chest as they tried to steady their hands, their jaw clenched tight.

"I warned you. Don't... touch me." They seethed, the words punctuated by ragged breaths.

Vere didn't flinch, didn't show a hint of fear or intimidation, and held Mhin's gaze, his voice calm and steady. "Is that supposed to scare me? Do you know how easily—" Vere's hands that rested on Mhin's side now squeeze them threateningly, "—I could snap you in half?"

"You wouldn't dare." They finally breathed out, their voice betraying a hint of uncertainty.

"Oh, but I would. You have no idea what I'm capable of." He leaned in closer, the tip of his nose practically grazing their cheek.

"Are you really going to risk confrontation with Kuras?"

Vere paused, his ears giving an angry twitch at their words. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face for a brief moment before being masked by his usual cocky smirk. He leaned back slightly, though his grip on Mhin stayed firm, still pinning them against the wall. His tone lost its playful edge, his voice took on a more serious tone. "Risk? Please. Kuras doesn't frighten me."

"Even without the collar, you're no match for him," Mhin continued, their tone shifting to a more confident one. They pressed their dagger a little harder against his skin, a small bead of blood forming where the blade made contact. "And you know it."

Vere's expression hardened at their words, his smirk faltering. He bit back a wince and swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You insolent little killjoy—"

Mhin leaned in a little closer, their warm breath tickling his ear. "Oh, am I getting under your skin, darling?" They mocked, using his own phrase against him.

He parted his lips to retaliate, yet the subtle nuances in their expression, the mirroring of his earlier jeering, caused a momentary hesitation to creep into his response. He clenched his jaw, his hands reflexively tightening around Mhin's sides again. "You're asking for it, you little brat."

"Oh, am I? And what are you going to do about it? You're all bark, no bite."

Vere's fingers dug deeper into their sides, his grip nearing bruising. "You haven't seen just how much bite I have."

A faint gasp of surprise escaped Mhin as they tried to keep up their bravado, albeit breathlessly.  "Is that so? Go ahead, then. Show me." They challenged, their voice barely above a whisper.

Fuck it.

Mhin felt the air leave their lungs in a shaky gasp as their lips crashed into Vere's, their free hand grabbing his collar to pull him closer, pressing their body against his in a desperate bid for more. The other let out a low, guttural moan, one hand leaving Mhin's side to tangle in their hair, his fingers fisting in the strands as he deepened the kiss.

Vere released their sides, instead wrapping his arms around Mhin's waist and pulling them flush against him. Mhin dropped their dagger with a clatter on the floor, both hands gripping his shirt now as they pressed themselves fully against him, their body molding against his in a desperate attempt to merge into one being. Vere tilted their head back, his tongue slipping between their lips, demanding and insistent, tasting them with a fervor and desire he had never even considered possible before.

Vere's hands shamelessly roamed underneath Mhin's shirt, feeling the smooth skin of their back beneath his fingertips. Mhin bit back a whimper as Vere's kisses trailed down their neck, sending shivers down their spine. Mhin's jaw tightened as they tried to suppress the moans building in their throat, their body arching into Vere's touch. 

Vere nipped and nibbled at the sensitive flesh of Mhin's neck, the urgency of his actions only growing more pronounced. A soft gasp escaped their lips as he found a particularly sensitive spot, their head falling back to give him more room to explore. The taste of their skin, mingling with the faint, lingering smell of lavender, was intoxicating. Vere wanted more, needed more. And he wasn't going to hold back any longer.

His hands slid lower, the tips of his fingers tracing the curve of their spine as he continued his assault on their neck and collarbone, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses in his wake. “God above, you’re going to kill me,” he breathes, his lips brushing against their jawline. "You're so damn responsive, darling," he growled against their neck, his voice low and hoarse.

"Shut. Up." They managed to gasp out, their voice laced with a mixture of irritation and raw need. They tried to maintain some semblance of control, but it was slipping through their fingers with each kiss and touch.

Vere chuckled against their skin; his lips curled into a smug smirk. "You make it so easy for me," he nibbled gently at their earlobe, his hips rolling into theirs.

Mhin bit down on their lip to stifle more sounds threatening to come out, their hands clenched into fists against his shoulders as they tried to keep themselves grounded.

They wanted to come up with a witty comeback, to say something to wipe that smug expression off his face, but the words died on their tongue. "Bastard..." They whined in a futile attempt.

Vere let out a low, dark chuckle, his smug smile widening. "That's right, darling. I am a bastard. A cocky, self-assured, devilishly handsome bastard."

"Arrogant. Self-centered. Insufferable." They managed to gasp out, their voice trembling. They hated how their body reacted to his touch—they hated how much they wanted him, and how desperately they craved more.

"You forgot charming. And talented. All things I've been called before. And yet, you still want me, don't you, darling?" Vere's hands moved lower, tracing the curves of their hips as he slowly started getting rid of the fabrics that restricted his access.

They closed their eyes, biting back another moan. They wanted to deny it, but the way their body reacted to his touch betrayed them. "I... hate you." They managed to gasp out, their voice barely above a whisper, filled with a mix of desire and frustration. 

One of his hands slowly wandered down their side, his fingers tracing a lazy path along their ribs, roaming lower and gripping their thighs. "The feeling's mutual." 

Mhin trembled under his touch, their entire body hyper-aware of every point of contact. "You're a menace… a smug, arrogant, insatiable..." They tried to speak, but their words trailed off into a gasp as Vere's fingers entered them.

Vere's fingers started moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm. He leaned in to whisper in their ear. "Go on, darling. Finish the sentence. Say it."

Mhin's breath hitched as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over their ear, sending goosebumps down their spine. "You're... arrogant, infuriating, and completely and utterly..." They trailed off, biting their lip to hold back a moan, chest rising and falling rapidly. "Utterly… fucking irresistible."

Vere chuckled darkly, a satisfied smirk on his face, as he heard the words leave their lips. He continued his ministrations, his fingers moving and working within them with increasing insistence and pace. "That's right, darling. Say it again. Let me hear you say it." He purred.

Mhin's breathing grew ragged as his fingers continued to move with increasing speed, their body arching against his hand.  They could feel the heat pooling in their lower belly. "Fuck you."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, darling?" He teased, his fingers curling slightly as he continued his ministrations, driving them closer and closer to the edge.

"Damn you."

"Oh, you're just making this more fun for me, darling. Keep cursing at me. Tell me how much you hate me while you writhe and moan in my arms."

Mhin let out a strangled gasp as Vere's hand suddenly withdrew, their body clenching around the sudden absence, unfulfilled and frustrated. They were so close—so close to the release that they desperately craved.

"Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast, darling."

"I hate you… I hate you so much���" They heaved, their chest rising and falling rapidly as they tried to catch their breath.

"Mmm," Vere murmured against their skin, tracing leisurely patterns on their skin. "I can feel just how much you hate me, darling."

Mhin felt their last shred of restraint snap, their body taking control. They grabbed his collar, pulling him closer, their lips crashing into his in a ferocious kiss. "Damn you." They gasped out, their voice trembling. "Damn you for making me want you like this." Their fingers dug into his flesh as they pushed him against the wall, reversing their positions. "Just shut up," they growled, their voice thick with longing, "and fuck me, or I swear to the gods above, you won't live another fucking day."

Vere's eyes widened momentarily at the sudden shift in power, a gasp escaping him as his back hit the wall with a thud.

A beat.

With a swift, fluid movement, Vere flipped them back around, pinning Mhin against the wall, their bodies pressed tightly together. He held them firmly, one of his hands gripping their wrists and holding them above their head. "You don't have to tell me twice, darling."

Vere didn't waste any more time, his free hand working to position his dick at Mhin's entrance, pushing inside without warning, causing the latter to leave a loud, drawn out moan as pleasure shot through their body, their head falling back against the wall.. "That's it," Vere whispered, his voice low and husky, "just like that."

Mhin's hands gripped onto Vere's shoulders, nails digging into his skin as they moved together in a rhythm that was both frantic and primal. The air was filled with the sound of their heavy breathing and the slick, wet noise of their bodies moving against each other. Vere's hands roamed Mhin's body, tracing every curve and dip with a hunger that bordered on despair. Mhin's nails dug into Vere's back, leaving red marks in their wake as they clung to each other. Vere lifted his head just enough to watch Mhin's face contort with pleasure, their lips parted in a silent scream. Every thrust sent a shock of ecstasy through both of them, pushing them closer and closer to the edge.

As they reached their peak, Vere's name fell from Mhin's lips in hoarse whispers like a mantra, a prayer to a fallen god that neither of them believed in, even if one's name was whispered in return.

Many hours later, Leander had finally settled the matter and restored order to the tavern, but the unexpected interruption had certainly left its mark on the evening. As he sat back down at his table, Leander couldn't help but feel a sense of unease lingering in the air. He had forgotten something, he was sure of it.

He shooed away the thought, opting to replace some of the broken bottles in the bar. As he walked to the storage closet near the bar, he made a mental note to double-check the basement inventory later, just to be safe.

He fumbled with the doorknob, only to realize it was jammed. With a sigh, he used a magic spell to unlock the door. The moment it flung open, a familiar, hooded figure darted past him and out into the early morning. He stood there, stunned for a moment, when lighter footsteps approached from behind him.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Most people would treat me to something after a night like that," Vere stretched as he walked past the bewildered man, a mischievous grin on his face. "But I suppose I'll let it slide this time," he added with a wink before disappearing into the early light outside.

[storm-angel989]

Eres jodidamente estúpida, niñita?

MAJOR SHOUT OUT TO absolut3lyn0t  for ALL the help with editing and for teaching me Spanish! I can't WAIT to use the things I've learned in the Outside The Office series!

Enjoy!!

I strutted across the stage with the confidence instilled in me by three of hell's most powerful overlords. My hair on point, my smile perfected, my outfit, killer. And my VoxTech watch that served as a location tracker? Sitting in my locker at school alongside my phone. As far as my family knew, I was staying late for volleyball tryouts. 

Walking through my highschool hallways, it was impossible to miss the plethora of help wanted posters plastered all over the walls. The job description was simple, requiring nothing more than excellent customer service skills and a large, bolded eighteen plus only need apply. The pay started five dollars above minimum wage, with the promise of hefty cash tips. 

The money was really what caught my attention. After listening to my father bitch about last month’s credit card bill, I decided it was time I started working, without the hovering of my father, my Uncle Valentino or my Aunt Velvette. I needed money that wasn’t connected to them in any way, shape or form- dollars I could spend how I pleased, and without their input. Unfortunately for me, my father owned VoxTech, the biggest company in all of hell. Even as his daughter, I couldn’t be sure where its tendrils spread. Whatever job I chose, I needed to fly under the radar. 

School first, you have more than you need and access to anything you could possibly want. Is what my father had told me when I first asked if I could start working. You have no reason to get an afterschool job. Focus on being sixteen, kiddo. 

And I knew damn well if my location popped up in some new place consistently, I would be discovered and forced to quit on the spot. So as soon as I made the decision to apply, I made it a point to tell my family I was trying out for the volleyball team. 

Glad to see you decided to leave behind that silly job idea, my father had said over sips of his morning coffee. Believe me, someday you’ll wish you didn’t have to work so much. 

As if. 

I walked into the address listed on the flyer, noting the shift in scenery as I made my way deeper downtown. Open interviews, they called it, two pm to ten pm. I had already filled out the application on the bottom of one of them, if you could even call it that. Three easy to answer questions. 

Age? I filled in eighteen.

Availability? After School hours. 

Size? I scribbled down the number. 

I followed the directions to the address on the flyer and handed my application to the demon at the door.  The place itself looked a little run down, done up in red, black and gold. But it certainly gave the appearance of being a high end facility- especially with the long stage and the pole at the center. 

I was quickly ushered inside and seated across from a shark demon in a red fedora. He looked me up and down and just like that, I was handed a uniform of red and hired me on the spot for the shift that started ten minutes ago. 

“With your body, I mean, your smile, you’ll make an excellent addition to our team,” he praised. 

“What exactly is my job title?” I asked as he led me to the dressing room.   

“Waitress,” he responded easily. “But really, you’ll do a little bit of everything. And don’t worry, we’ll provide everything you need.” 

The first few days were simple. The manager assigned me a false name the first day, and I quickly learned that while I was working, that’s the only name that was called. Honestly, it was the most difficult part. The rest was relatively simple. 

Every two hours the girls were required to meet behind the stage, walk across and out down to the pole, take a swing around with a smile as an announcer introduced us by name. It was nice, honestly, to be valued like that. The rest of the responsibilities were easy. Dress up, smile, flirt, take drink orders and find a reason to bend over. To say I didn’t enjoy it would be a lie. The money was good but the attention? Even better.

The fourth day, however, the manager pulled me aside at the start of my shift. 

“Hey, reader. The big boss is coming in. Check out his new hires. I’m putting you with him. Be extra nice. He’s known for leaving hefty tips and promoting on the spot. Trust me, you’re gonna want to keep him happy.” And with that, he pushed me towards the stage. 

After introductions, I put on my biggest smile, adjusted my dress so that it revealed just a little bit more and walked confidently over to the VIP booth. Time to impress the boss. 

“Hi boys, how are we doing tonight?” I purred as sultry as I could. “My name is Reader’s False Name and I’ll take care of anything that you desire.” I leaned forward onto the table. “And I do mean anything…” I reached out and set my hand on the red jacket of the man I assumed was the boss. “What can I get you tonight, sir?” 

He looked up at me and instantly, his expression turned to anger. Cold fear shot through me as I recognized the all too familiar features.

“U-uncle Valentino? Wh-what are you doing here?” I stammered as I took a step back. 

“The better question is what are you doing here, niñita?” He growled as he stood up. He pulled his coat off and yanked it around my shoulders, effectively covering my entire body. He grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me towards the back towards the dressing rooms. The door slammed shut behind us. 

I tried to wriggle away, “I work here! I got an afterschool job after Dad got on my case last month.” 

I didn’t think his expression could twist into deeper disgust. 

“I changed your diapers! You can’t be working in my clubs!” He snarled. 

I crossed my arms. “Uncle Val, I’m sixteen!”

“Eres jodidamente estúpida?” He took a deep breath. “That’s half the issue! Who even checked your age una perra ciega?! What fuckwit hired you?” He paused and pulled out his phone. “You know what? It doesn’t fucking matter. You’re fired. Whoever hired you is fired, hell I might shut this entire fucking club down. Oh, and it goes without saying that you’re fucking grounded!”

I looked at him incredulously. “You’re grounding me for getting an afterschool job?”

“No, reader, I’m grounding you for taking an afterschool job at a strip club! Oh, and for leaving your watch at school. We make you wear that for your own safety, muñeca! You could have been killed, or raped or worse!” 

He grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me towards the front door.  I caught my father’s name on his phone screen and my heart sank even deeper. Fuck. 

 “You’re going home with me right now, bebita. And keep my jacket on, I don’t want to see your tits ever again.” He practically spat as he shoved me into his awaiting limo. 

I sat next to him for the duration of the ride, my arms crossed as I listened to the phone call between him and my Dad. From what it sounded like, I was about to meet my maker.

“Phone. Now.” He demanded as he outstretched his hand. “Or did you leave that at school too?”

At least he sounded a bit more calm. Maybe I wouldn’t be in as much trouble as I thought. 

“It’s in my locker,” I mumbled. “Along with my homework. So if we could stop on our way home…”

“Delay the inevitable all you want, your father is pissed. And so am I.”

“Yeah, I got that,” I mumbled as we stopped in front of the school. “I’ll go in and…”

He snorted in amusement. “Like hell you will. I’ll go inside and get it for you. What’s your locker number and combination?” He leaned forward, “it’s in your best interest to tell me, niñita.” 

He was probably right. I sank back as I watched him walk into the front office of the school as if he owned the place. Come to think of it, there was probably a high chance that one of the three did have some sort of control over the school. I leaned my head against the window as I waited. I would never be allowed to grow up, hell, after this Dad might not even let me leave the V tower. 

Valentino stalked out of the school moments later, my pink backpack slung over his shoulder, and one of the flyers in his hand. The other hand held his phone and I winced at the furious slurry of English and Spanish came flying out of his mouth. Several curses later, he ended the call and turned to me. 

“Any of your other amicico’s get involved in this? Fess up now, or I promise I will make sure that you lose every privilege you have.”

“Not that I know of,” I mumbled quietly as I pulled his jacket tighter around myself. “And I would tell you if I did.” 

“I would hope so, cariño,” he grumbled as the limo stopped. “Word of advice? I would go straight to your room and change. The less of you your father sees, the better.” 

We rode in silence in the elevator and as we stepped off, I came face to face with the furious faces of my father, Vox, and my Aunt Velvette. Uncle Valentino walked towards them and wordlessly pointed to my room. I tried to scurry away as quickly as I could. 

“Change, wipe that clown makeup off your face and get your ass to the living room,” I heard my father shout. 

I thought the makeup was pretty, I said to myself sarcastically as I stood in my bathroom shower, scrubbing it off. Without the makeup remover the restaurant, or should I call it a club, provided, taking it off took ten times longer. I pulled on my leggins and a sweatshirt and braided back my now wet hair, hopeful that by removing any trace of the club I would somehow lighten the punishment that was sure to come. I slowly made my way out to the living room. 

“Come sit, little princessa,” Valentino gestured. “Join us.”

I kept my eyes down as I made my way across the living room and sank into my usual seat on the couch. 

“Look at us, reader,” my fathers authoritative voice filled the air. “And start talking. The floor is yours.”

A few heartbeats of silence while I tried to gather my thoughts. 

“You know, staying quiet won’t help your case,” Velvette interjected. “Come on, talk to us. Honestly, I think it’s pretty funny.”

“There is nothing funny about seeing my little princessa half naked, tits out, in my own fucking club,” Valentino shot back. He mumbled something in Spanish that sounded vaguely insulting.

“And let’s not forget the danger you put yourself in,” Vox added. “You left your phone and tracker in your locker at school. You’re lucky I don’t have the doctor put a chip in your arm.”

“I didn’t know it was a strip club, okay?” I said in exasperation. “I just wanted to make my own money! I got mad when Dad went through the credit card bill last month and I just, I just wanted privacy and to buy what I want without being questioned! And I’m willing to work to earn it, but Dad wouldn’t let me.”

“Reader. You’re sixteen. You need to focus on schoolwork, grades and being a teenager- you’ll have plenty of time later in life to…” my father began.

“Vox, her request isn’t unreasonable,” Velvette cut him off.  She looked thoughtful. “Nor is your idea about the chip in her arm.”

All three of us stared at her in disbelief for completely different reasons. 

“I am not letting Dad put a chip in my arm-” I began.

“She is not going out to work,” my Dad shouted at the same time.

“Eres jodidamente estúpida?” Valentino added. “The fuck, Velvette?” 

A grin slowly crept across her face. “Well then, it seems we have a few bargaining chips on the table, don’t we?”

“I don’t like where this is going,” I said.

“Yeah, neither do I,” my father added. 

“Well the way I see it, we have a few options and plenty of room for compromise,” she said with a glance at Valentino. “On one hand, reader could concede and let Vox put a chip in her arm in exchange for being allowed to get a job. Or she could come work for one of us, and have the money deposited in a private account. Or a third option, Vox if you’re so hell bent on her focusing on school, and she wants privacy so damn bad, let her open her own account in her own name and deposit money into it each week. This way she gets the privacy she wants, and you get her staying focused on her studies.” 

“I’m not letting you put a tracker in my arm, so that options out,” I replied.

“And I don’t want you working at all- not for me, not for Velvette, and certainly not for Valentino,” Vox added. 

A look of understanding broke across Valentino’s face and he grinned widely. He leaned back, “then I suppose the third option is the only one that fits, hm amicito?” He took a sip, “I do have to ask though princessa. How exactly did you plan on cashing your paychecks without your own account?”

I felt myself turn red. “I…wasn’t planning on cashing them and just using my tips.”

“I can’t decide if that’s clever or stupid,” Vox muttered. “But fine. We’ll go open your own bank account tomorrow and I promise to keep my eyes off of it. But you need to promise to keep focused on your studies, got it?”

“Deal!” I said excitedly. 

“Also, I think you owe your Uncle Val an apology more so than any of us. I haven’t seen him that scarred since, well, I’ve never seen him that upset.” Vox added. 

“Sorry, Uncle Val,” I muttered. 

He looked pained, “you’re growing up, mi amore. But this isn’t the place for you to be, ever again. I fear what would have happened to you if I hadn’t chosen to come in tonight.” He stood up and planted a kiss on my forehead. 

“Your jackets in my room, Uncle Val. I promise I’ll give it back,” I muttered as embarrassment flushed through my face. “I guess it was kinda sketchy.”

“Common sense, niñita. I cannot wrap my mind around why you didn’t turn around as soon as you stepped into that neighborhood.” He turned to walk towards the kitchen. “Discussion for tomorrow night, I suppose.” 

I frowned, “what’s tomorrow night?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear? Your papi, Aunt Velvette and I came up with a brilliant consequence, if I do say so myself.”

Dread knotted in my stomach. Uncle Valentino was well known to be the most…creative in his punishments. 

“I signed you up for volleyball, mi amore. After all, isn’t that what you wanted to do?” He gave me a wicked grin. “And I’ll be the one…ensuring you arrive in a timely manner for the next eight weeks. And don’t worry, your papito already brought you all the equipment you’ll need.” 

I groaned. This had the potential to be not only incredibly embarrassing in terms of my abilities, but also I somehow doubted he would sit there quietly. The image of him sitting on the bleachers, screaming into the phone, cursing in Spanish and English made me want to die right then and there. “Uncle Val, I hate sports. And I hate team sports even more.”

“Then maybe next time you’ll think before becoming a stripper, hm conejito?”He patted the top of my head and sashayed towards the kitchen. 

He couldn’t be that angry if he was using my childhood nickname. I leaned back on the couch and tucked my knees up. 

“You’re lucky that's your only consequence,” my father grumbled as he scrolled through his phone. “That chip idea isn’t off the table, you know.”

“We’ll get your bank account set up after your grounding is done,” Velvette reassured me. “In the meantime, what do you all want to do for dinner?”

Thank god Velvette was the master at changing the subject.

[solarmorrigan]

💘 for the ask game? Might have a preference for the dare kiss if the inspo strikes you... 👀

Inspo did, in fact, strike me (thank you for the prompt!)

💘 fake relationship / mutual pining / dared to kiss

Prompt from this post

CW: alcohol use

-

Eddie doesn’t know whose brilliant idea this was, but they owe him for emotional damages.

Like–

Look, Eddie had really only ever attended high school parties as a dealer, had had very little interest in them otherwise, and thus has never played any of those cheap excuses for a chance to swap spit that they called games. Not truth or dare, not seven minutes in heaven, and not—Eddie watches in dizzy fascination as the empty beer bottle twirls and twirls in the center of the circle—spin the bottle.

Except someone had suggested it, and the rest of them had been just drunk enough to decide it was a great idea and join in.

Except Eddie is pretty sure this game is supposed to be played with classmates you don’t really know; people you barely remember in the morning and whose eyes you can avoid in the hallways at school on the following Monday – not two girls Eddie helped save the world with, the boyfriend of one of the aforementioned girls (and possibly the boyfriend of the aforementioned boyfriend? Eddie’s not sure what’s going on there), three guys he’s been friends with since middle school, and–

–the bottle stops, and Robin lets out a whoop. It’s pointing to the spot directly to Eddie’s right, the spot filled with none other than–

Steve Harrington.

The current bane of Eddie’s existence, with his stupid, pretty face and his stupid, soft-looking hair and his stupid, dry sense of humor and the way he’s stupidly sweet to Eddie and the way he’s smiling at stupid, stupid Eddie right now, who has a stupid, embarrassing crush on the guy, and now Eddie has to kiss him because the beer bottle says so. It’s the law, or something.

Eddie swears he hasn’t actually had that much to drink; he’s pretty sure proximity to Steve just does this to his brain.

Steve keeps smiling at him, amused, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Well?” he goads gently, elbowing Eddie in the side. “You gonna back down, or are you gonna kiss me, Munson?”

And– okay, one, Eddie has never backed down from a dare in his life, mostly because he operates on at least seventy-five percent impulsive thought power, and two, there’s no way Eddie isn’t going to take the chance to kiss Steve. It might not be the way he wants, but it also might be the only chance he’s going to get, so he turns and curves a hand at the side of Steve’s jaw—to steady Steve or to steady himself or maybe because he just wants to touch—and leans in and presses his lips to Steve’s.

And he tries to keep it PG, alright? He tries to keep it close-mouthed and soft, as easy and meaningless as the short kiss Robin had laid on him a few moments ago that had made it his turn to spin the bottle in the first place – he tries, but then someone (maybe Gareth? Hard to say, the world outside of Steve and Eddie has gone a little wishy-washy) shouts, “You call that a kiss?” and, well–

Eddie’s never backed down from a dare in his life.

(And if this is the only opportunity he’s going to have to kiss Steve, he figures he might as well milk it for all it’s worth.)

So he tilts his head, and parts his lips, and finds that Steve’s tongue is already there, hot and wet and licking into his mouth like he’s starving for it, teasing Eddie’s tongue back into his own mouth and sucking, and–

Eddie pulls back before the embarrassing noise he can feel building up in his chest can work its way free. He blinks at Steve, who is staring right back, eyes wide and starry, pupils blown, his mouth still hanging open a little as he pants for air, his bottom lip full and shiny in a way that makes Eddie want to dive right back in and bite him a little bit.

In fact, he’s very close to doing just that until someone’s voice breaches their little bubble.

“Well, Steve?” Robin prods, sounding far too amused for anyone’s good. “Are you gonna take your turn?”

“Nah.” Steve shakes his head, eyes still trained on Eddie as he stands up. “I think I’m out. Eddie?”

Eddie’s on his feet before Steve can even finish saying his name. “Right behind you.”

And then Steve is smiling again, eager and maybe—dare Eddie think it—a little smitten, and he grabs Eddie’s hand to drag him somewhere a little more private, somewhere away from the catcalls coming at them from the circle of friends they’re leaving behind, who Eddie pays absolutely no mind to because finding the nearest clear surface he can crowd Steve against feels more important.

Eddie doesn’t know whose brilliant idea spin the bottle was, but he owes them a goddamn fruit basket.

[aesthetic-bbyg]

might I request 🫣

an Usopp x ditsy y/n where the reader is.. 𝑎ℎ𝑒𝑚, busty, to say the least, and always clings to him (sort of like how Nami does), albeit unaware that the behavior seems to always fluster him

And maybe they end up paired together when everyone splits up to fight someone or whatever, and Uso pulls them aside to hide, obviously, but in a bit of tight spot?

you can edit this however you like, thank you for reading!!

A DAMSAL IN DISTRESS - USOPP

usopp x ditzy,fem!reader

IN WHICH you can’t help but cling onto Usopp, he’s just so cute.

nattie speaks!: AHHHHH I’m so sorry for the wait, I felt so bad that this took way longer then expected so some parts were a bit rushed and a bit shitty🫣🫣. Also, I gave the reader this power, basically like a banshee, she screams and it’s a weapon. It’s only included in a small portion bc I wanted to stay close to what the anon requested!!

USOPP WASNT SURE IF HIS BAD habit of lying constantly was currently a blessing or a curse. You took interest in him after he’d rambled on about escaping the large beast of the sea, the Kraken. Since then you’ve been—he didn’t want to be rude and say obsessive, so..clingy. He’d somehow managed to capture you’re attention with his false stories. You nodded dumbly with big eyes as he dramatized yet another tale, waving his hands around like a maniac while you just giggled.

“Uh-huh, what after?” You leaned closer across the table curiously, your cheek falling to rest on the palm of your hand.

“Then, I took my sword and I sliced his ass from head to toe.” Usopp smirked triumphantly, sucking in a deep breath and releasing as he fell back against the chair. “And that’s the story of how I defeated the monster of the Blue Lagoon.”

“No way!” You gasped, eyes wide with such content, completely unaware of how close your tits were to spilling out of your top. Truth be told, Usopp had dragged out the story as long as possible to see the moment a nipple peaked out. He swallowed before he chuckled, eyes flickering between your bright smile and bouncing breast. “You’re so brave, Uso.” You stood from your seat, walking over to give him a peck on the cheek. “How ‘bout I go get food for my brave Captain, hmm?”

Usopp never nodded his head so quick, both out of being very hungry and because he needed a breather. You had made him so ridiculously flustered, he nearly forgotten to take in air with how close you were. The moment you footsteps faded to enter the kitchen he let out a large sigh. His senses struggling to regulate, all he could think about was you. The sticky gloss that clung to his skin, the sweet scent you left behind, the echo of your giggles in his mind.

He needed to get a grip before he literally exploded. The next few days to Arlong Park would be hell if he couldn’t learn to control himself when around you. But he just couldn’t figure out how it was possible to do that when you pranced around in such low cut shirts and tight bottoms. He didn’t have much time to think about it before you were back, holding two servings of food. You placed it on the large crate that laid between the two of you.

“What did Sanji make?” Usopp questioned, mustering up to the most normal smile he could give.

“Some sort of pasta, dunno, wasn’t really attention.” You shrugged casually, handing him a shimmering silver fork. The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, you went unaware of the stolen glances Usopp took of you. He paid far too much attention to your features, especially your most prominent one..but he wouldn’t ever admit that.

You were close to opening your mouth and breaking the silence before Zoro came up, plopping a whiny Buggy between your plates.

“Usopps turn, I’m done.” The swordsman muttered annoyingly, walking away without another word.

“Hey—what!” Usopp shouted back to Zoro, his calls being ignored as the the blue-haired clown chuckled.

“Hiya, pal, nice to see you!” The clown exclaimed with an overly happy tone. “Tell me, have, have you boned pretty babe over here or wh—“

Usopp clamped his hand over the clown mouth, embarrassingly looking over at you, your eyes held an innocent confusion as you stood. “I’ll go ahead and take these to the kitchen, be back!”

Usopp nodded with a smile, waiting for you to be out of ear shot before uncovering Buggy’s mouth. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Shut up.” Usopp mumbled with a flushed face, hiding it by fiddling with his slingshot.

“Oh, c’mon, she’s totally into you and it super fuckin’ obvious in case you couldn’t already see.” The clown commented, “And, hey, I’m not one to give relationship in advice here but you should bone her—“

“Can you stop saying that.” The man snapped quietly as he noticed you approaching. You didn’t sit down, instead placed a soft hand on his shoulder.

“It’s getting dark, Uso, ya wanna head in?” You asked softly, eyes glowing curiously in the moonlight. You shared a space with Nami, but ever since she left you’d didn’t liked sleeping in that empty bed. Instead, you slept next to Usopp every night.

It came as a surprise at first. The midnight sky had caused a dark hue to blanket over the ship. The moon hidden behind indigo clouds, only a few strings of light guided you down to the boy’s chambers. You’d pushed Usopps door open, thankful that it didn’t creak loudly, and slowly entered. You footsteps patting against the hardwood floor, hands out in front of you to navigate the darkness until you felt a soft cushion. You peeled back the blanket and climbed in, without a care in the world except for finding some warmth.

Usopp had felt the bed shift, covers shuffling without him moving which is what caused him to fully awake. He panicked at first, not moving an inch as the person beside him got comfortable. It was until he felt you soft hands caress up his bicep, bare legs entangling with his own, then a sweet sigh that tickled his neck. After a few moments he heard nothing, just your deep breaths as he laid there, completely clueless on what to do. Should he hold you? But that would wake you again wouldn’t it? He chose to go to sleep and see what the next morning held.

And if Usopp wasn’t flustered enough already the next day he was practically dead. Your position had switched in the middle of the night, and so did his. Ass against his hips, his arm draped over your waist, and you back against his firm chest. He wasn’t sure how you two needed in this position but every morning now was like this.

Usopp determined that the best way to continue this routine was if Buggy’s head was shoved into a empty barrel and left there for the night.

“You better bone her if your leaving here—“ The clown angrily shouted before his voice was muffled by the lid sliding over the open top. Usopp let out a sigh, walking over to the sleeping quarters below deck where you’d already gone to get changed for bed.

Your head quirked up at the sound of his approaching footsteps, smiling softly at the sight of him. “We’re nearly there, Uso. It’s best that you get some sleep for the rest of the journey.”

Usopp nodded in agreement, removing his shirt like he always did before bed and climbing into the covers. You shouldn’t be so excited as you are each time you cuddle close to him. It shouldn’t be so rewarded to feel him so close to you as you drift to sleep. Usopp was suppose to be your fellow crew member and nothing more. Yet there was an undeniable feeling that made you cling to him. It made you giddy.

Unbeknownst to you, these feelings struck Usopp tenfold.

“LAND HO!” USOPP EXCLAIMED, ARM raising to point to a spec of land from afar. You lifted your head, squinting to see the bundled up islands from you spot. As you got closer it looked like nothing almost, and when the boat docked it was even worse. The small village looked abandoned, old homes falling apart and grey in color. Most of the plants around were dead, drained of their natural color. One home was even raised above the grown, ripped from the floor and left to rot mid air.

This is when things started to blur together. One moment, you watch in fear, clinging onto Usopps arms. He’s a brave warrior, you thought, surely he’d protect you against the strange atmosphere that this place brought. But the next you were sprinting into the woods, just behind Usopp as a fish man with strangely large lips chased after you.

It was a fight you had no idea on how to win. They were fishman, some of the strongest beings of the world, and here you were running away from one. Even worse, the fish with the huge lips was able to spit out fire with just a sip of his hard drink. There was more than enough evidence to prove that you were screwed.

The boy in front of you turned around, quickly tugging your arm and pulling close, ducked down, rolling to hide behind a fallen tree. You fell atop of Usopp, panting heavily as fishman’s spits barley flew over your head. All went quiet, weirdly quiet but you didn’t dare even blink loudly.

“Hey.” Usopp whispered as you lifted your head from his chest. “Ya think you can scream for me, pretty girl?” You swallowed thickly, nodding, the pure terror of the approaching footsteps muting your voice. “Then wait for my signal, ‘kay.”

Usopp shuffled from under, making it more comfortable for the both, well, mostly you. Being within such a close proximity of your soft skin made him nervous, no amount of comfort was able to calm his nerves. But he ignored the squeezable skin that pressed against his chest, ignored that your core that was hovering just above his dick, ignored the grip on his bicep. He looked at you, waiting for the right moment to give you the sign so the fishman went down once and for all.

You were terrified, that was for sure, but you mustered up some courage to pull the plan off. You felt a tap on your hand, causing to rise up and stare directly at the fishman. But before he could open fire you let out a ear piercing shriek. A wail so loud it launched the fish man backwards. Far enough so he was too distracted in getting up and gaining back his senses to realize that Usopp was sneaking in.

You watched, wide eyed as the fishman sat up, bottle still tightly in his clutch. Usopp loaded in his new invention into his slingshot and directly hit the alcohol. A loud explosion followed, smoke clearing to reveal a motionless fishman.

You laughed in a relief, standing up and slowly approaching the scene.

Usopp shouts in excitement, proudly chuckling at the sight of the smoking body laid motionless on the ground. “Yeah! Take that! The Great Captain Usopp fells yet another notorious villain!” He swallows back his heavy breaths, glancing around. “And..no one’s around to see it.”

“I saw it, Uso!” You squealed, wrapping your arms around him with a giggle. The sheer force of your excitement gave you enough strength to drag him down into your chest. His whole face making contact with your tits while you rambled in content. “Just as brave as you tell in your stories! Gosh, I can’t wait tell everyone how you saved me.” You pull his head up, planting kisses along his cheeks.

The boy puffed his chest out pridefully, smirking despite the blush that littered his cheeks. “What can I say, a great Captain like me never fails to save a damsel in distress.” He hooked an arm around your waist, gazing down at you.

“A reward is much needed after this.” You Pat his chest, smiling softly with such a innocent yet antagonizing look. Without another word, you’d pulled away, waking back in the direction Arlong park.

Usopp stared at your fading figure with furrowed brows. “A reward?”

OMG THIS TOOK WAY TO LONG BUT I WAS LITERALLY GOING BACK ND FORTH W THIS FIC BC I FELT LIKE IT WAS SOO BAD. But I need to release smth so this is it!! I really hoped this lived up to the request, ik i added some of my own elements but ignore that🫣

(sucks dick coquettely)

[sad-endings-suck]

Mizu’s Period

I’m getting kind of sick of the weirdly agreed upon headcanon within the fandom that stipulates Mizu simply must not menstruate very much if at all, solely because Mizu is often injured, possesses a slender build as well as an athletic lifestyle, and in many ways is androgynous in appearance (but that last point is always unspoken ofc).

There also seems to be an odd obsession with using fanon theories that are not directly disproved nor proved in the canon, such as “Mizu never eats enough” as evidence for the Mizu’s Uterus Is Not Like Other Girls Reproductive Organs™️ headcanon, that presumes Mizu is just so special she’ll bleed from everywhere except her pussy.

Like… is it perfectly possible that Mizu does not often get her period due to her extremely active and dangerous lifestyle? Yes, of course! Does Mizu’s slender and athletic frame make this seem like more of a possibility? It could, but her physique in of itself is not “evidence” per say, especially since Mizu’s body looked exactly the same when she was living a much easier and more comfortable lifestyle on the farm with Mikio, and they clearly had plenty of food. Mizu also wasn’t training intensely if at all for the 8-12 months she was married to Mikio. Yet her build remained the same. So it’s perfectly probable that Mizu’s physique is most greatly impacted by her genetics and thus not greatly affected by physical activity.

And for everyone that’s about to shout “but women athletes that compete at the highest levels often loose their periods for a while!” yes absolutely, some of them do. They also work out for 2-6+ hours a day six to seven days a week, use treadmills, bench press, and eat ridiculously curated diets that specifically target certain macronutrients and involve carefully curated portions that must be eaten at the right times on the right days. The fuck makes you think Mizu is doing all that?? My girl inhales whatever food is put in front of her as long as she has good reason to believe it is safe (i.e not poisoned). Do you really think modern day Olympic power lifters, track and field runners, artistic gymnasts and rhythmic gymnasts are all slurping down full servings of soba or dumbplings just whenever? Fuck no. Also, the current top women athletes in the world from the aforementioned Olympic sports I just mentioned, all have vastly different body types. As well as extremely different dietary needs, training routines, workouts, and just plain genetics that would have naturally given them certain bodies regardless of sport.

as evidenced by the above photos of various female olympic athletes: power lifter (top left), track and field runner (top right), artistic gymnast (bottom left), and rhythmic gymnast (bottom right).

Mizu is not a power lifter, or a sprinter, or an archer, or anything of the sort. Mizu does not train to be incredible at one thing, nor does she base what she eats or how she trains on when she will be preforming at a specific event (such as Olympians do). She is a swordsman, a blacksmith, and an all around athletic person that needs to stay in a state of constant readiness for any physical activity. Such as climbing, swimming, horseback riding, using acrobatic techniques, performing martial arts, working on a farm, and so much more. All of which is presented as such in canon. Not to mention Mizu lives as a lower-class individual in Japan during the 1600s. What ever gave you the idea that she was dieting and training like a modern athlete? Mizu is not a sportsman, she’s a killer.

So can we just stop, please? Plenty of people menstruate. Its perfectly normal and natural. And as someone who has been at a much lower weight at different points in my life with less than desirable health conditions (to say the least), menstruation does not magically halt just because you (stranger on the internet) thinks it “logically” should under such circumstances. That’s not how it works. Bodies are weird, and everyone’s body works a bit differently. And if Mizu actually was as sick and muscular and thin as everyone seems to have headcanoned her as, then how the fuck is she mopping everyone she fights? If Mizu is “so active and low weight that she can’t be getting her period” then how do you explain the fact that she is able to preform at peak physical level while being so active? Make it make sense.

And for the love of god, please stop acting like menstruation is “special” or “other” or “weird”. It’s not. Get educated, and get over yourself.

[anystalker707]

Admiral, my Admiral (1/2)

Pairing: Portgas D. Ace x [gender neutral] Admiral! Reader Words: ~ 2 500 Summary: An unusual relationship that starts with a deal. Tags: no talk to him (ace) he angy / he gets to be babied tho / um, there's angst if you don't mind

MASTERLIST

PART TWO

• Ace could remember passing out during a fight. His division wasn’t able to defeat the marine because they happened to run into a fucking strong division

• He tried his best to fight, but he just ended up getting weak when the spear of Sea-prism stone touched his chest and there was nothing else he could do, not even burn the ship so he would die uncaught, in the bottom of the sea; the last thing he could see was the fucking admiral walking towards him before he passed out. Where did the admiral come from, anyways?

• He woke up in a room he didn’t recognize, but could feel the familiar movement of the sea under him, so he was a little relieved he hadn’t been taken anywhere on land. Or maybe it was actually worse, if he thought well

• The whole place was too... patterned. Minimalist. It seems like a guest room and, when he leaves the room, the place keeps the same dark gray, white and blue colors. He keeps going until seeing a sign with the Marine symbol on it makes him shout and try to start lighting everything on fire until he notices the anklet on his leg and it is made out of that goddamned stone

• It is stupid, but he still jumps on you in an attempt to kill you with his bare fists at the moment he finds you at the desk only to be sent flying into the sea with a kick and rescued by your subordinates

• Ace is so full of anger, so small compared to you as he stands on the deck and stares at you—if only looks could kill...—while you don’t even bother to order him to be chained or anything. He feels like he will combust when you look at him and have the audacity to grin

• Your subordinates seem to know something that Ace doesn’t, but none of them pipe a word about it, all of them always talking the minimum possible with him and ignoring his comments whenever they get him food. He almost feels like when he was taken in by Whitebeard all over again, but this time, the feeling isn’t exactly welcoming because the only one being nice to him there is the fucking admiral, even if you can get on his nerves with your sarcasm and superiority complex. That is living hell

• At first, he thinks you will execute him—doesn’t happen. Then, you’re probably taking him to some headquarters to make him prisoner or something—also wrong. He tries to bribe one of your subordinates into telling him, but it never happens; not like he has anything that may interest them

• All he needs to stop fussing around so much is a letter from Garp telling him to trust you; not really the most convincing thing, but surely does leave a thought in the back of Ace’s head

• If you don’t kill him and have a goal, then the logic is simple; you need Ace alive, so you won’t kill him even if he’s the most insufferable fucker in the whole world

• Spending a few weeks on your ship does make Ace soften, though. He ends up finding himself in late night talks with you on the deck because, as much as he doesn’t want to chat, your sweet talk does keep him going. Not to mention the way he finds comfort in you, somehow

• Ace softening up doesn’t mean peace. His way of showing he is more comfortable around you resolves itself around Ace suddenly falling asleep in the most inconvenient spaces and following you around while making the most annoying comments. It doesn’t matter that you’re an Admiral and the power you have—he will get on your nerves because that’s just how he is, even more knowing he won’t get killed no matter how much he annoys one of the strongest, best known marines and warriors out there

• “What’re you doing?” “...Paperwork.” “Well, that I can see. What’s it about, though? Can I see the files about me? You better have everything right. I’m sure my bounty would be higher if you knew everything I’ve done!” “Why don’t you go take a nap or something? Leave me alone, fire boy.” “You’re so annoying! I can’t even—” You look up from your papers and he is... sleeping again. Okay.

• “You must be receiving a great amount to be taking care of me.” “Oh, I wish I were...”

• The relationship between you two turns into something like; Ace: Yo, I’ve broken about 20 important things, almost sank your ship again and made one of your subordinates almost give up on being a Marine You: I know this and I love you

• Ace is a little suspicious if you really have any real destiny—you’re sailing without stopping at any island for longer than a couple of days and never going to any of the headquarters. Are you going against the rules and acting in secret? Really??? For real??? Damn it, someone for once should tell Ace a word about what’s going on. Not only would half of his doubts go away, but also something interesting would happen in that godforsaken ship before he went crazy

• Although, watching the admiral is quite interesting. Well, the admiral is quite interesting...

• He grows quiet for a while, spending some days processing how you are always checking on him every morning and every night before he goes to sleep, sometimes bringing you food in person and spending some of your time with him

• Why do you want to know if he is emotionally okay and has everything he needs? It's almost like you care

• Then there are those long, uncomfortable silences in which he doesn't know what to do because, maybe unintentionally, those little comments of yours and light smirks have his face turning bright red and something stirring inside his chest

• How did he even allow the admiral to get into his head like that? He can't let it continue this way, though

          “(Y/n)!” Ace whined as he walked into your office and didn’t even care about what you were doing before he threw himself on your lap, holding onto your shoulders as he dramatically leaned back.

“Ace—”

“I am afraid I am about to die! Your ship is so, so boring and your subordinates never talk to me!” He closed his eyes, making a face as if he were under a lot of pain—or at least trying to—, with no regard for the documents he almost made you ruin. “Like, why can’t they give me the combination to the vault? Or let me mess with the sails? That’s no fun!”

You would’ve chuckled if Ace weren’t being so obnoxious, so you just leaned back on the chair and observed him; he pouted at the silence and sat up properly on your lap. He takes in a breath, but you never allow him to voice whatever it is.

“Look, I am throwing you in the sea if you continue like this!”

“As if!” Ace chuckles. “You can’t k...”

Oh, it can’t be. Still, the soft snoring that comes from Ace confirms your theory and you roll your eyes, bouncing your leg lightly.

“Oi! What do you think you are doing, Ace?” You finally let go of your pen and your papers, shaking Ace a little. “Get lost, fire boy! I already forbid you from interrupting me while I’m on my paperwork! Why don’t you go read the books I lent you, hm? Go sleep in your room, at least. In the kitchen. I don't care.”

“It’s no fun without you.” Ace groaned, and you couldn’t help but to smirk and raise an eyebrow; a red tone took over his cheeks. “I—I mean, you’re the one who—”

“The one who?” You nodded for him to continue, resting your cheek against your palm. “Go on.” Ace exhaled, pressing his lips together as he looked away, and the lack of answer made you chuckle while wrapping an arm around his torso. “Oh, you don’t know what to do now that you have my full attention? Just wasting my time? I gave you rules to stay on my ship, Ace.” Your fingers held onto his jaw so he would look at you. “And I—”

Lips pressed to yours interrupted your words. Ace’s lips. You couldn’t help but to kiss back because he kept pressing his lips to yours for a few seconds, dismissing your hesitance, and even daring to hum softly once you started to kiss him back.

None of you stop. It started a chain of kisses that was enough to make you forget about your paperwork, lost in kissing the lips of a filthy pirate that fell in your hands because of a deal. Both of you had this same feeling; the spark of knowing that this was wrong and forbidden was what ignited your feelings for each other. Ace’s lips tasted like the sea, like the sweets he was eating earlier, but also tasted like freedom. A little bit of power that you had over the Marine and the World Government because no matter what you did, you knew no one would agree to have you dismissed from the Marine and they couldn't control every single action of yours.

Your fingers hooked with the hair on the back of Ace’s head to pull him away from the kiss a little. “You are down bad,” you mumbled into his ear.

• Once, Ace hears you talking to Sengoku. He sees you in your office, back to the door and with a den den mushi in hand. Your voice is calm, but not the sort of calm like you are when you raise an eyebrow at Ace then shrug in dismissal before you tell him to do whatever he pleases, no; it is the type of calm when your subordinates do something you don’t like, so you suppress your annoyance to long glares and pursed lips

• “No...” You say to the snail, “I am busy. I won’t be there for the next meeting. You already know my position in this. It is the same as Garp’s. And you know I haven’t seen Fire First. I would’ve reported already. Has he disappeared or something? You haven’t heard a thing about him for weeks.”

• And he doesn’t listen anymore. He doesn’t want to. Either way, it is enough to change the context again, from “stop locking me here” to “thanks for keeping me safe”

• You don’t understand what’s up with Ace being softer around you, but it is well welcomed. There’s something sweet about how he places a chair next to your desk and folds his arms over the table with his head on them, quietly observing you work until he falls asleep

• Actually, one night, Ace knocks on your bedroom’s door. He just walks past you and collapses on the bed at the moment you open the door. And fuck. That boy’s audacity. Whatever. It’s nice to hold onto something while you sleep

• And the fact your subordinates will walk into you making out with Ace on your lap while you’re in your office and just ignore what is happening is just... Hell, you love it

• There’s a whole new routine with Ace by your side

• The moment Ace has to leave comes quicker than you expected. It’s already time for you to return to your usual admiral duties and also for Ace to go back to the sea because there’s no longer a threat

• He can’t believe that keeping him was a whole plan to keep him safe while you, Garp and a few others did your best to convince the Marine that Portgas D. Ace was not a threat, so he shouldn’t be executed

• Ace is at loss of words, unable to formulate a thanks that’s genuine enough and expresses all of his feelings because you only fucking let him know about it when you’re dropping him at an island where Whitebeard already awaits for him. He wants to cry, to hug you, to kiss you, to ramble about how thankful he is, all at the same time—but he can’t

• You chuckle at how lost he seems, grinning happily and telling him he can go because he is safe now

• Ace doesn’t leave without giving you a kiss, a deep one

• What seemed to be a short-term thing, ends up leaving your hearts aching for more once you’re away from each other, in the sea. It is risky, it is dangerous, difficult to manage, even, but you’re picking Ace up in a random island to spend the night with you whenever you are able to, with excuses to the marine that you ended up letting him escape because your priorities were others. Sometimes he will just show up randomly with that devilish smirk on his face

• As much as you’re an admiral, your little relationship does reach the Marine’s eyes and ears, and it doesn’t seem to help them in the slightest bit because you’re not only with one of their highest potential enemies; your behavior also encourages other pirates a little too much, as if it gives them some sort of excuse or extra freedom. You’d always been a little rebel considering the Marine and World Government’s rules, so maybe you’ll go a little too far soon—if you haven't already

• Getting rid of Ace wouldn’t mean just getting rid of a big threat—it also would have you under the Marine’s control once for all

• First of all, the Marine can’t get rid of an admiral so powerful like you, so it isn’t a choice to dismiss or execute you, so that leads to Ace. Given the way you are lovesick, getting rid of Ace will teach you a lesson—and a lesson to every other marine and pirate as well—, and your head will be focused on doing your job. You won’t rebel against the only people who know your weaknesses and help you be stronger

• The new census doesn’t need you and Garp to vote; it doesn’t matter what a small biased minority things about such a threat

• You already suspect what's going on when they send you across the ocean, and it gets worse when they start to guide you to a weird island you’ve never seen before

• Held. You’re being held across the ocean because they know you can save Ace if you have the opportunity, because you’re too precious to be wasted for such an insignificant matter. You’ll just be force– I mean, invited to a confidential meeting later to establish that your relationship with Ace will be forgiven and forgotten since they know it won’t happen again and you’re such a great admiral that they can’t risk losing you. You will have to sign a few documents and be under constant watch for a few months after it

• For now, you will just sit in this cold cell knowing your love is being executed

.𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟.

PART TWO

[gatheringbones]

[“The way I told my mom was less than ideal. I was home on a school break and talking to Jessie for about an hour on the telephone. My mom kept knocking on my bedroom door, telling me to get off the phone. I was totally frustrated and came storming into the living room. She said something snide like, “I don’t know who this Jessie is and why you have to be on the phone with her for so long.” “She’s my girlfriend! And I’m bisexual!” I shouted angrily. I don’t actually remember what she said after that.

Telling my gay father was a lot less dramatic. He just said some thing like, “That’s great—whatever makes you happy.” Interestingly, he wasn’t jumping for joy over me joining the team or anything.

Jessie and I didn’t last very long; we really were better off as friends. I don’t think people, including me, realized how serious I was—this wasn’t an experiment or whimsy—until I met Jen.

Jen was the Big Dyke On Campus. She was a senior, super intelligent, opinionated, really out. Everyone knew who she was because she was a big-time activist, very outspoken about things like sex, SM, and porn. She also went to class dressed in men’s shirts and ties. This was no friendly, sporty lesbian that everyone found charming. She was a butch dyke, brazen in her gender and style, and I was drawn to her. She was frantically finishing her honors thesis when we first met, and so our early encounters were at the library. I remember kissing her for the first time on the library steps and feeling such intense desire that I thought I would explode and shatter into tiny bits of flesh at her feet. She was a brilliant flirt, so self-assured, so deliberate and generous with her words, so powerful at casting a spell on me. Consumed by her, I wanted to surrender, to give her everything. She was the smartest, fiercest lesbian I knew. And then she was my girlfriend.

Jen used to read On Our Backs and Susie Bright’s Lesbian Sex World to me at bedtime every night. (She was even in charge of bringing Susie Bright to speak on campus that spring.) We were so connected, so engaged in the relationship. Every single day, there was something new to learn, share, discover. I did so many things for the first time with Jen. Jen was the first girl I ever lived with. I experienced the tremors of my first earthquake in bed with Jen and her yellow lab. I had my first taste of what now is my favorite all-time food at the hands of Jen: sushi. Jen was the first woman to fuck me with a dildo. Jen was the first woman to tie me up. The first woman to spank me. To fuck my ass. She topped me for the first time, I bottomed to her for the first time, and we switched. We watched fag porn together. She was the first girl I ever fucked with a strap-on. She was the first girl I ever stripped for. Jen was the first girl I ever bought a tie for. Jen brought me to buy my first pair of Doc Martens. She was so articulate about her desires and her politics, so sex positive, that I felt like I could tell her anything. She was my lover, my mentor, my dyke teacher, and so much of who I am today came from her.

Before her, I felt closeted not only about my desire for women, but my desire to explore the myriad possibilities of sex. Coming out finally gave me the freedom to do so. I was never tortured or miserable with all the boys I’d been with; in fact, physically, they were pretty satisfying. I couldn’t always connect with them on an intellectual or emotional level, so I always felt like something was missing. While I was sexually precocious with men, I never tried new things, experimented, voiced fantasies—being a dyke totally coincided with my overall sexual liberation, and the two awakenings became intrinsically linked.”]

tristan taormino, from this girl is different, from a woman like that: lesbian and bisexual writers tell their coming out stories, 2000

[heartilywrites]

♡ — Leaving tonight ; H. Callahan

cw: angst, but like, a bunch of that ; avengers: endgame strong references ; avengers: infinity war final battle reference just at the beginning ; spider!hazel; black widow!reader ; mention of death

word count: 2.8k

a/n: love me some angst, this is my post ~celebrating~ endgame happening canonically now, i just happen to remember we made spider!hazel a thing and i needed to write her in the mcu timeline. . . i made peter exist at the same time as haze because,,, why not? i think they would be best friends idk. anyways, hope you enjoy!

“ 𝓐ll alone, all we know, is haunting me. . . Making it harder to breathe. ”

⠀⠀Ever had that feeling that something is about to end very very bad? Great! That was the exact feeling everyone at the battlefield had, even the most optimistic person could be doubting about the conclusion of that fight. Yeah, you were winning against the army, but that gut wrenching feeling that it may all be in vain was there, haunting you.

You fought with everything in your system, but there wasn't really much to do as a Widow besides helping to stop the alien army and hope for the more powerful avengers to stop everything from the source: Thanos. . . And then you saw wakandians disappear in dust, your heart dropped to the ground when you realized what that meant and your feet were quick to run looking for Natasha.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Please, please, please.” you begged while your eyes began to accumulate tears.

You heard your name being shouted and were fast to recognize Natasha's silhouette running to you too. An almost crushing hug was what you received, after making sure neither of you were about to disappear you look to the scene next to you. 'Oh god' the captain's voice whispered in disbelief. You lost.

And that was just the beginning, once you arrived back from Wakanda you were fast to look for your friends only to find that Brittany was the only from your group still around, both of you cried as soon as you saw each other and hugged.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Where's Hazel?” her voice asked, “I know she ran out the campus with you, didn't she?” your eyes widened.

Hazel. She and this other spider–dude went to fucking space as a stowaways when you clearly heard on the earpiece Tony's voice telling them to stay on New York, obviously neither of them listened even after your own scold while helping on the ground as much as you could.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “I'll be back, darling, I promise!” her voice in a robotic sound told you before losing signal with her.

You didn't know if she was alive anymore, but after the first couple weeks, you were beginning to accept the idea that she did dust away along with the other kid, Tony and the wizard dude. And you started to grief.

At least you were until one night in the compound an earthquake caught everyone's attention on a possible attack, curious your feet took you out of the building and in your visual field a spaceship appeared with a glowing woman directing it to the ground.

You were far behind from everyone, squinting your eyes to see a bit better your jaw almost fell to the floor to the sight of Tony coming down the stairs with a blue woman and. . . Wait.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Hazel!” an exclamation came from you now running to help the girl, once again crying, but those were tears of relief. She hugged you tight as much as she could. “I thought I lost you.”

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “I thought I lost you.” she repeated back on a sob, once you pushed away you saw how bad she looked. “Oh my god, Steve shaved?”

At that question, you turned your face to the captain who was talking with Tony and frowned. “I guess. . .” once again, your eyes were back at her and a sniff was heard from both of you. “Fucking idiot, I'm confiscating your web–shooters everytime we see a spaceship.”

After laughing at your comment, she gave you a weak kiss, leaning on you after a bit and you guided her steps to the building.

They did a little meeting to get the ones on space to date, your teeth were biting your bottom lip trying not to cry at the pictures of those you called your friends that weren't around anymore.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “We lost Peter.” Hazel whispered while watching the argument the two grown men had. She, just as Tony, were connected to an IV and you were on her other side holding her hand. “We lost everyone, we–.”

You calmly shushed her, your thumb was leaving caresses on her hand. “We did what we could.” you smiled weakly. “And we're going to do everything to get them back.”

And you were one to keep a promise.

The next thing the group did was trying to find Thanos, but you didn't had the right mind to go with them. You wanted to stay with Hazel and take care of her, so that's what you did; stay. You hugged Natasha while wishing them good luck, telling them to 'get that bitch's ass' as she laughed and assure you they were going to bring everyone back. . .

But then, 5 years went by.

As soon as they got back, everyone took their own way. Defeated, neither of you needed to ask what had happened, because their faces said it all.

Once Hazel got better, both of you decided to move on, try to have a normal life. Kept studying at collage with Brittany, the three of you grew closer together. Deep down you knew things really won't be back as they were, missing Josie, Isabel and PJ became something constant like breathing; the first two years you usually went to the compound to train with Nat, but after that you started to drift away from the avengers to continue with your life, she didn't stopped you at that.

Sure, you did missions once in a while, but it wasn't as much as you did before the events. Your relationship with Hazel got serious and one night, she proposed to you. Obviously you said yes, you wanted to be with her for the rest of your life if it was possible, she had been your rock all those years in work, such as you were hers and it finally felt as the universe was trying to let you two rest at least a little bit.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “We need you two, kid.” Rogers' voice was heard after his speech and a bit of silence, you were serving the dinner, passing a plate to him and one to your now fiancé, both of them smiled. “We need as many hands as possible.”

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “I. . . I don't know, Mr. America.” Hazel was the first one to speak, you took your seat across from her.‍ “Our graduation is near, we're planning a wedding as well.”

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “It's our second chance, girls.” he said, his eyes moved from Hazel to you.‍ “Congrats on the wedding, by the way, but this is our only chance to get everyone back.”

Your eyes darted back to Hazel as she did the same.

Maybe you'll get your friends back, maybe they'll be here for the celebration. What else could you lose? It was something easy, he said, risky, but easy enough. Travel in time to the stones, take them to use them, bring everyone back and take them back as if they never left their timelines. Piece of cake, right?

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Are you sure you want to do this?” Hazel asked you while saving both your and her suit in a bag.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Are you?” You shot back, raising a brow her way. You sighed and walk to her side of the bed.‍ ‍ “Haze, we can get them back. Have Josie, Isabel and PJ on our day, don't you want that?” Her eyes looked down to the bag.‍ “Didn't you say you wanted to have them as best women?”

She laughed and nodded slowly.‍ “Fine, but we're only helping with the stones, yeah? Once that's done we come back home, we still need to choose between daisies or jasmines.”

You nodded with a funny smile and gave her a tiny kiss.

Once in the compound it was explain how everything would go down, where the stones have been seen and who had them at that time. It took no more than two days to get the information in order and everyone did teams; yours was the one going to Vormir and Morag, the soul and power stones.

A pretty good speech, a couple of words exchanged and a promise to come back was said by everyone before everyone started to travel.

Arriving to Morag was quite the experience, you've never been to space so looking around was almost inevitable.

A scream was heard from Hazel before kicking. . . Something similar to a rat, you laughed while taking away the white suit, underneath that it was your well–known black suit, your fiancé had her classic one without the mask.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Are we ready?” You said looking at your teammates, they nodded.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Good to go, kiddo.” Now it was your turn to nod. A small hug was received by the older man for the both of you. “Get the stone and comeback, no messing around, okay?”

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Yes, dad.” Hazel said jokingly, after a bit she took your hand and started to walk towards the ship.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Take care of each other!” he exclaimed, you gave him a military salute followed by an 'aye aye, captain', the doors closed.

You both looked around the ship while walking to the pilot and co–pilot seat, once buckled up, the ship itself began the trip.

Your hand was holding tight to the seat, both laughing at the speed and colors, truly an experience worth living.

When arriving to Vormir, both of you looked shocked at such landscape. Nothing like we had on earth, you thought.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Let's go, m'lady.” Hazel called for you, offering her hand, you took it with a smile. “Let's get this stone and go back home.”

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Easy work, we should've choose New York for a bit of a complicated level.” you said while walking.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “And miss the opportunity to come to space? Nuh–uh, maybe we should've changed planets with them.” she responded back. “This planet is way too dark, feels sad.”

A laugh fell from you mouth. Now infront of the big mountain in there, Hazel got the both of you up with webs, knowing it would take more time if you climbed the mountain.

Once at the top, you took your gun out for precaution and both sets of eyes inspected every corner they saw.

You heard a voice say your name and your father's name, at least you figured that was him since after the same voice pronounced Hazel and her father's name as a welcome later on, such jumpscare made you both be on guard ready to attack. Then you saw a. . . A man? with red face, floating. “Consider me a guide to you and all of those who seek the soul stone.”

You exchanged looks with Hazel before putting down the weapon, your fiancé never let down her guard. “Yeah? How do we get it then?” she asked, still a bit scared.

The entity floated in the middle of the two, you followed him to almost the edge. “What you seek lies in front of you,” he said while both heroes walked to see down. “In order to take the stone you must lose that what you love, an everlasting exchange.” you could feel how your heart dropped, turning back to see Hazel. “A soul for a soul.”

You walked a bit back to think about what was just said, sitting down on a rock in silence. “There has to be another way,” Hazel said after a couple of minutes in silence. “Or maybe he was joking.”

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “I don't really think so,” you responded blinking a couple of times. “Think about it, Haze; Thanos came here with his daughter Gamora, got the stone and left without her, that has to mean something.”

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Maybe he lost her somewhere else, how do we know he isn't making shit up and the stone is somewhere else?” Hazel stood up from the rock, clearly stressed at the situation.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “He knows my father's name. . . I don’t even know it, I don’t think he'll be guessing if I knew him or not.” now you stood up and took her hands. “If we don't get that stone, billions of people will stay dead. . .”

She nodded sighing. “Whatever it takes, right?”

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Whatever it takes.” you responded with low voice. Cutting distance with her, your lips met in a sweet kiss; one filled with sadness too knowing what was about to come, regret at the thought of accepting the mission, but calm at the thought of saving people. Once you pulled away, a smile showed on your face. “I love you, Hazel, remember that, yeah?”

The girl blinked confused at your words. “Did we just thought of different endings?” she shook her head, taking your arms. “Honey, you have the wrong idea.”

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Hazel, please, let me do this.” you almost cried, taking a step back. “I promised you that, didn't I? We're going to do everything to get them back and this is how. After everything I've done. . . This is my way to redeem all the pain I caused.”

She didn't answer, in your distraction she pinned you to the floor while shaking her head. “No, you'll tell the girls I love them.”

You were quick to change positions and stand up while pointing at her with your electric gun. “Tell them yourself, Haze.” your voice defended before shooting her, seeing how the shock did its work at keeping her down you started to make your way to the edge.

Hazel was fast enough to remove the shot from her and sit up, when trying to use her right web–shooter she realized you had covered it, but not the left one so she changed hands and shot you on the ankles making you fall. With a curse coming out of your mouth, your hands were fast to get the small knife from your belt and cut the webs as Hazel was about to reach the edge.

You ran as fast as you could just as she jumped, hugging her and shooting a gadget which you attached to her was in matter of seconds. The mutant was fast to take your wrist.

The gadget was short, and it was right on her hip so she couldn't reach you with her other hand if she wanted to.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Don't do this, please, don't do it.” she pleaded, your hand was open so if she tried to shoot another web at you with the left shooter, she'll drop you.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “It's okay.” you smiled at her, with quick hand you took away her left shooter. “Let me go, it's okay, I promise.”

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “I can't, I need you, please, don't do this.” Even with her sight blurry from the tears, Hazel was able to see how calm you were.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “I love you.” your voice breathed out one last time.

Taking impulse from the rock, your feet pushed you as Hazel's grip slipped and let your wrist go.

A bloody gut wrenching scream came out of her mouth, feeling how throat hurt from said action, a lightning took her away while she called your name.

Next thing she knew, she was on a pond lying down. Sitting down, on her left hand she could feel the stone, Hazel opened her hand and tears began to stream down her cheeks at the look of the yellow infinity stone. What was she going to say know? How can she show her face back home without you by her side?

It took a couple of minutes for her to find any strength to stand up and get back to her time, but as soon as she arrived to the circle, she felt again on her knees. Completely numb, hearing the other voices muffled celebrating and asking her about you once her knees made noise.

Natasha's voice brought her back, Callahan looked up to her, tears falling from her eyes silently, she couldn't bring herself to tell her how her apprentice sacrificed herself for the stone.

So you could only imagine how she felt once the whole team won over Thanos again and brought her friends back, only for them to ask for you after hugging her and thanking for bringing them back.

Your funeral was alongside Tony's, but Hazel didn't cried, she just stood silent watching at her own ring on her hand, sitting on the stairs of the cabin.

Brittany was the one who sat next to her when she realized she wasn't inside with everyone else, they both were in complete silence.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “You know. . .” she finally talked after hours of silence, hoarsely. “I just. . . I hope she knows that we did it. That we won.”

Brittany looked at her, compassionate at the way she was feeling. “She knows.” she said, passing one arm on her shoulders, Hazel leaned her head on her friend letting a couple of tears leave her eyes. “I'm sure she does.”

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Paint It Black: Part One

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.9k

Warnings: canon angst and violence, extra angst

Summary: A case takes you, Sam, and Dean right into a church where Dean confesses his fears about you. You're the love of his life and trapped inside his head while he waits for your soul to purify. He didn't think things could get worse but can they or did Dean find the one thing that can give him hope?

Season Ten Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. I love seeing any and all comments <3

x

Dean looks in the rearview mirror to see you lying in the back seat with an arm over your eyes. You've been like that for the past hour, and unless you really like that uncomfortable position, you're sleeping. It's one of the very few moments where you rest enough to sleep for a couple of hours. Judging based on how you've slept in the past, he doesn't have much time to talk to his brother. They're heading out for a case in the middle of the night because, apparently, it couldn't wait until morning.

"Y/N? You awake?" No reply. "You're a bitch."

"Dude," Sam scoffs.

"What? I'm checking to make sure she's asleep. She is. Listen, Sam, I don't know how much time we have to talk, but I need you to find the cure for the Mark."

"What? Just last week you begged me to leave it alone. Now you want me to look?"

"Sam, she threatened my kids." His bottom lip wobbles but he doesn't cry. "I can't be the reason my kids are hurt. She'd never forgive herself if she hurt her kids. We need her back as soon as possible. I promised I wouldn't look for it but you never promised."

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" What if she finds out and threatens to hurt them again? What if she does?"

"That is not my wife. I have spent thirty-five years with that woman, and she is kind and loving and would put everyone in front of her. That is the shell of the woman I love, and we can't stop her. She is too powerful, so I need you to find the cure for the Mark."

"Even if we got it off her, she'd still be soulless."

"I'm working on that," Dean sighs.

The room you're in is a lot brighter than before, but there are still dark parts of the room. Dean has stopped pacing in front of the room but he stands guard as if he's trying to stop someone from coming in or from you getting out. You've exhausted your voice trying to get his attention. Whoever is outside this door is not Dean. He'd never let you rot in this room. There is no doorknob on the door so you have no way of getting out unless Dean opens it from the outside.

No, fuck that. You're not waiting for Dean to save you. You have fucking magic. You're the Sapphire Witch. You can get out of a locked room all on your own. You place your hands flat on the door and push on it, allowing your magic to seep through the cracks. When it doesn't budge, you yell out in frustration and back up from it.

Okay, Y/N, calm down. You need to have a clear head. Just focus on the magic and open the door.

With another deep breath, you place your hands against the door again, this time with your eyes closed. All you can visualize is the door opening, and your magic does the work for you. Seconds later, something clicks and the door swings open. Yes!

"Dean!" you shout and run to him.

However, before you can cross the threshold, you're stopped by an invisible force. It's like there is an invisible wall blocking you from leaving. No matter how much you pound on it, how much you push against it, or how much you try to use your magic, you're not getting through it.

"Shit," you sigh.

If you can't leave, maybe you can get Dean's attention. You conjure up a blue ball of magic and send it straight at Dean's back. As soon as it makes contact with him, the force of it blasts you back deeper into the room. You hit your back against the wall and slide down the wall.

"Fuck!"

"Shit, ow," Dean hisses and touches the side of his head.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks, looking to see if you're still sleeping. You are.

"Yeah, my head is killing me."

The parts behind Dean's eyes ache so he looks into the rearview mirror to see if there is something that is causing him pain, and that's when he sees it. It's gone as quickly as it came but he saw it as clear as day. A flash of blue rushed across his eyes. He wouldn't think anything of it except that it's the same color as your magic.

"Alright, I'm thinking curse," Sam says. Dean is half-paying attention to him because he's staring at his eyes to see if he can see it again. He doesn't. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yeah, man. Three suicides in two weeks."

"They're not just suicides. They gutted themselves, and they took their sweet time doing it. I mean, that had to be incredibly painful. I can't seem to find any link between the vics, either."

"Yeah, probably a curse, I bet."

Sam and Dean arrive in Worcester, Massachusetts, and pull up to the police station. Dean looks at you who is still sleeping in the back seat, and the last thing he's going to do is wake you. Sam and Dean quietly close the car doors and walk across the street where the police station is. They spend a total of thirty minutes there before leaving, and they have some theories after seeing the crime scene photos.

"Alright, so what do we have? Terry Sloan is an ordinary guy with not a lot of friends but no known enemies and no relation to the other vics."

"Well, not necessarily. He's Catholic, and so are the other two," Dean says.

"Dean, this is Massachusetts. There are a lot of Catholics in Massachusetts."

"Do you think this is a case?" Dean asks his brother.

"Who kills himself with a candlestick? There are about a billion better ways."

"Yeah, but he did kill himself."

"There was nothing hex-y found on him, right? That's not a witch. Maybe possession? Could it have been a demon?" Sam theorizes.

"Yeah, but the point of a demon possessing a living thing is to, you know, possess a living thing." They see you awake and on your phone by the time they get back to the car. "Have a nice nap?"

"Yeah, I didn't have to hear you yap your mouth. What did I miss?"

"Catholic suicides."

"Great," you grin and lean back. "I'm not going to miss an opportunity to fuck with some Catholics."

"Behave," Dean rolls his eyes.

"No promises."

After lounging around for a few hours with nothing to do (you did nothing, Sam and Dean did all the work), there are reports of another murder. Lisa murdered her husband, and the last thing she remembers is being at the church while her husband was in confession. One of the priests is waiting for you when you arrive, and he escorts you into the church.

"I just can't believe Lisa McCarthy would murder her husband," Father Delaney sighs sadly.

"Right, well, his blood was all over her body, and her prints were all over the pair of scissors that butchered him."

"That's terrible."

"Yeah, shocking," you comment.

"Now, we also have some questions. For starters, she has no memory of it. The last thing she remembers is being here. Frank had gone to confession. So, if he happened to say anything in the confession about the problems with the wife--"

"I'm sorry. The nature of confession is confidential."

You smirk at that. Interesting.

"Father, all of the victims attended your church. Could you at least tell us if they had recently been to confession?" Sam asks.

"Yes. These men were fairly regular, but then, so are the majority of the folks here."

"Father?"

You turn to see a young nun approach the group.

"Agents, Sister Mathias is our Director of Social Services. I've asked her to show you around and answer any questions."

"Sure," Sam nods. Father Delaney leaves and Sam turns to Sister Mathias. "Sister, I'm Agent Betts and these are Agents Allman and Oakley. You're aware of the recent string of deaths, right?"

"Yes, what a terrible tragedy, but I'm confused as to why you're here. These were all suicides, weren't they?"

"Possibly not."

"Murders?" she gasps.

"The actual method of killing was all identical."

"I'm going to take a look around," Sam says. "Excuse me." 

He leaves you and Dean alone with the young nun. You three begin walking and you look at Dean who can't take his eyes off her.

"Uh, Sister, did you notice any change in the McCarthy's lives? You know fighting, drinking, or cheating? You know, the usual."

"The usual," she chuckles. "A bit cynical, Agent?"

"Scissors to the gut really bring out the Grinch in me," Dean chuckles. The young woman stops at the head of the church where she crosses her body in the proper Catholic fashion--forehead, chest, left shoulder, then right shoulder. "Lisa McCarthy said that they were very devoted to each other. Was that true?"

"That always appeared to be the case."

"But...?"

"We're looking for a motive, aren't we?"

"We are. An earlier victim's cellphone showed some angry texts between him and his girlfriend because he had been fooling around."

"There were rumors," she sighs.

"So, Frank cheated on Lisa, huh?" you smirk.

"My sources are excellent, and you didn't hear it from me," she whispers.

"I have a question. How does someone like you end up, you know...?" Dean says, letting his question hang in the air.

"Cloistered away from the world?" she chuckles. "Are you making fun of me, Agent Allman?"

"No, he's hitting on you," you jump in.

"No, I'm not," Dean glares at you. "No, no, no. I guess I'm just wondering how somebody quits one life for something completely different and then believes in it so much."

"Well, in my case, I felt I had no choice. My life had become painful. There was hopelessness. I felt I had to find something larger than myself to focus on. A kind of mission, I guess. You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure."

You look behind Dean and see Sam walking this way.

"Sister, I have a question. Is there a cemetery nearby?"

"You could say that. The entire church is built over burial crypts."

"Then my next question is have you ever heard or felt anything strange or unusual?"

"Unusual how?"

"Like spots in the building that suddenly get cold or maybe you feel like you're not quite alone?"

"How about rattling chains and teacups that fly across the room?"

"Sister, are you making fun of me?" Dean chuckles.

"The FBI believes in ghosts? I'm afraid I don't. If you'll excuse me, Agents, I have to get back to work."

She walks away and you pat your husband on the shoulder.

"You should hit that or are you still hung up on the whole loyalty thing for a dead-beat wife?"

Dean chooses to ignore you. He and Sam leave with you following closely behind them. As soon as you step outside, you put your sunglasses on to avoid the harsh glare of the sun.

"The whole theme of this case seems to be about guys doing their women wrong. Notice that?" Sam asks.

"Yeah, but Lisa was pretty convincing that she had no idea whatsoever she had killed her husband, and the nun said Lisa had no idea he was cheating on her. Maybe she was controlled by someone who did?"

"Again, nothing witchy here."

"Ghost?"

"Hard to say. I mean there's EMF in the church, but it's built on a burial ground."

"You know that all the victims recently went to confession?" you comment and both brothers turn to look at you.

"You think Father Delaney's involved?"

"Or maybe something surrounding the confessional."

"Sammy, how long has it been since my last confession?" Dean asks.

"You've never been to confession."

"Well, that's too long."

"I've got a couple of sins I need to get off my chest, too," you smirk.

If there is a ghost surrounding the confession booth, then it'll be listening to whatever bullshit Dean can spew. If he can say something that will piss the ghost off, it'll come for him and they can rid the world of its evil presence. Now you, on the other hand, are just doing this to fuck with the priest's head. If everything is confidential, you'll give him something to haunt his dreams.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[belit0]

2000 Word Commission (Uchiha Madara / Fem Reader) @moroseu

"I was wondering if you could write Madara falling for reader who was one of the many shinobi he had to fight during the war era. He never had the chance to actually act out on his feelings until the creation of Konoha, where he saw her for the first time outside of combat, during a diplomatic meeting of sorts. She is not wearing armor, she seems a lot more gentler unlike on the battlefield and for the first time, she greets him with a smile. Who will make the first move!? Will he chase after her when the meeting ends or vice versa!? That will be left up to you!"

As I was editing this, I noticed how I changed the meeting situation and got an angry Madara instead, I just hope you like it, my darling Roseu💕😭🙏 Thank you so much for always trusting me with your amazing ideas, I feel truly honored🛐💫

EACH COMMISSION COMES WITH AN EXTRA SECRET SCENARIO, THAT I UNIQUELY AND ESPECIALLY ADD FOR THE BUYER. (I'll leave you an example of it at the bottom, but in Spanish, so you don't cheat.)

KO-FI COMMISSIONS

 Madara is angry, in such an intense and terrible mood that makes him look like a hedgehog poised for a fight. Those who know the Uchiha usually avoid getting close to him in this state, aware they will get nothing but a threat and at worst, a glimpse of the Sharingan.

Obfuscated on his desk he tries to read Hashirama's indecipherable handwriting, whatever he tried to explain in the document he left for him. Peaceful times brought out the worst in everyone, and while the Senju leader stands out as the shinobi god, he has no freaking clue about what he's doing in office terms.

Madara, adopting the position of Shadow Hokage, spends more time between trips and physical negotiations than sitting behind a piece of wood, but every time he has to deal with his best friend's errands, his blood boils inside his body.

Is this motivation enough to start another war? Maybe…

"The... a-village of... con-no.oga? What the..." He sighs to himself, abandoning the document on the table and leaning back against his chair. One hand travels to his hair, running through the completeness of his scalp anxiously, and the other to his face, wishing he could disappear into the darkness his gloves provide.

He could ask for help, interpretation, or assistance, were it not for the fact that both Senju brothers decided to disappear altogether, leaving him with total responsibility for the situation. Izuna? Of course not, he doesn't count, he is more of an enemy than an ally when it comes to administration.

With his eyes still covered he remembers those times when everything was simpler and complicated at the same time, where the paperwork was not important and the only decisive thing was blood, sweat, and effort. His body tends to miss those scenarios where it was a matter of killing or getting killed, when the only meaning was to protect his own and to return home with as many as possible, to make sure that Izuna was safe, that the family was still complete.

War times were as terrible as they were wonderful, moments where only Tajima had to deal with annoying elders and combat strategies, Madara being a free young man with the only goal of bringing the Senju heir's head in arms and presenting it before everyone as a symbol of power.

Of course, he did not count on becoming the best friend of this Senju in question, nor running a village with him.

Blood used to flow smoothly, screams rang out from all sides, weapons roared against each other, and she looked as beautiful as ever in her armor and-.

"STOP!" The Uchiha suddenly shouts, standing up and planting both hands on his desk. Eyes wide open and hair tousled, he's grateful to be alone in the office and avoid having to give embarrassing explanations to anyone.

His inkwell spills onto the paperwork because of how he slams the desk, and the document which was already illegible because of Hashirama's handwriting now becomes even worse. The half covered by a huge black stain is given up for lost, and Madara holds his hair yet again, this time itching to rip it out of his head.

"SHIT!" He vowed to never think of her again, to deny that woman place and space in his mind, to eradicate her from his memories and exile her from any corner of his brain. For years he battled against that beautiful face captured in his thoughts, charming eyes, and the ferocity with which she tried to kill him over and over again in the name of the Senju.

She was not part of the clan, but her family allied with them to avoid being massacred for lack of decision. Hashirama worked with her side by side, and the woman dared to stand up to Madara on countless occasions when the leader had to attend to other fronts.

Never had he seen anyone but Hashirama or his stupid brother dare to look him in the face, avoiding his eyes of course, but with their heads held high and proudly puffing out their chests. "Now… what is the name of this warrior who dares attempt to end my life?" He had asked her with a smirk, expecting a perfect escape rather than a coherent answer.

"(Y/N)" she confessed to him before attacking, lunging with savagery and impressive speed at him, the only time she almost succeeded in slashing his neck. He had let his guard down in front of the woman, inviting her to dance a deadly tantrum from which he himself almost ended up losing his life.

The girl proved to be unbeatable, with will and strength of steel, always with an ace up her sleeve. At some point, the confrontations against the Senju took on a new flavor, giving the Uchiha the chance to see her, to fight against her, to have the privilege of admiring her raw power, and to be the recipient of all her assaults.

She was the only warrior he could not kill while holding her at the end of his weapon.

That time, (Y/N) had gotten careless after hours of combat, almost zero chakra left and few physical resources to use. Only the last several warriors were left standing, including the two of them. There had been hours of terrible exchanges, hard blows, and worse answers, but the girl gave an easy access entrance, an opportunity Madara did not hesitate to use.

When he had her on the ground, surrendered under his body and the strength of his hands, he could feel how she gave herself to destiny, how she submitted to whatever life wanted to happen to her, and that distracted him. The kunai was resting on her neck, all he had to do was press lightly, pierce the skin, and tear her throat as with countless enemies.

Instead, his hands were diverted by the warmth of her skin, the sharpness of her eyes, how soft her lips seemed even after hours of fighting and little to no water. Her presence became intoxicating, to the point where it managed to steal his goal of slaughter completely off his mind. She was the only opposing presence the Uchiha dared to forgive, and instead of finishing her off with the edge of his hatred, he allowed her to live.

He allowed her to live.

Her face has been hunting him ever since, unintentionally etched on his Sharingan and chasing him even with closed eyes. That was their last confrontation before the peace treaty, and he never knew what became of her once the war ended, feeling incapable of asking Hashirama about her whereabouts.

He felt fortunate to have had the privilege of witnessing her, meeting her, fighting as an equal opponent against her, yet that was all. He decided to ignore the reminders of (Y/N)’s presence in his mind, to bury her in the depths of times that are no more, and allow himself to move on without regretting not enquiring about her, searching for her.

Odds are that, if he did, she would spit in his face.

The man looks at the ruined sheet and decides to try and fix it, not to give up in the face of adversity caused by horrible penmanship and bad luck. He approaches Hashirama's desk and proceeds to rummage through all the visible and hidden contents in hopes of finding a copy. If the Hokage followed his advice and instructions, if he deigned to listen to Tobirama's damned recommendations, then he should have written it twice.

Or so he hopes.

Papers fly here and there as his frustration mounts, that wonderful dream of finishing his pending assignment looking farther and farther away, embarrassing decorations from his best friend raining down on the floor. He lets out another angry scream, thankful again to be alone in the room, pounding on the wood to the point of breaking it completely.

Shit.

"Bad day?" A female voice asks, and it sounds way too close for him to have imagined it. He knows that voice, yet it is not a petulant memory from the past, but an actual event in the same room. Memories come flooding back, the same tone he heard over and over again when she tried to impale him with her techniques. It takes him a minute before he dares to look up, but when he does, he understands not to be imagining anything.

"You look bad, need a hand?" he can't answer, can't find words to speak, and feels heat rising to his cheeks. It's one thing to see the girl you like fighting against you and always in a context of death and destruction, yet a totally different one is to appreciate her after years, casually dressed and with no deadly intentions.

(Y/N) looks even more beautiful than how he remembers her, stunning body covered by civilian garments, coaxing eyes looking at him with a tone of laughter on her wonderful face. The lack of armor allows him to admire the gorgeousness of her curves, how smooth her skin looks, and-.

"Madara?" She shakes him out of his stupor with a snap of her fingers, forcibly bringing him back to earth and landing on his ass. He blinks a few times and produces a few babbles before finding coherence inside his head again.

"Yeah, no, I mean... (Y/N)?"

"The one and only." She smiles harmoniously, her face beaming with the gesture and making him reassess whether he is dreaming or not. "I was instructed to bring this to you, you know how politics works." She hands over a sealed scroll, one the Uchiha receives with clumsy hands. He ends up having to take off his gloves for accurate finger control, opening the delivery's contents and feeling his soul returning to his body.

"Tobirama figured it would be beneficial for you, he didn't have much hope for the Hokage's work." She simply explains with a relaxed posture, like not having a care in the world. While Madara feels like he might pee his pants at how intimidatingly beautiful he finds his wife... the, woman, she seems totally unaffected.

He confirms this is the document he screwed up, but it's a legible, polished version, traced by the albino's handwriting and thoughts, proofread probably about three times before having the final product. Composure returns, and he feels like an idiot for the scene he put together, such simple solutions delivered by the angel in front of him.

"I see you're still as fierce as ever, huh? You should learn to control that anger, dear. War is over and life is beautiful." The woman winks and pats his arm, smiling again before turning and heading for the door.

It's now or never.

"WOULDYOULIKETOHAVEADRINKWITHME?!" The question sounds more like a barked demand than an invitation, but it gets (Y/N) to look back at him with amusement. She comes closer again, each step executed with both grace and elegance, making Madara feel like a little boy in front of the love of his life.

Is she the love of his life? Probably, yes.

"Are you asking me out, Uchiha?" she purrs mischievously, savoring the taste of having her former enemy basically at her feet. Madara never felt so vulnerable, and he hates every second it took him to work up the courage to ask her out. Impulses are not always good, and just as he is about to retract his proposal, the woman invades his personal space to give him a kiss on the cheek.

"When and where, Madara?"

EXAMPLE OF A SPECIAL AND UNIQUE ADDED SCENARIO

[blogfullofemos]

Pick & Pull

This is a thank you post for the abundance of feedback I've received from my last Eddie post. 😅 It was so unexpected how fast my phone blew up. Thank you, thank you, thank you. ❤️

Inspired by this Tumblr post:

Are y'all ready 😏 DO NOT READ IF NOT 18+ PLS!!!! MINORS PLAY YOUR GAMES!!

Pairing: Steve Harrington + Eddie Munson

Warnings: mlm content (the whole shabang bby). Eddie is tied up. Cocky teasing? No prep, but there is lube because I'm not heartless. ROUGH, hair pulling, hickies, smacking Eddie's ass. Cuz like who wouldn't?? Bottom!Eddie. Top!Steve. Also proofread

WC: 990

Please drink some water after this, for me.... Enjoy darlings.

     With muffled stumbles, the tearing of fabrics, and bellyful laughter. The headposts of the bed thumps against the wall followed by the hastening of a bind. Stretching back with a victorious exhale, Steve looks down at his work done to the man resting below him. With his wrists tied together by a torn band tee, backside marked full of bruising love bites with past scratches given from another, and his legs crossed tightly to each other. Eddie couldn’t help but keep his face buried into Steve’s pillow, his mop of curls resting between his bent elbows. Sitting atop of Eddie’s crossed thighs, Steve watches Eddie’s sweaty taut back flex while Steve takes hold of a small tube. Popping the small cap off with his mouth and spitting it across his room, Steve chuckles as the sound of the tube opening causes tremors to take hold of his ass. Eddie’s trembling legs iterating his caged excitement. “Who have you been fucking Eddie?” Steve asks with a clench of his jaw, smacking Eddie’s plump ass cheek hard. 

      Eddie whips his head up from the sudden sting while his hips instinctually ruts against the sheeted bed. His wrists yanking at his confines but to no avail. “Just needed to get my dick wet, tis’all.” Eddie breathlessly jests. The thought of Steve becoming jealous by the mere sight of past sex flings makes Eddie’s mind flutter with devious scenarios. His heated cock leaking for the endless possibilities. But it’s cut short as the cold substance of lube spills across his back causing him to moan out. Steve smirks as he watches the tube drain the clear substance upon Eddie’s lower back, to his plump ass, especially between his cheeks, to it lastly dripping on Steve’s big needy cock. Hissing from the opposing temperatures, Steve tosses the tube somewhere and pumps his cock a few beats. The squelching sound echoing the permeating atmosphere. Not wasting anymore time, Steve guides his red tip to Eddie’s lube-doused sphincter, slowly pushing in. “Fuck Steve…” Eddie’s wrists jolt once more “Yourso big.” Eddie hushes out.

       Steve remains silently transfixed at the sight of his cock sliding within Eddie’s willing hole. The way his velvety walls slight clenches beckoned him to fill Eddie completely. Simultaneously, exhales dispel from them as Steve’s hairy pelvis finally rests against Eddie’s ass. Steve proceeds with slow but powerful thrusts, each one knocking the air out of Eddie. Steve’s tip only lightly prodding at Eddie’s pent-up release. Yeah, his cock was finally getting some much needed friction, the slickness of his pre-come giving an easy glide, but this isn’t the Steve ‘Fucking’ Harrington he knew. “Baby boy is in heat, s’this all you’re gonna give me big guy?” Eddie taunts even as his voice quivers, giving his best seducing glare at Steve. The remark snapping him out of his lustful viewing to meet with Eddie’s playful glint, his eyes challenging him for more. Steve takes the competition and Eddie knew he just kicked a few gears into ignition. 

      Swiftly, Eddie pops Steve’s cock out of him to adjust himself into a new position. His legs now spread wide with his knees bent. Unexpectantly, Steve wraps Eddie’s curls around his fist and tugs his head back, hard. Earning a pornographic shout to dispel from Eddie’s rather sarcastic mouth. “What was that baby boy? It was something about heat?” ramming his cock back into Eddie, earning another shouting expletive from him, Steve continues with a laugh “Doesn’t sound like you need much. More.”. Steve pounds every syllable into Eddie. Eddie’s eyes roll about while pain sears his scalp. Trying his best to lick away his lewd moans. Steve bites back a smirk, his bicep bulging as he maintains Eddie’s head from bouncing to every hard thrust. Leaning over Eddie’s tied body, he smiles devilishly “Seems to me.” he nips at the edge of Eddie’s ear “That I’m doing all the hard.” He smacks Eddie’s ass with his other hand “Work.” he whispers. And fuck, is he right. But what was Eddie to do… He’s tied, his brain is short-circuiting, and with the way Steve is wetly playing with his ear. Panting… Licking… Smacking his ass a few more times, he’s sure Steve’s handprint is going to be branded on him. Fuck what was Eddie to do.

      Eddie lets out a moanish type cry as another wave of pleasure racks through him. So overwhelmed by the pleasure and the pain. Steve’s cock consistently jabbing at his prostate while his own cock profusely leaks a puddle onto the bedsheet sheet below. Steve’s balls slapping against Eddie’s own, adding more sensation to the intense sexual exchange. “Steve!! Stevie!!” Eddie stokes Steve’s relentless stamina. Finally letting go of Eddie’s hair, his head drops into Steve’s pillow once more. Steve’s impending release whips hot licks within his tense stomach, needing to bite Eddie’s trembling shoulder to hold back his moan. But Steve’s eyes widen as Eddie starts bouncing back with just as much fervor, fastening both of their brimming climaxes. Whipping his head back up, Steve hooks his bicep around Eddie’s neck. Hugging their sweaty bodies close to each other, as Steve’s hips stutters a bit. A very clear warning signal to Eddie as Steve’s hold squeezes him even closer. “Fuck. Me. Hard. Harrington.” Eddie chokes out with a boyish smile. Even though this was quite the hardest fuck he’s ever gotten from Steve Harrington. Even though his eyes can’t seem to stay focused, his brain slowly rotting away. He still needed to feint their play. 

     “Fuck you Munson.” Steve chuckles, suckling Eddie’s jaw to develop another love bite. You know, for OTHERS to see…. Eddie gasps loudly as his body shakes strongly as Steve gives Eddie’s pleading cock just one stroke. Come spurting onto the sheets and Steve’s hand, while Eddie pants out a “SHIT! FUCK! STEVIE!”. 

Steve is sooo grateful his parents went to their annual ski trip.