#arena tutor

[theinkedknight]

I started using Arena Tutor by Draft Sim five days ago. This is for "Completion", my BG death touch poison explorer deck. Bo1 explorer ranked, 57% win rate, 61% on the play and a coin flip on the draw. New ranked season starts in 9 days and then I can see how we go from there. I'm not the most competitive player but I like seeing stats.

[nadvs]

the power play (part one)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

tags college au. fake dating. grumpy athlete/sunshine tutor. reader is bubbly, talkative, and passionate about literature. very slowburn. he falls first. alcohol use. suggestive moments, but no smut.

power play (noun)

an offensive tactic in a team sport; a deliberate attempt to manipulate someone.

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You hoped it wouldn’t feel the way it used to, but as you sit in the stands behind the home bench next to Lyla, it’s all the same.

You’re watching Beck zip across the ice with a painfully familiar sense of longing hammering into your chest. Falling for him always felt inevitable; you just didn’t expect that he wouldn’t be there to catch you.

When you and Lyla became friends in the ninth grade, you quickly grew close to her family, spending more time at their house than your own, tagging along to watch her twin brother’s hockey games.

The more you got to know Beck, the more you fell under his spell, charmed by his warmth, by every part of him that made him the most captivating person you’d ever met.

He stole your heart. Considering the way he treated you, you were sure you’d stolen his, too.

You spent most of last semester helping him with a class, even though you were in the same overwhelming throws of being a college freshman. Every study session in his dorm room drifted by with an undercurrent of certainty that he felt something, too.

It crushed you to realize that it’d all been in your head. A few weeks ago, you’d met him after his final exam, which he said he knew he nailed thanks to you.

You thought he was finally going to make the move that felt like it’d been hanging over you for years. But all he did was pull you into a side-hug and say, “You’re more of a friend to me than my own sister.”

Thinking about it still makes you cringe. You hate how weak you feel ruminating over this, trying to get over someone you were never even with.

It’s a Wednesday night two weeks into the spring semester, and you’re at the first home game you’ve been to in a while. Although you’ve always loved the loud, buzzing atmosphere of a hockey game, you’ve been staying far away from the campus arena and the man who hurt you.

You haven’t spoken to Beck. And he hasn’t reached out. What he did was an indirect rejection, his way of saying, It’s obvious that you like me and I need you to know once and for all that I don’t like you back.

Since then, every time your best friend has asked you to come to games or parties, you’ve told her you’ve been too busy, using your new position in a tutoring program as your excuse.

You prefer a distraction from Beck, and helping other students with a subject you’re passionate about has done the job.

But you can’t blow Lyla off forever, so now, you’re sitting with her in the stands among a small crowd of spectators.

The championship season begins in a month. Every seat will be full then. But you wish more people were around now. You welcome any noise to drown out your thoughts.

Everyone else cheers when Beck smashes the puck against the back of the net, securing the team’s first goal. You find it hard to join the celebration. Even though you’ve always thought of him as kind, you wonder if he could tell how much you liked him. If he consciously led you on.

For years, you’d watched him date other girls, hoping he’d finally realize you were the right one for him all along. You daydreamed far too much about him, imagining that he’d become your first boyfriend and take you on your first date and give you your first kiss.

The alarm blares to signal the end of the second period, pulling you out the haze you’ve fallen into a thousand times since that day in front of his exam room.

“You want to get some snacks?” Lyla asks.

“Sure,” you reply, doing your best impression of a girl with nothing weighing on her.

Once you walk up to the end of one of the arena’s concession stand lines, Lyla recognizes the people standing in front of you, greeting both girls with smiles and hugs.

Through introductions, you learn that Emma and Gabby are friends Lyla made at a party last semester. After some small talk as the line shuffles forward, Lyla points back to the rink.

“The seats next to us are empty if you want to sit with us,” she offers.

Emma and Gabby happily join you as you settle back in your seats soon after. You gaze ahead at the empty rink as they chat, the 3-1 score glaring above the ice in red neon numbers.

“No way the coach isn’t chewing them out right now,” Lyla says with a shake of her head.

“Why do you know on the team again?” Emma asks.

“My brother, Beck,” Lyla says. “You?”

Emma’s mouth twists into a tense smile.

“My ex,” she says, her voice lowering. “I wish he didn’t play, because I actually really love coming to these games.”

“Bad breakup?” you surmise.

“Brutal,” Gabby chimes in. You can tell by her expression that she’d supported her friend through the fallout.

“I just don’t want him to see me here and think it means something,” Emma sighs. “If he thinks that I want to get back together, it’ll be a disaster. We broke up a month ago and he’s still bothering me.”

You hardly know this girl, and you know her ex even less, but your reflex is to feel bad for him. You’re well acquainted with the pain that comes with caring about somebody who doesn’t want you.

“Oh, yeah,” Lyla remembers. “Rafe, right?”

Emma nods.

“Yikes.”

“Yeah,” Emma laughs.

The three girls share a knowing look, something unsaid passing through them.

You don’t know much about Rafe. On the rink, he’s a strong, aggressive defenseman, a sophomore who spends more time in the penalty box than any other player. You’ve seen him at a couple of parties, too, but never exchanged any words.

You don't understand the girls’ tense reactions to the mention of his name.

“What am I missing?” you half-whisper.

“You’d be missing nothing if you actually came to the parties I invite you to,” Lyla teases.

You can count on one hand how many parties you’ve been to since you started college. But it works for you. A party every few weeks is enough.

“I come when I can,” you reply, nudging her playfully. “Fill me in.”

“He’s a trainwreck,” Emma explains to you. “He has a million red flags that I ignored because I thought he was hot. Literally all we ever did was fight.”

“Yeah,” Lyla huffs, raising her brows. She looks at you. “Maybe it’s actually a good thing you don’t come to every party.”

You consider their words. They must have had a penchant for making a scene, shamelessly arguing in front of a crowd.

“I couldn’t take how mean and moody he was anymore. I dumped him and he won’t let it go.” Emma breathes a laugh. “It’s pathetic. He even called me crying the other night.”

Again, a confusing pang of sympathy for him hits you. It has to be your own heartbreak influencing you. You can’t imagine you’d normally feel bad for a guy described as having a million red flags.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“I’m over it,” Emma says carelessly.

“He’s not,” Gabby murmurs.

The players storm out on the rink again moments later, blades slicing the ice. They’re all so fast and powerful, and knowing that Rafe, the most forceful one of the group, is going through a version of the pain you are is oddly comforting.

A couple of minutes in, he gets thrown into the penalty box for charging an opponent. He skates to the opposite side of the rink, Cameron stitched across the black polyester of his jersey.

He stares at the floor as he waits out his penalty, tense, still. You think that if someone who looks so big and strong can hurt just like you, maybe you’re not as weak as you think.

════════

Rafe swings open the library entrance door with a scowl, irritated as hell that he has to be here. It’s annoying that the athletic department gives this much of a shit about players’ grades. Rafe knows he’s one of the best on the hockey team. He wishes that were enough.

Freshman year was fine, but he barely made it through last semester. He just failed his first assignment in a half-term literature course that was supposed to be an easy A.

Coach wasn’t pleased, saying it could screw up his GPA and deem him ineligible to play. Rafe tried to convince him that he’d do better on the next one, but Coach set him up with a tutor, unwilling to hear him out.

He’s already hardwired into a constant state of anger. Life has always been a storm, and now more than ever, there's no refuge in sight.

He's dealing with a coach who has no hope in him, on top of a painful breakup, on top of a shitty loss last night, on top of the fact that now he’s being forced to talk to a stranger about some boring book.

He can’t catch a break.

He looks at the email on his phone again. Study Room 205. He eventually finds the open door and taps his knuckles on it to get your attention.

You lock eyes with the person you’ve been waiting on for the last ten minutes. You had no idea who was coming up to meet you – just that the athletic department set it up.

But you know him. Or of him, at least.

A second ago, you were thinking about how you’ll have to ask whoever you’re meeting to be on time for future sessions. Now, your mind is consumed by the harsh words you heard about him last night.

“Hi,” you say politely. “Are you here for Lit Arts?”

He nods tersely in confirmation, stepping in. He drops his bag onto one of the empty chairs surrounding the square desk in the middle of the small room. You introduce yourself and when he sits down diagonally opposite to you, he murmurs, “Rafe.”

Discomfort swirls in your stomach. You’d heard something so personal about him at the rink, gazed at him in the penalty box from a distance, feeling like he’s a kindred spirit, and now you have to pretend like none of it happened.

“You’re on the hockey team, right?” you ask.

He realizes he’s seen you before. He can’t figure out where.

“Yeah.”

“I was at the game last night. Tough loss.”

Rafe doesn’t say anything. The clock ticks rhythmically. You clear your throat, figuring it’s best to skip the small talk.

“I took this class last semester. I know exactly how the prof grades, so you’re lucky to have me in your corner.”

Rafe is many things right now. Lucky isn’t one of them.

“Do you have your laptop?” you ask.

He unzips his bag and pulls out his computer.

“You can go to the course portal,” you tell him. He lets out an exhale as he navigates to the webpage. You lean closer to make sure that the class is currently on the book you brought with you.

You pull out your copy of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, page edges littered with different colored sticky tabs.

“Did you get a chance to start the book?” you ask.

He shakes his head. He’s not hiding that he really doesn’t want to be here. Nonetheless, you’re determined to crack him.

“Do you have a copy of it?”

“No.”

You nod slowly, picking up that he planned to coast through the class, not even bothering to buy and read any of the books.

“Do you like reading?” you ask.

“Nah,” he says with a grimace, as if he’s offended you’d assume that.

“You might like some of the books on the syllabus. This class is a lot of fun.”

“Fun,” he echoes with a stare that makes him look like he wants to bolt out of the door he just came through.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you reply with a smile. “Your idea of fun is skating around and getting slammed into walls. I should be the one judging you.”

He gazes at you like you’re from another planet, blue eyes hard on you. It’s nothing short of amusing.

You pull his laptop closer, hovering the cursor over the ‘My Grades’ tab, and ask, “Do you mind if I check how you did on your last assignment?”

“I bombed it,” he says.

As you gaze at the screen, Rafe clues in on where he’s seen you before. With one of the team’s freshmen.

Varsity athletes who live on campus are lumped together in the same dormitory block, and he’s seen you hanging around with Beck, going in and out of his room.

He wouldn’t consider Beck a friend. He’s a teammate and at best, an acquaintance. The guy’s a kiss-ass to Coach, and does everything by the book, skipping most parties and never drinking.

It makes complete sense that a rule-follower like Beck would date a good girl like you. Who the fuck calls a class fun?

You click to see his failing grade percentage for the first assignment of the semester in bolded red.

“Did you get any feedback on where you went wrong?” you ask. You know he’s going to shake his head before he does it. He doesn’t seem to care at all. “You have a whole semester to get your grade up. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not,” he replies stiffly.

“Well… maybe you should worry a little bit,” you say lightheartedly. “I know your coach is serious about grades.”

Rafe figures you must have heard that from your boyfriend. Maybe Beck took this class, too. It’s popular among busy student athletes because it’s supposed to be an easy way to fulfill a humanities credit.

He could just convince Beck to give him copies of his assignments. He’d have to change stuff around, but at least he’d get out of tutoring.

“Did you help Beck with this class?” he asks.

You’re taken aback by the sudden reminder of him, brows knitting together, a shift in your breezy demeanor.

“You’re his girl, right?” he says, as if it’s obvious.

“No. We’re– we’re friends.” You chew on your bottom lip. Tutoring is supposed to be a distraction from Beck, not the topic of conversation. But your curiosity burns in you and there’s no chance of putting it out. “Did he talk about me or something?”

“No,” he says, a bit too harshly for your liking. “I just figured ‘cause you’re with him all the time.”

“Right,” you say. All the time. Like a lost puppy, no doubt. Embarrassment pricks at your skin. “I helped him with another class. We’re friends.”

Rafe cracks his first smirk since he walked into this stuffy little room. You said friends twice, both times with uncertainty.

“You sure?” he chides.

“What?” you say stiffly. “Yes. I am.”

You crack open the book.

“So, A Portrait is about a man named Stephen who navigates the idea of identity,” you say quickly, trying to shake off your nerves. “We should look at the discussion question.”

You shut the book abruptly, then turn your attention to the laptop.

“You need to write a 1,500-word reflection for each book,” you ramble. “You’ll do better if you find a personal connection to the text. Maybe we start there.”

Rafe watches the nervous way your eyes dart around the screen as you scroll. His joke threw you into a tense, awkward panic that he has no interest in being around.

“You can relax,” he says. “I don’t care if you like him.”

You don’t look at him. You thought you were relaxed.

“Well, I don’t.”

You scroll to the question, one word in particular striking you.

What role does Emma play in Stephen’s growth and how he defines himself?

Of course. As if you needed another reason for this to be even more awkward.

Seeing Rafe’s ex’s name makes what she’d told you about him echo through your head again. Despite his teasing, the sympathy you felt for him comes back tenfold.

You know things about him that you shouldn’t. You feel a responsibility to balance the scales, but the air is too tense, the unfamiliarity too uncomfortable.

“Did you take a look at the question?” you ask.

He shakes his head, still slouched back. At this point, his apathy is starting to get to you.

“Listen, I can tell you don’t want to be here, but could you please try to meet me in the middle?” you say.

Rafe’s lips pull into a firm line, but he relents and leans closer to look at the screen. His body goes cold when he sees her name. He’d rather not be reminded of the girl who broke his heart right now.

“Emma is Stephen’s love interest,” you begin, trying to act like you don’t know a thing about his past relationship. “He sees her as something she’s not.”

You leaf through the book, finding a note you’d written in the margin.

“She represents idealization,” you read. You look up at him again. “Stephen sees by the end that she’s just a normal person, not this perfect girl he thought she was for so many years.”

You open a blank document on his laptop.

“We can write up some notes to start us off,” you say. “This prof grades high when you relate to the text. He likes the sentimental stuff, so until you read the book, that’s what we’ll have to work on.”

You chew on your lip again, unsure if you should bring up what you heard in the stands. It feels unethical either way.

“It doesn’t have to be a person,” you say. “It could be a place or an experience. Have you ever thought something was great and then realized it wasn’t?”

Rafe’s stomach is in a knot. The thought of being tutored and having his hand held through a class was bad enough. Now he has to get into his feelings with you?

“I don’t know,” he says.

You look at the blinking cursor, your head cocked in thought.

“Maybe relating it to a person would be easier, then?” you ask.

Nothing can make this easier. Rafe rakes his hair back, gazing down at your hands stalled over his keyboard.

“I get that this is awkward,” you say. “But it doesn’t have to be anything super personal. You could even make something up if you want.”

He only purses his lips, eyes fixed on your hands, as if he hopes you’ll give in and just do his work for him.

You take a deep breath and interlace your fingers on the desk. You figure that if you’re a little vulnerable, he might be, too.

He’s unknowingly feeling the same pain you are and saying the truth out loud to someone who gets it might even be a relief. There’s a risk of it getting back to Beck, but something tells you Rafe’s not much of a gossiper anyway.

“To be honest, yes, I like Beck. I thought he felt the same, but he doesn’t. Between you and me, sometimes I think he took me for granted and led me on. I idealized a friendship and it ended up hurting me. If this were my assignment, I’d relate to the book with that.”

Rafe is thrown off by your sudden honesty. It’s actually refreshing, considering all the bullshit he’s been dealing with lately.

He looks at you wordlessly.

“It’s just an example,” you say with a soft chuckle. “I did well in this class because I found pieces of myself in every book. All you need to do is read the material, find something you can relate to, write a decent report, and you’ll get a good grade. Well, that and prepare for the midterm and the final.”

“This class was supposed to be easy,” he finally says under his breath.

“Can you let me know when you’re going to be done complaining?” you ask playfully, looking up at the clock. “It’s been five minutes and you’re still going.”

Rafe huffs an almost-laugh. He adjusts his posture again, pulling at the collar of his hoodie.

“You really don’t have to be specific,” you reassure him. You tap your fingers over the keyboard again, just light enough to not press any buttons. “If you can relate the character of Emma to someone, you don’t have to say their name.”

Your eyes stay glued to the screen, your shoulders stiff as you wait. You’re acting weird again. The way you said Emma’s name looked like it pained you.

And it dawns on him.

“Should’ve known she’d talk shit,” he realizes. “What’d she tell you?”

“What?” you say, meeting his gaze.

“What did Emma say about me?” Rafe drawls, his deep voice reverberating through you.

Your lips part, but words refuse to form. For a guy that doesn’t like to read, he’s very good at doing it to you.

Rafe leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk. You can now see what makes him so intimidating on the ice. Every edge of his face is sharp now, apathy replaced with intensity.

“Nothing,” you reply. “It’s not my business.”

How did he not clue in before? If you run in the hockey team’s social circle, of course you heard about their breakup.

Emma never cared to keep things private. And you’re so willing to share your own personal stuff because you know more about him than you’re letting on. Because you pity him.

“Come on,” he scoffs, frustrated.

“I met her at the rink last night. She just mentioned you used to date.”

He shrugs impatiently, a silent request that you keep talking. You sigh.

“She said she likes coming to games, but it’s hard to because her ex is on the team.” You grimace. There’s no way you’d actually tell him all of it, all of the insults she muttered. “It’s not worth repeating, but… basically, she told me she broke things off and you won’t move on.”

Rafe nods, lips twisting. The way she’s been ignoring his texts and his calls to try to fix things stung enough. Talking to strangers to embarrass him hurts on an entirely different level.

He didn’t know Emma could be this cruel. This is mortifying. He’s done trying to make things work with her. No matter how hard the loneliness is hitting him.

You slide the book across the desk towards him, desperate to move past the tension.

“You can start reading,” you say. “And you don’t have to buy any of the books. I’ll just lend you mine. I’ll get some notes down for you to work from and you can do the personal connection part on your own.”

You start to type and immediately wonder if he’ll drop the class. You’ve never had that happen with someone you tutored before, but you wouldn’t blame him.

It must feel crappy to hear from a girl you don’t even know that your ex is saying bad things about you. A girl that you have to see every Thursday afternoon for the next three months.

Rafe cracks open the book in the middle to fan through the pages, a weight sitting on his chest. The pages are worn, words underlined, notes scribbled in the margins.

“You put this through the washing machine or something?” he murmurs.

“I’ve read it a few times,” you say simply. You keep typing.

Emma said he’d called her crying. It’s hard to imagine the man sitting next to you crying. It’s weird knowing something about someone that they wouldn't want you to know.

Rafe’s already bored with the first sentence. It’s long and confusing and completely uninteresting. His eyes drift up, absorbing the way your face softly creases in concentration as you type.

Now that you’re not talking at a thousand words a second, he can actually take you in.

You’re the type of girl he’d approach at a party. There’s no doubt about that. But once you’d start yapping about reading like you just did, about finding pieces of yourself in a book, he’d find a way out of the conversation.

Playing hockey at the college level is demanding; he likes the other things in his life to be fun and easy. Keeping up with a girl like you and pretending he’s interested in whatever you’re rambling about would be neither.

As he studies you, he doesn’t get why Beck friendzoned you. You’re pretty. And you’re the same type of person as Beck: straight-edge and so cheerful it’s annoying.

Rafe is typically one to outright say what he’s thinking, but he has the restraint to keep the idea he just had to himself. He needs to sleep on it. He’s done some crazy shit since Emma broke his heart and he’d rather not add to the tally.

You notice him looking at you in your peripheral vision.

“You’re not thinking of dropping the class, are you?” you ask.

“No,” he says. His eyes stay on you for another beat, then find the words on the page again.

════════

You thought Rafe came to your first session in a bad mood. Compared to how you feel right now, he was peachy.

Lyla called you on your way to the library and mentioned in passing that her brother asked about you last night. She said Beck seemed like he missed you, all sympathetic when he asked, is she doing okay?

She’s oblivious to the real reason he brought it up. And it’s irritating. Because he doesn’t even ask you himself. Because he’s right. He knows that his passive rejection left a wound.

“You’re on time,” you say in surprise when Rafe saunters into the study room.

“You talk a lot,” he mumbles. “I’m not interested in a lecture after you told me not to be late.”

Despite your bad mood, you crack an amused smile. You’d ended last week’s session telling him that tardiness was not only disrespectful to you, but to his own academic success. He rolled his eyes, but he clearly listened.

Rafe settles in the same chair as last time, holding your copy of the book he was supposed to read.

“Did you read it?”

“Mostly.”

“What’d you think?” you say with hope.

“Boring.”

“Fair,” you say. You gesture for his laptop. “Let’s see how far you got on the report.”

Your brows drop in disappointment when you see how much he added to the file. It’s a bunch of pasted summaries and disorganized thoughts, taking up only half the page.

You eventually reach the end of your hour-long session and have him read over the assignment one last time before submitting it. You check the syllabus to confirm what the next book is, then shut his computer.

“Try to have more for us to work with next time,” you tell him. “And you should have the next book totally read by then, too, okay?”

You hand him your copy of Pride and Prejudice and push your seat back, ignoring his frustrated sigh.

“You talk to Beck lately?” he asks after a beat.

“What?” you say, face screwing up. You’re reminded all over again of what Lyla said. “No. Why?”

“You’re still pissed at him,” he says. He’s confident, coming to the conclusion himself instead of waiting for you to admit it.

“Why are you talking about this? We had a perfectly nice hour together,” you try to joke.

Rafe finally gives a voice to what’s been swirling in his mind since last week. He’s used to being mad, to feeling spiteful, but the way his ex broke his heart has never made him want revenge more. He wants to hurt her as badly as she hurt him. He wants to make her regret leaving him.

“We should get back at them,” he says.

“I’m sorry?” you say, your chin dipping as you stare at him.

“Hear me out,” he tells you. “We’re going to keep seeing Beck and Emma around, right? We could make it look like we’re better off without them. Make them jealous.”

You squint, waiting for the details. Rafe draws in a sharp inhale.

“She said I’m not over her, right? And you said he took you for granted. If they think we moved on, I bet at least one of ‘em will realize they fucked up.”

You consider it. Admittedly, making Beck think you’re perfectly fine – no, thriving – after his rejection is enticing.

“Okay, how do we get back at them exactly?” you ask.

Rafe scratches the back of his neck. It’s the first time he seems kind of nervous to you.

“We pretend we’re together,” he says.

“You and…” You look over your shoulder, because he must be talking to somebody else who snuck into the room at some point. “You and me? Together together?”

“I know. It wouldn’t ever happen.”

You can’t even be offended. He’s right. He’s a skilled hockey player and undeniably good-looking, but that’s where the compliments end.

Two afternoons of working together and making small talk have shown you that you have nothing in common. And frankly, while you do laugh off his bad attitude, it gets on your nerves.

A relationship would never work, let alone even begin.

“But they don’t know that,” he continues. “All they’ll see is that someone they lost is happy without them.”

Your mind starts racing. The years of pining over Beck, the pain of his rejection, the frustration over him asking his sister how you’re holding up. They’ve all left cracks in your heart.

The more Rafe thinks about rubbing his happiness into Emma’s face, even if it’s bullshit, the more he hopes you’ll be on board. But you’re not saying a word.

“If you’re not in, fine,” he sighs, pushing his chair back to start to leave. He should have figured you’d be too uptight to do it. “I’m just saying I bet you wouldn’t hate making Beck sweat.”

He stands up, but you hear yourself say, “Wait.”

Then you hold out your hand.

Rafe breathes an amused chuckle, flashing the first sincere smile you’ve seen on his face, when he realizes what you’re doing.

Your hand slips into his, touching for the first time to seal the deal and shake on it.

“This is insane,” you say. “Count me in.”

next >

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[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales

Summary: A Princess!Reader x Gladiator!Bat Boys fic that's been swimming around in my head for weeks after watching Gladiator I and II

Content Warnings: Blood and Gore, Mentions of Torture, Slavery, and Assault

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“So good of you to finally join us, cousin.” The din of the crowd nearly drowns out the words, the feverish cheers echoing off the massive stone pillars that hold the auditorium seats up and away from the stench of death and decay that permeates from the mud soaked pit beneath the plush outdoor auditorium. There are rows of decadent booths along the pit's edge, each box set with plush chases and golden edged pillows. Slaves with palm fronds fan ornately dressed royals, their faces obscured by gold lined veils. The auditorium oozes wealth and luxury, offers decadent food and drink and deep enough betting pools to make the strictest penny pinchers among the elite crawl out of their caves to try their luck.

The altar for the Mother gleams golden in the afternoon sunlight, the carved statue standing with arms and feathered wings outstretched in welcome. Beckoning those to come and offer a bit of blood in hopes of trading it for some luck. Luck for the gamblers, of course, never the males, and sometimes females, who fight and die in the muddy pit far beneath the first row of booths. My father says they made the Games to punish our enemies, and to reward our soldiers, but both fight and die as equals all the same. 

I frown first at the statue, how could our most beloved Goddess reward this kind of brutality? Then at my cousin, who I remember, is still waiting for me to speak. Dagdan sports his military regalia, the glittering medals across his chest all pinned there by my father for his service to our great empire. Service he never actually participated in. Dagdan can wield a sword because of the patience of his tutors, he’s never raised it in battle, despite the stories he tells at every possible turn. 

“Father said the Games would be impressive this year,” I reply, trying to keep the bite out of my tone. Mother raised me to be demure, to keep my chin up, to never let an enemy see what I was feeling. She had been good at that, too good, perhaps that was why she had been publicly executed. For all her poise, she had not been able to outmatch my Father’s paranoia.

Beside him, Dagdan’s twin sister Brannagh grins, her pearly white teeth a harsh contrast to her otherwise impassive face. It’s like watching a shark try to grin. “The Uprising in the Courts made for a lot of candidates this year.”

My stomach turns. The Empire is vast, spreading across continents and oceans. The Courts in Prythian were the last of the fae to fall in line before Father turned his attention to the Human Lands. Each year, more and more slaves and captives are carted in through the iron gates far beneath the smooth stones we stand on, all tossed into the mud to fight each other for a slim possibility of survival. Some come willingly, chasing fortune and gold; some are sponsors of Father’s Inner Circle, their armor always pristine, their weapons always sharp. But most of the gladiators are slaves, crammed into dingy cells in the catacombs beneath the arena. Despite the decadence of the auditorium, one visit down into the bowels of this awful place was enough to scar me for life. As Father intended, I’m sure. Our esteemed Emperor had not been shy about his disdain for not being able to produce a son and his paranoia often convinced him that I would one day find a husband crafty enough to steal his Throne before he found a match he thought suitable, he often dragged me to these things to remind me the brutality he was capable of if I stepped out of line. No doubt it was why he’d insisted I come out today. I had not been out in public in some time, not after the grief of losing my mother had so thoroughly consumed me. My grief had shamed him; had made some in his Inner Circle suspect I was also plotting against him. My presence here was as much a check into my loyalties as it was to remind me of what fate could befall me if I kept on wallowing away in the dark.

I smooth my hands over my skirts, putting thoughts of my Mother aside. It always feels like a gaping wound in my chest, nerve and sinew exposed and open for every onlooker to see. I must reign it in. For the sake of my future. 

“We’ll see a lot of Fae, then?” There were a lot of elves last year and shifters the year before that. There is no prejudice in the games. Race and gender matter little in a battle of survival. 

The twins follow me as I find my way through the bustling crowd to our booth, where I know Father will already be waiting. 

“Some humans for the first round,” Dagdan spits like he’s tasted something vile. 

“Some half-breeds and mutts for the second,” Brannagh finishes with far more delight than her brother. Their eagerness from blood is one of the few reasons Father didn’t name their heir in my place. Brutality is necessary, but bloodlust turns a well rounded Empire on its head. Father placates them by giving them titles, parading them around like their important so they remain loyal, but he will never truly give them the power they seek. They’re simply not smart enough to see it.

“But the final round will be entertaining,” Dagdan says, gray eyes twinkling as the wall of guards at attention in Father’s booth part for us. 

Our esteemed emperor sits on a throne made entirely of gold, a goblet of wine already in his hands. A circlet of gold leaf perches on top of his salt and pepper hair, the sharp edges reflecting the light along the crimson curtains that help keep out the summer heat. We all bow to him as we enter, and Father reaches out a hand for mine without ever looking at us. 

“It is good to see you outside again, daughter,” he says, chapped lips brushing over my knuckles in a brief display of affection. 

“I’m sorry it has been so long, Father,” I keep my voice even, unbothered. I will not let any of them see how much I hate all of this. 

He guides me to sit on the couch beside the throne, where I have ample view of the uneven floor below. Yesterday’s rain has filled the giant pit with mud. Mud that could have easily been covered and smoothed out to make the playing field fair for all, but that is not how these Games work. Bones still litter the uneven ground, a rib cage protruding from a mound of dirt, a crumbling arrow still caught inside it. There’s the skull of an animal turned upside down, a stream of muddy water running out the eye sockets like some sort of twisted water fountain. Old weapons lay scattered around the arena floor; a wagon weaves around boulders and mounds of loose earth to scatter more. 

“I trust you’re feeling better?” The question is pointed, for the sake of my cousins. He has been telling people the shock of my Mother’s supposed betrayal had been too much on my health and I’d been bed ridden. It’s not entirely far from the truth. 

“Yes, Father. The sunlight does me good.” Not far from the truth either. It is nice to be away from the palace and all the chaos that comes with it. 

Brannagh sits beside me, a slave scurrying behind her with a fan, a second not far behind with some wine. She stretches her long legs out in front of her with a sigh, the sunlight drifting through the curtains making her pale skin look translucent. “Do you have a favorite to win today, Uncle?”

My Father sips from his goblet, a bit of wine caught in his graying beard. “Just a favorite to lose,” he chuckles. Though he is getting older, the gleam in his slate gray eyes is still sharp and youthful. Even with his bouts of paranoia, his mind is still sharp and calculating. 

“Do tell, before it’s too late for me to change my bets,” Dagdan quips. Though I doubt it is all in jest, my cousin is far more in debt than he realizes. 

Horns blare from the upper rings of the arena, signalling those still milling about placing bets and finding food to get to their seats. The Games will start soon. My stomach twists itself into a new knot. There is no shortage of ways my Father will have found to torment the poor souls who find themselves in the pit today, I am not eager to see what they are. 

“There was some… trouble in the mountain regions of the Courts,” he says carefully. 

I force myself not to turn and look at him. Trouble for my father usually means rebellion, or outright war, anything else is too insignificant to mention. In my seclusion, I had not even caught wind of it. 

“We have a few insurrectionists I’d like to see fall today.”

Few are foolish enough to raise a hand against the Empire. It usually means their provinces go without food and aid in the harsher months of the year. I am curious to see who would be foolish enough to risk the lives of their people. 

“Those great wings of theirs would make an excellent trophy on my wall,” Father finishes. 

A shiver runs down my spine. It would not be the first gruesome trophy of his, but still, the outright admittance to such cruelty still makes me tremble. My unease is only heightened by the arrival of my Father’s General, who enters the booth followed by a handful of male slaves, all barely dressed.

“Amarantha!” It is no secret that my Father has always wished I shared the temperament and constitution of his beloved General. If he had to be cursed with a female for an heir, he wanted ruthlessness, cunning, and a smile that could peel paint. All things the red headed fae oozed in abundance. 

All things my Father was convinced I lacked. I’d take it. His disdain was better than being exactly like her. I can’t help the way my nose crinkles at the sight of her. Brannagh moves closer to the edge of the couch, in hopes of ending up in her line of vision, eager to swap stories before the Games officially start. Brannagh wants to be just like her, the gaggle of pleasure slaves included. The two of them would unleash hell on the world if my Father ever put the two of them together. 

“Your Highness,” Amarantha bows, the loose fabric of her nearly sheer gown spilling to give my Father ample view of her cleavage. I stopped allowing myself to question the nature of their relationship long ago; my stomach turns thinking about it. 

“It is a good day for betting, don’t you think?” She asks. Her voice is like gravel, fitting since its the color of her eyes. A finger bone dangles from her neck, an eye encased in glass sitting atop her finger; though she is lean, she is stronger and more deadly than most people assume at first glance. Everything about her is dangerously sharp. 

“I was just telling Dagdan the same thing,” my Father says.

Those dark eyes flick briefly to my cousin, who puffs up his chest, but she ignores him entirely as her gaze settles on me. “Princess! I didn’t know you’d be joining us today. What a monumental occasion!”

“I thought the fresh air would do me some good,” I say simply. What else is there to say to Evil Incarnate? Perhaps I should put more energy into being clever, I know that if Amarantha saw a benefit to cleaving my head from my shoulders, she’d take it--power is all she cares about, so far we haven’t faced each other because she doesn’t think I have enough to steal--but I cannot summon the energy. Ever since the incident with my Mother, I have not managed to find much in me at all. Especially not for Amarantha and her social climbing. 

“Nothing like a little blood sport to invigorate the mind,” she purrs as she lowers herself into the seat at my Father’s right hand. One of her slaves perches on the arm of her chair, bare chest glinting with oils in the harsh sunlight. Another sits at her feet, and her nails, sharpened to points, drift harshly through his thick curls. 

I watch my cousin run her tongue over her lips at the sight. 

“Did you place any bets, Princess?” Amarantha continues as someone brings her a goblet of wine. She sniffs suspiciously at it before instructing one of her slaves to test it first. Perhaps poison would be a mercy. 

Never admit weakness. Never admit that my solitude has kept me out of the loop and left me ill prepared for whatever is about to happen in the Pit beneath us. Instead, I say, “We have several days of entertainment, I prefer to observe on the first day.”

To his credit, my Father does reach over and pat my shoulder in approval. 

“Clever,” she says, but there’s enough bite in it to not make it a compliment. 

“My money is on your Attor, as always, General,” Brannagh says with the eagerness of a child with a crush. 

Amarantha huffs in annoyance, as if my cousin is a fly buzzing around her ear, “He’s too good, its almost boring at this point.”

Brannagh deflates, but before she can come up with something witty in response, the final warning horn blows from the rafters. The Games will begin. 

I turn my attention away from my company, watching brightly dressed royals rush to their booths. There are all sorts of creatures here to watch: Elves and Fae and Fawn, a few Goblins and Giants, observing from a standing platform opposite us. There is room for most, save for humans, within the Empire, as long as they prove their usefulness. That is my Father’s crowning achievement, the Hybern Empire has room for all, if you play your cards right and never step out of line. 

The groaning of the gates draws my attention away from the spectators and down into the Pit beneath us, where a whole cart of humans appears from the gloom of one of the entrances. They look small; mud and blood splattered as several Praetorian guards usher them out of the cart with spears bigger than most of their heads. The guards do not remove their shackles, leaving all twelve of them tethered together in the center of the Pit.

The cart rolls away, the guards with it, only once their out does another gate open to let out the challenger: Amarantha’s hulking Attor. The creature is battle scarred, lines criss-crossing over its leathery skin. Its giant wings flutter on the breeze behind it as it stalks into the center, Amarantha’s crest painted in blood red over its chest. 

The crowd goes wild as it enters the pit, clawed hands swinging wildly around its hulking body. “ATTOR! ATTOR! ATTOR!” The monster has always been the crowd favorite.

Amarantha yawns. She’ll make thousands off the creature, but that is nothing to her. Money is trivial, unless it can buy her the power she craves. 

I glance at my Father as the Games Maker starts addressing the crowd and explaining the match up. “Would it not be more entertaining to unchain them?” They’re all going to die anyway, surely this gives them a fighting chance to die with some honor. “We all know the Attor will win, why make it easy for it?”

Amarantha nearly spits out her wine, a gurgling sound coming out of her as she tries to maintain her composure. 

I do not let myself grin at the victory.

Father runs a hand over his graying beard in thought. “Perhaps your solitude did you some good, Daughter.”

I do not shutter. I cannot save any of them, as pitiful and helpless as they look alongside the Attor. It will give them all gruesome deaths purely for the fun of it. But perhaps the Mother will take pity; may the chance to die fighting grant them peace in the afterlife. 

Father stands and motions for the Game Maker to quiet. “Let the humans be unchained!”

The crowd erupts into varying shouts of surprise and approval. 

“Let us test the skill of the Attor!”

This pleases the crowd, but it makes Amarantha’s cheeks flush crimson. She hides a grimace behind her wine as my Father returns to his seat. 

A single guard returns with keys, and the crowd falls into a hushed silence, waiting for chaos to ensue. I force myself not to look away; to face what I have done. One of the humans cranes its head to look up at our box and flashes us his middle finger.

Dagdan bristles in his seat next to his sister. “He should pay for that!”

They will. There will be no rescue. There is none to be found. The Empire comes for all of us eventually, best that we can do is go into it with our heads up. I am trying to accept my fate in this, what other choice do I have, lest I end up dead or locked away. 

Once the guard is clear, the horns once again blow, telling the Attor he can start his hunt. Those great wings at his back kick up loose dirt as he launches into the air with a roar that makes the arena tremble. 

The crowd cheers, leaning forward in their seats to watch as the monster swoops down and gets its great jaws around the head of the first human. Brannagh giggles at the splatter of blood that erupts from the poor creature’s neck. 

I clench my hands in my lap. 

The second human tries to run, scrambling for purchase in the thick mud. It doesn’t help that they’re all barefoot. The Attor’s claws tear through the human’s back like butter, the poor thing going down with a wail that makes my heart lurch painfully in my chest.

The third manages to find a sword, the blade rusted from the rain; the man gets a good swipe in, nicking the inside of the Attor’s palm before it gets shredded to pieces.

Each human tries a little harder than the last, getting further each time. One manages to weave around the debris and avoid being swooped down on like the first, but the uneven terrain catches her ankle, sending her sprawling down with a shout as her leg is left twisted and broken. Another manages to get an arrow into the Attor’s back, but not deep enough to do damage. They all go down fighting, and each new one has me saying a mental prayer to the Mother on their behalf, but none survive. Much to the crowd’s glee.

“Wonderful!” Brannagh says, clapping as the Attor roars in victory. 

Amarantha shrugs. “Boring.”

The Attor exits the Pit, ever the victor. The bodies it left aren’t even carted away. No one comes to pick up the pieces. No one will bury them. Their bones will rot and decay into the Pit floor.

I ask one of my Father’s servants for some wine to try and settle the nausea that rolls in my stomach, but even the smoothest of wine does not dull it. 

My Father watches me carefully, calculating every move. I do my best to keep my features neutral. 

“What did you think, Daughter?”

I take another sip of wine before speaking, giving myself time to collect my thoughts. “Humans don’t make very good gladiators.”

He laughs at that and my cousins join in, as if it was the funniest thing ever. 

“Humans don’t make good anything,” Dagdan says.

“Except for a snack,” Brannagh adds.

“Worms,” Amarantha spits.

Father raises his cup in salute to me. “May the next match be more exciting for you.”

I ignore my revulsion and return the gesture. I cannot wait for this to be over. I shall retire back into my gloomy quarters with the curtains drawn and try to scrub the gory images from my brain. Perhaps my solitude would be more comforting than this.

The horns blow announcing the next match and the Games Maker drones on and on about where these next gladiators hail from. One side are all sponsored by royal families, all males trying to make a name for themselves and some coin to feed their families. They’re all well trained and well equipped for the task. They’re a filler spot, to give the rest of the Game Makers time to prepare the next victims of the Empire’s wrath. Beneath the Pit floor, in the dark of the catacombs, the next round of war captives are likely being hauled out of their cells and prepped. I can’t help but wonder if they can hear the roaring of the Bogges and Gladiator’s alike from down there. Do they understand what is about to happen? Are they saying their final prayers to the Mother?

I can’t help but glance at Her altar. What kind of world is this that we live in? Brutal and cruel and blood splattered. If we are so favored, how could our lives look like this? It is thoughts like these that have kept me sequestered in my room. I do not know what I am supposed to live for, or who I am supposed to be any more. My life feels like it is stretching out before me, and someone else is pulling on the strings, making me a puppet that moves at their will. I no longer have the protection of my Mother. Father will soon throw me to the wolves if I am not smart or careful or cunning. The world is different and dark and I have utterly lost my way.

I am so wrapped up in my thoughts I barely register the fight. One of the males gets eaten by the terrifying Bogge, his screams echoing off the great walls. The crowd eats it up, cheering and screaming and jumping from their seats. The more blood that flows the louder they yell and cheer. These are my people? These are who I am to rule one day? What does that make me?

Dagdan huffs about his losses as the gladiators exit the arena, the Bogge all dead. He drowns his sorrows in his cup as if the solution to his terrible gambling habit might lie in the bottom. 

“Finally, now we can get to the part I’ve been waiting for!” Amarantha declares. 

Father grins. “I take it they gave you trouble on the way here?”

She spits again, a nasty habit that doesn’t bother anybody but me, apparently. “Damned Illyrians! Had to use faebane on them the whole way, otherwise they tore through the damn chains!”

Father shakes his head. “I have to admit they surprised me-” certainly a feat few have ever accomplished in his lifetime “-usually their kind throw themselves on their swords before they get caught. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

I’ll chalk that up to his paranoia talking, but I have to admit, I am intrigued by the conversation. Anyone who can surprise my Father must be very skilled. Despite my disdain for these Games, I find myself leaning forward to get a better look into the arena when I hear the grates open for the third time. 

“What is there to be surprised about?” Amarantha counters, but her words feel farther away as I catch sight of movement from the dark tunnel behind the entrance of the arena. “They’re rebels, their deaths will make martyrs out of them. They want a public execution.”

The world feels as if it has narrowed into this moment. The din of the crowd starts to fade in and out of focus. I am suddenly very aware of the roaring of my heartbeat in my own ears.

The first male steps out of the tunnel, stripped to the waist, his bronze chest smattered with cuts and scrapes and bruises so dark they’re nearly black. Dark twisting tattoos trace their way up his broad chest and over his shoulders and back, until they meet great, leathery wings like that of a bat’s. Long, dark hair, matted with mud and what might be blood, clings to his face, but despite the disheveled state, his hazel eyes remain clear and bright. 

The crowd boos when they see him. A few people hurl food at him. 

“Cassian,” Amarantha scoffs. “The rebels call him their General.”

Father frowns. “As foolish as their militia was, do not forget how many of our soldiers he killed.” 

I cannot take my eyes off him. He’s taller than the guard that leads him by his bound wrists into the Pit. Larger too. Those broad shoulders and defined abs speak volumes about how skilled in swordplay he must be.

“Will you keep his wings when he dies, Uncle?” Brannagh asks.

The wine threatens to come up at the thought of having to see such beautiful wings pinned to a wall in Father’s study. The male clearly cares for them. When the guard gets too close he flicks them out of reach. While there are some nicks in the leathery membrane, the wings are the least scarred part of him. He has to take good care of them for someone so battle hardened to keep them looking like that.

“Happily,” Father says.

Even if I wanted to look at him, I couldn’t, not as the second male enters the arena. He’s a little shorter than the first, his hair shorter, the dark onyx locks curling gently around his forehead. Blood still drips from an open gash across his temple, staining his cheek and neck crimson. Like the first, his chest is bare and marked with the same swirling tattoos, but unlike the first, his great wings hang limp behind him. One drags along the mud like a cape, the leathery membrane ripped open and bleeding, the other is twisted at an angle sharp enough to make me wince at the sight. The urge to run down to him is overwhelming. My hands drift down to the seat cushion and hold tight to keep myself still.

The crowd continues to boo and throw things as he tries to keep his head up and meet the other male in the center of the Pit. 

“Azriel,” Father says to Amarantha, “ was quite a challenge for you, I hear?”

His beloved General frowns. “The shadow wielder managed to get a few good blows in, I’ll admit. But surprise only gets you so far.”

My eyes drift from his broken wings to his hands, covered entirely in scars, like someone burned him. The thought makes my chest heavy. 

I don’t know what’s happening to me. I have never been so obviously shaken by the Games, not since the first time I’d come. Father had made me sit through weeks of slaughter, watching as gladiator after gladiator fell prey to a magic storm and a slew of magic beasts. Even then I had managed to hold it together until I’d made it home to vomit, but now I feel as if I cannot keep my body in its seat!

The magic that lives caged beneath my, usually, pristine facade cracks through, a bit of dark mist seeping out from between my fingers. I unfurl my fists and take my hands carefully into my lap, using a bit of my skirts to hide the errant flow of power. I’ve been neglecting my studies, have not given myself an outlet, this is a terrible time for a flare up! I try to focus on my breathing, the pounding of my heart isn’t helping. I need to remain calm. I need to remain in control. 

A feat that feels utterly impossible as the third and final male exits the tunnel. Time comes to a grinding halt, every footfall against the Pit floor a drumming, haunting echo in my ears. I have utterly forgotten how to breathe; how to think. The male is by far the most beautiful male I’ve ever seen, violet eyes twinkling with a thousand glittering stars. He sports the same tattoos as the others, the same bronze skin and battle hardened muscle, but it is the expression on his face that gets me. He is as battered and bloody as the second male, cheek split open, a slash mark clean down the middle of his chest; most of his body is a bruise, but he doesn’t wince at all. He keeps his chin high, high enough to look Father right in the eyes with every step he takes into the Pit. There’s a clear challenge there, unhindered by the chains around his neck and wrists. Those gorsian stone chains don’t often make an appearance, unless the person attached to them is exceptionally skilled with magic. 

“Rhysand,” this time Amarantha’s voice is an excited purr and the power trying to escape through my fingers slips faster from my palms. I dig my nails so tight into my palms they bleed. 

“I do admit, it’s a shame you have to kill him,” she continues. “He’d make such a pretty addition to my collection.” 

It is all I can do to not turn and hurl a blast of dark, obsidian power at her. I keep my gaze on the Pit instead, as the final rebel joins the others in the center. Its only once he’s there that something clicks into place in my mind. If Amarantha still speaks I can’t hear her. Time freezes again, the only signal of its passing the pounding of my heart in my ears.

They’re my mates!

And I’m about to watch them die. 

[heesmiles]

COLLIDE l.hs

synopsis ⤑ Hockey boys were nothing but egoistic man boys who threw each other around, chasing a puck for a living. They lacked sustenance, they lived their lives like barbarians and you hated them, and everything they stand for. So being tasked to tutor the worst one of them all? An impossible task. Lee Heeseung was the poster child for a frat boy disaster and you wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole. Or so you thought. Damnit. 

pairings ⤑ hockey player!heeseung x fem!reade rword count ⤑ 19k

warnings ⤑ smut, loss of virginity, fingering, angst, a little bit of back and forth, frat boy activities, hockey, drinking, parties, tutoring trope, heeseung is a fuck boy and he’s kind of a dick, the reader is up tight, Ft. Yunjin (le sserafim), Soobin (txt), fictional relationships between real life idols, etc

You hated hockey. It was grueling and animalistic. Almost barbaric. It was not a hot sport and watching big hunks of men throwing each other around a big ice box was so not how you imagined your friday night would be going. But here you were, in the middle of the packed crowd of your college’s home hockey stadium. The arena is a frozen tundra of noise and chaos, packed with fans draped in red and white jerseys, faces painted and voices hoarse from shouting.

Yunjin bounces beside you, practically vibrating with excitement as she elbows your side for the tenth time in five minutes. Her eyes are fixed on the ice, where players crash into each other like it’s a battle to the death. She lives for the thrill of it. Loves coming to most of the games, i think her super hot boyfriend Choi Soobin being on the team really catapults her love for the grueling sport. And as her roommate and best friend you allow her to drag you along, sometimes. 

“You’re gonna love this, I swear,” she insists, clutching her cup of overpriced soda with both hands. “Just wait until Heeseung scores. He’s, like, magic on skates.” You force a smile, but the sound of bodies slamming into the plexiglass makes your fingers tighten around the edge of your seat. The air smells like popcorn and sweat, and the fans behind you won’t stop shrieking obscenities at the referees. You don’t get it—any of it. The violent crashes, the speed, the way grown men bark and snarl at each other over a puck. Sure, Lee Heeseung was considered a star hockey player, one of the best your school has ever seen, they say. But you were impressed, what was so hard about chasing a puck and shoving each other. The announcer’s voice crackles to life, nearly drowned out by the roar of the crowd. “Goal scored by number seventeen, Lee Heeseung!”

Yunjin screams, leaping to her feet. The arena erupts, deafening, and you flinch as a pack of players smother Heeseung in a mess of helmets and gloves. They slap his back, crush him into the boards, grinning like wolves. You can barely see his face, but his name glows in bold white letters across the screen overhead, followed by a replay of the goal—a blur of motion and ice spray. It was disgusting, and you hated every second of it. You grimace, sinking lower in your seat. “Do they always act like that?” Yunjin was used to your need to abominate hockey and all it was so your question doesn't really phase her much. Yunjin laughs, eyes bright. “It’s called celebrating.” 

“It’s called animalistic,” you mutter, but she doesn’t hear you, too busy cheering with the rest of the lunatics. The game drags on, seconds bleeding into minutes, periods crawling by in a blur of shouts and whistles and obnoxious goal horns. Every time a player crashes into another, you wince. The fights are even worse, gloves dropped and fists flying, the refs standing back like it’s some kind of gladiator match. Your butt is numb from the hard plastic seat, your ears ache, and you’ve never hated anything more. By the time the buzzer finally sounds, you’re half convinced you’ll go deaf before you escape. Yunjin beams at you, cheeks flushed and hair wild from excitement. “See? Wasn’t that amazing?” she gushes, grabbing your arm. “Heeseung was insane! I told you he’s the best.” 

You manage a weak smile. “Uh-huh. Amazing.” Your sarcasm goes basically unnoticed by Yunjin, as she’s too busy celebrating the big win. The crowd around you turn to each other cheering loudly. You have to stop yourself from covering your ears with your palms to drown out the sounds. Finally, mercifully, the game is over. You shuffle out of the bleachers with Yunjin at your side, ears still ringing from the blaring horns and the relentless chants. College kids swarm the exits, jerseys half-zipped and voices hoarse, stumbling over each other as they yell about some after-party to celebrate the big win. You scuff to yourself because of course there is a party. A party you won't be going to. Instead you'll go back to the dorm and relax with a good book and a cup of tea. Lord knows you need it after spending hours in this ice box. 

The hallway is a crush of bodies and echoes, and you’re too busy trying not to get trampled to notice the way Yunjin keeps sneaking glances at you—eyes wide and hopeful, lower lip caught between her teeth. It was painfully obvious she wanted to ask you something and even more obvious that you wouldn't like her question. You sigh. “Whatever it is, no.” shutting down any ideas she had before she could utter a single word. Her face falls. “But you don’t even—” 

“No.” You adjust your bag higher on your shoulder, weaving through a trio of guys who reek of beer and cheap cologne. “I did my time. I sat through three hours of hockey without complaining—much. Can we please just go home?” You craved that night in to yourself. Yunjin grabs your arm, nearly making you stumble. “Okay, but hear me out. There’s a party at the frat house. The whole team’s gonna be there! Come on, it’s not even that far from campus. We can just—”

You cut her off again, rolling your eyes and saying “Absolutely not.” She pouts, eyes big and tragically betrayed. “Please?” begging you. She was begging you. And you couldn't give in. “Nope.” 

“I’ll clean the dorm for a month,” she blurts, and you stop dead in the middle of the hallway. A guy with a blue foam finger scowls as he swerves around you, muttering something rude, but you barely notice. She puts up a tough bargain. Yunjin’s watching you like she’s just offered up her firstborn, palms pressed together in a silent plea. “I’m serious,” she says quickly, sensing you might actually be considering it. “Trash, laundry, dishes—everything. I’ll even organize your bookshelf!” Damn. She was good, she knew how to get you. Your eyes narrow. “Two months.” but you couldn't give up that easily. You had to fight at least a little bit. 

“One,” she shoots back, biting back a grin. “And I’ll buy you coffee for a week.” You groan, already regretting this. “Fine,” you grumble, and Yunjin squeals, throwing her arms around you so suddenly you almost topple over. “You’re the best!” she cries, squeezing tight. “I promise it’ll be fun, I swear! Maybe you’ll even get to talk to Heeseung!” 

​​You snort. “Not interested,” you laugh, prying her off with an eye roll. But your gaze flicks, unbidden, to the ice behind you—where number seventeen is still skating slow laps, head ducked as he talks to a teammate. His laugh is bright enough to catch even from this distance, mouth curved and eyes crinkling at the edges. You turn away with a scuff, no way you’d involve yourself with a man who plays hockey. 

-

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Yunjin squeeze through the front door of the frat house. Music thrums through the walls, loud enough to feel in your chest, and the living room is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with sweaty college kids and empty red cups. Someone’s yelling something unintelligible from the kitchen, and a girl in a sparkly top rushes past, giggling as her friend tries to pull her back by the arm. It was like a playground. You had to stop yourself from cringy as you and Yunjin continued to push through the crowds of people. Your head spinning with irritation at the pure senselessness in the entire house. It was like no one here had half a brain. Yunjin, of course, lights up like a kid in a candy store. Within seconds, she’s weaving her way through the chaos, dragging you along by the wrist. You stumble after her, dodging spilled drinks and people making out against walls, and wonder for the hundredth time how you let her talk you into this. 

Yunjin chats with everyone—absolutely everyone—with a pulse. She flits from one group to another like it’s the easiest thing in the world, tossing compliments and laughter around like confetti. You trail behind her awkwardly, fingers curled around a cup of something you’re too afraid to taste, smiling and nodding when you’re supposed to. Soobin must have not arrived yet so she was filling the gap with randoms until he got here. 

You’re not sure how much time passes—long enough for your feet to start aching and for Yunjin to introduce you to at least fifteen people whose names you instantly forget—when she suddenly gasps, eyes going wide. “Oh my god, Jake!” she squeals, abandoning your arm to dart across the room. “Jay! You guys killed it out there!” You blink, half a step behind as you follow her gaze. Sure enough, Jake and Jay—both still in their team jackets, damp hair pushed back—are leaning against the staircase, laughing about something. Jake grins at Yunjin’s enthusiasm, eyes bright, while Jay salutes her with his drink. 

“Yunjin!” Jake laughs, opening his arms for a hug. “You actually made it! Didn’t think hockey was your roommate’s scene.” His eyes flick to you, warm and teasing. 

“It’s not.” You admit dryly. Jake chuckled, taking a big swig of drink before smirking at you both. “Well still, I bet you enjoyed Heeseung’s killer goal that won us the game. Pretty cool, right?” 

“Sure.” Your answers were deadpan and you could tell you were making them both moderately uncomfortable but you didn't care. You’d much rather be literally anywhere else but here. 

“Aren’t you having fun?” Jay asks, he was more nonchalant than Jake, less outgoing. He leaned against the sink with a lazy look on his face. It almost looked like he’d rather be anywhere else as well. 

“I’m suffering.” Your candor had to have been appreciated because the look Jay sent you was one that screamed ‘i agree’. He definitely wasn’t the party type either. Which was almost unheard of when it came to team captains.  Yunjin rolls her eyes fondly, but she’s already turning back to Jake, leaning in to ask about one of the plays from the game. You’re left to awkwardly clutch your drink, glancing around at the sea of strangers and trying to look less like a lost puppy and more like someone who actually belongs here. After a while of watching Yunjin converse with half the party you had to pee. Finding a bathroom in this massive house would be hard. And asking someone was out of the question, you've had enough socializing for one night. You right yourself preparing to walk among the sea of people in the way of the grand staircase. You clutched your drink in your hand weaving through the crush of bodies. 

Reaching the staircase was no easy task, people were mushed together like a mosh pit. The hallway is somehow even more crowded, people pressed shoulder-to-shoulder and stumbling over each other in varying levels of drunkenness. You mutter apologies, clutching your drink to your chest and scanning the doors for a bathroom sign. There’s a line, of course, stretching halfway down the hall. You bite back a groan and resign yourself to waiting, tapping your foot impatiently and trying to ignore the obnoxious couple behind you sucking face like they might suffocate if they pull apart. You’re glancing at your phone when it happens. One second, you’re minding your own business—the next, someone slams into your side, and your drink splashes straight down your front, soaking your shirt in sticky warmth. 

You freeze, disbelief flaring into white-hot irritation as you look up, ready to rip into whoever’s responsible— only to find Lee Heeseung drunkenly staring back at you with a tight lipped fake apologetic look on his face. It angered you, damn near enraged you. His hair’s mussed, dark eyes hazy and amused, and he’s laughing—actually laughing, low and unbothered—like he didn’t just body-check you into the wall. A girl no taller than you stood beside him hung onto his arm like her life depended on it. Her lipstick slightly smudged and hair ruffled, she looked like a hot mess. 

You blink, rage sharpening like broken glass. “Are you—are you serious right now?” you snap, shoving your empty cup against his chest. “What the hell? Watch where you’re going!” Heeseung just glances down at the cup, brows raising slowly. The girl at his side huffs impatiently, tugging at his arm, but he doesn’t move—just smirks, dark eyes drifting over you in a way that makes your blood boil. “You’re kidding,” you scoff. “Is this funny to you?” 

He tilts his head, grin widening. “Kinda,” he admits, and your jaw drops at his audacity. Where does he get off thinking he's the king of the world? What just because he won himself a game tonight means he’s the hottest thing around? Fuck that. “Oh, screw you,” you snap, swiping futilely at your soaked shirt. “God, just because you’re some hotshot hockey player doesn’t mean the world revolves around you, you know?” 

Heeseung chuckles, a warm, lazy sound that makes you want to punch him right in his stupidly perfect mouth. “Actually,” he drawls, dark eyes glinting, “yeah, it does.” The audacity. Your hands clench, words stuttering uselessly on your tongue, but he’s already turning away—barely even sparing you a second glance as the girl tugs him down the hall, giggling and clinging to his arm. You stare after them, heart hammering with fury, cheeks hot and sticky drink dripping from your clothes. You hate him. You’ve never hated anyone more. 

What seemed like forever soaked in sticky gold liquid, the line to the bathroom started dwindling down until you were the last one to reach it. You storm into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you harder than necessary. The mirror reflects the full horror of your situation—your shirt is soaked, sticky, and clinging to your skin in the most uncomfortable way possible. The scent of whatever cheap drink was in your cup lingers in the air, and no matter how many paper towels you use, the mess refuses to come off. 

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, aggressively scrubbing at the fabric of your clothing. Your mind replays the scene over and over, fueling your irritation. The smug tilt of Heeseung’s grin, the way he had the nerve to laugh in your face, to dismiss you like you were nothing. Yeah, it does. You grit your teeth so hard your jaw aches. Frustration crackles in your veins as you give up on your shirt and push out of the bathroom. The party is still going strong—music blasting, people shouting over one another, the air thick with sweat and spilled alcohol. You need to find Yunjin, tell her you’re leaving, drag her out of here if you have to. 

But as you weave through the crowd, she’s nowhere to be found. Your irritation shifts into mild concern as you make your way toward the last place you saw her—near the staircase where she’d been laughing with Jake and Jay. Jay’s still there, leaning against the railing, casually sipping his drink as he chats with someone. You march up to him, crossing your arms. “Where’s Yunjin?” 

Jay blinks, glancing over at you. His gaze flicks to your ruined shirt, and his lips twitch like he wants to ask, but wisely, he doesn’t. “Uh, last I saw, she went upstairs with Soobin.” 

Your stomach sinks. “What?” 

He shrugs. “Yeah, like ten minutes ago. Looked pretty cozy.” You inhale sharply, your irritation skyrocketing to full-blown fury. So Yunjin dragged you to this stupid party, bribed you into coming, abandoned you in a sea of sweaty hockey fans, and now she was upstairs with her boyfriend, completely forgetting you existed? Perfect. Just perfect. 

“I’m leaving,” you mutter, spinning on your heel before Jay can respond. You shove your phone out of your pocket, pulling up the Uber app as you push your way through the crowd, biting down the urge to scream. By the time you make it outside, the cold air is a welcome slap to your overheated skin. You stand on the curb, shivering slightly, arms crossed tight over your chest as you wait for your ride. Tonight was supposed to be chill instead, you’re suffering through a hockey game, putting up with Yunjin’s antics, dealing with a party full of people you didn’t know. But somehow, he had to make it worse. Lee Heeseung. You scowl at the thought of him, jaw clenching. If the universe had any mercy, you’d never have to see him again. 

-

Turns out the universe had no mercy at all. Not even an ounce. The next day, you’re still in a sour mood. You spent all night scrubbing your shirt, trying to get rid of the sticky residue and the memory of Lee Heeseung’s stupid smirk. Even after showering twice, you swear you can still smell the drink on your skin. But at least you’re back in your element now—your history class, where you TA. The classroom is empty except for Professor Kim, who looks up as you walk in, giving you a polite smile. 

“Ah, good, you’re here,” he says, flipping through some papers on his desk. “I have a favor to ask. I know you tutor in your free time, and we have a student who’s in desperate need of help.” 

You nod automatically. “Of course. You know I don’t mind tutoring.” 

“That’s great to hear,” he says, looking relieved. “Because this student is failing, and if he doesn’t get his grade up, he’ll be ineligible to play.” You barely register his words, still waiting for a name. Then he glances down at his notes and says it. 

“Lee Heeseung.” Your stomach plummets. No. No way. The universe had no mercy. “Wait—what?” You blink at him, hoping you misheard. 

Professor Kim sighs. “Heeseung’s been struggling all semester. I gave him a warning last week, but his last exam was a disaster. If he doesn’t pass the next one, he’s off the team.” You open your mouth to protest, to say literally anyone else but him, but before you can get a word out, the door swings open, and in comes the bane of your existence. 

Lee Heeseung strolls in like he owns the place, pushing his hair back as he yawns. His hoodie is wrinkled, his backpack is barely slung over one shoulder, and he looks every bit like someone who definitely did not wake up in time for his morning classes. “Sorry, sorry,” he drawls, not sounding sorry at all. “Rough night.” 

You scoff before you can stop yourself. “I’m sure it was.” At the sound of your voice, Heeseung’s gaze slides lazily to you, and then—his lips curl. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face, and you immediately hate it. 

Wait.” He tilts his head. “You’re my tutor?” He says in a mocking way, he’s making fun of you. 

You cross your arms. “Unfortunately.” Heeseung clicks his tongue, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Damn. Lucky me.” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes straight into another dimension. “Not so lucky for me,” you mutter. Professor Kim clears his throat. “So, you’ll meet twice a week until the next exam. I’ll leave the schedule up to you both, but I strongly recommend you start immediately.” You glare at Heeseung, who doesn’t seem remotely concerned about the fact that his academic career is hanging by a thread. Instead, he leans against the desk, watching you with amusement. 

“Well, tutor,” he says, voice dripping with mock politeness. “When do you want me?” You open your mouth, then shut it. Heeseung’s smirk deepens, clearly enjoying the way you bristle. “Tomorrow at five,” you grit out. 

“Perfect.” He pushes off the desk, stretching before making his way toward the door. Just as he reaches it, he glances over his shoulder, that irritating smirk still in place. “Try not to miss me too much until then,” he says, and then he’s gone. You stare after him, absolutely floored by his audacity. “Oh, I’m going to kill him,” you mutter under your breath. 

By the time you make it back to your dorm, you’re fuming. Your entire walk across campus had been spent replaying your conversation with Heeseung, each smug smirk and cocky remark igniting your anger all over again. Of all people, why did it have to be him? You shove open the door, throwing your bag to the floor with a little more force than necessary. "Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable," you mutter, running a hand through your hair in frustration.

Yunjin and Soobin are sprawled out on the futon, a half-empty bag of chips between them as some random drama plays on the screen. It’s the first time you’ve seen Yunjin since she abandoned you at the party, and the second she looks up at you, she must sense the storm brewing in your expression. “Uh…” She blinks. “What’s wrong?” 

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at her. “Oh, I don’t know, Yunjin—maybe the fact that you ditched me last night?” 

Yunjin’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh my God.” She sits up, looking genuinely guilty. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I just—Soobin showed up, and—” 

“Yeah, I know,” you snap, glaring at Soobin, who at least has the decency to look sheepish. “Jay told me you ran off with him ten minutes after we got there. You know, after I suffered through a hockey game for you.” Yunjin groans, dragging her hands down her face. “You’re right. That was a shitty best friend move. I swear, I’ll make it up to you.” 

You roll your eyes, collapsing onto your desk chair. “Yeah, yeah.” You wave her off, still annoyed but too exhausted to keep the argument going. “That’s not even the worst part.” 

She tilts her head. “What do you mean?” You exhale sharply, rubbing your temples. “I have to tutor Lee Heeseung.” 

Yunjin’s jaw drops. Soobin raises an eyebrow. “What?” she asks, sitting up straighter. 

“Yeah. Apparently, he’s failing history, and if he doesn’t pass his next exam, he’s off the team,” you huff. “Professor Kim roped me into tutoring him before I even knew who it was.” 

Yunjin snorts, clearly fighting a laugh. “Oh, that’s hilarious.” 

“It’s not!” You glare at her. “You don’t understand—he’s a dick. He’s entitled, arrogant, and walks around like the whole world revolves around him.” Soobin hums, popping a chip into his mouth. “Heeseung’s not that bad.” 

You whip your head toward him. “Are you serious?” Who asked him? He shrugs. “I mean, yeah, he can be cocky, but he’s actually pretty chill once you get to know him.” 

Yunjin nods in agreement. “Yeah, he’s nice. I’ve talked to him a few times. He’s always been cool.” 

Your mouth drops open. “Okay, no. You guys don’t get it. You didn’t see him at the party last night.”

Soobin raises an eyebrow. “What happened?” You launch into a full-blown rant, recounting every infuriating detail. “I was minding my business, just trying to use the bathroom, when he and some random girl bumped into me. I spilled my drink all over myself because they were too busy making out to notice other human beings existed. And when I called him out on it, do you know what he did?” Yunjin and Soobin both stare, waiting. 

“He laughed. He laughed in my face and said, ‘Yes, it does,’ when I told him the world doesn’t revolve around him!” You threw your hands in the air in exasperation. Yunjin lets out a low whistle. “Oof.” 

“Right?” You throw your hands up. “And now I have to spend actual time with him, tutoring him like he’s some helpless little idiot who can’t read a history book!” Soobin chuckles, shaking his head. “Sounds like he got under your skin.” 

You scoff. “No. He’s just the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.” Yunjin exchanges a look with Soobin before turning back to you with an all-too-knowing smirk. You narrow your eyes. “What?” 

“Nothing,” she singsongs. “I just think this tutoring thing is gonna be very interesting.” 

The next day, you show up at the library exactly at five. You even get there a few minutes early because, unlike some people, you actually value punctuality. You find a table in the back, away from the louder study groups, and start setting up—pulling out your notes, opening your laptop, lining up your highlighters like the responsible student you are. Then, you sit back and wait for Lee Heeseung to show up. 

And wait.

And wait.

You check the time. 5:15. You exhale sharply through your nose, forcing yourself to stay calm. Maybe he’s just running late. Maybe he got held up. Maybe— 5:30. Okay, seriously? You shoot him a quick text, nothing too aggressive. Just a simple: “Hey, you coming?” Nothing. Not a single response. 

5:45. Your patience is wearing paper-thin. You stare at your phone screen, resisting the urge to type out something way more aggressive. Maybe something like: “If you were planning on wasting my time, you could have at least had the decency to tell me instead of making me sit here like an idiot.” Or better yet: “Fuck you.” 

By now, you’re fuming. Your fingers drum aggressively against the table as you glare at the empty seat across from you, debating whether you should just leave. Clearly, he has no intention of showing up. 6:30. That’s it. You’re done. You shove your notebook into your bag, ready to storm out and text Professor Kim that you refuse to tutor an insufferable jackass, when— a voice behind you mutters a simple “Hey.” 

You slowly turn around, already brimming with rage, and there he is—Lee Heeseung, strolling in like he doesn’t have a single care in the world. He drops into the seat across from you, stretching his arms behind his head with the kind of casual arrogance that makes you want to throw something at him. "Sorry I’m late," he says. Not actually sounding sorry at all. 

You slam your laptop shut with way too much force. "You’re an hour and a half late." 

Heeseung just shrugs. "Yeah, my bad. I had practice. Then I had to change. And, y’know, eat. Then I ran into some people…" Your eye twitches at his nonchalant attitude “And at no point did it occur to you to let me know?” 

Heeseung raises an eyebrow like he doesn’t understand why you’re so worked up. "Didn’t think it was that big of a deal." You inhale so sharply your lungs burn. "Not that big of a—" You cut yourself off, pressing your hands against the table to ground yourself because if you don’t, you might actually throw your water bottle at his stupid, smug face.

Heeseung just watches you with lazy amusement, clearly not taking this seriously. “Don’t be so uptight,” he says, flipping open his empty notebook like he actually plans on doing anything. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” 

Oh. oh something inside of you snaps. You can’t help the next words that leave your mouth and to be quite honest you don’t know if you care much anyway. “Oh, fuck off Heeseung.” 

Heeseung pauses, blinks, then smirks. “What?” 

"You heard me." You stand up, grabbing your bag. "I don’t have time for your arrogant, self-important bullshit. If you actually cared about passing this class, you’d take it seriously instead of acting like you’re doing me a favor by showing up." His smirk doesn’t even falter. If anything, it deepens. “Damn,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Didn’t know you were this feisty.” 

You glare. “And I didn’t know you were this much of a dick. But here we are.” 

Heeseung chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re kinda cute when you’re mad.” oh. That’s it. You’re officially done. 

You shove your notebook into your bag so aggressively you nearly rip the zipper, and without another word, you storm out of the library. You can hear him laughing behind you. Actually Laughing. And you swear—you swear—you’ve never wanted to strangle someone more in your entire life. 

The next day, you’re back at the library, sitting across from Kim Sunoo, a bright-eyed freshman who actually wants to learn. Unlike some people. You tap your highlighter against the open textbook, explaining a key point about the causes of the Industrial Revolution. Sunoo nods eagerly, his face lighting up in understanding. “Ohhh, that makes so much sense now! I swear, I was staring at this for hours last night and none of it clicked.” 

You smile despite yourself. “It’s easier when someone explains it out loud, huh?” 

Sunoo grins. “Way easier. You’re really good at this, noona.” 

You chuckle. “It’s literally just history.” 

“Yeah, but you make it less boring,” he says, scribbling notes as fast as he can. “I actually feel like I might pass this exam now.” Before you can respond, a shadow falls over your table. And suddenly, the lightheartedness of the moment is gone. You don’t need to look up to know who it is. The air shifts, tension creeping in like a slow-moving storm. 

Sunoo notices before you do. His eyes flick upward, widening slightly. “Uh—” 

“Hey” 

You sigh. The last thing you need right now is him. Slowly, you look up. Lee Heeseung stands there, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, looking at you with something that is not his usual cocky amusement. His posture is relaxed, but there’s an awkwardness to it—like he’s not used to whatever he’s about to do. 

You cross your arms over your chest. “What do you want?” 

“I want to talk.” His gaze flickers to Sunoo. “Alone.” Sunoo, to his credit, looks between the two of you and seems to decide that this is not his business. He hurriedly starts shoving his books into his bag. “Oh! Yeah, of course, I—” You shoot Heeseung an annoyed look. “We’re in the middle of something.” 

Sunoo waves a hand. “No, no, it’s fine! I was about to go anyway.” He flashes you a grateful smile. “Thanks for the help! I’ll see you next week?” You nod, still frowning as you watch him scurry off like he just escaped something dangerous. Which, honestly? Fair. Then, you turn back to Heeseung. You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, waiting. “Well?” 

Heeseung exhales, looking almost uncomfortable. He shifts his weight, raking a hand through his hair before finally meeting your eyes. "Look… about last night…" 

Your eyebrows lift. “You mean the hour and a half I spent waiting for you? Or the part where you acted like a complete asshole?” He winces, lowering his eyes to the floor. “Yeah. That.” You don’t say anything. You let the silence stretch between you, let him sit in it. And for the first time since meeting him, Heeseung actually looks nervous. 

He exhales sharply, dropping into the seat across from you. “I was a dick,” he admits. “I know that. And I’m sorry.” You blink. Lee Heeseung, apologizing? Willingly? You half expect the ceiling to cave in. You narrow your eyes, skeptical. “Are you actually?” 

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. I am.” He leans forward slightly, his voice lower now. Sincere even. “Look, I need this. I need to pass. If I don’t, I can’t play.” Something flickers across his face when he says it—something restrained. You get the feeling he’s hating admitting this to you, like asking for help isn’t something he’s ever had to do before. You study him, watching the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers tap against the table like he’s restless. For once, there’s no arrogance in his expression. No teasing smirk. Just… Lee Heeseung, stripped of his usual bullshit.

You hate that it actually works. That a small part of you softens. But still, you’re not letting him off that easy. “I’ll be on time,” he says, his voice firmer now. “I’ll take it seriously. Just… give me another chance.” 

You tilt your head, considering. “And if you don’t?” He exhales through his nose. “Then you can tell Professor Kim to find me another tutor. You’ll never have to deal with me again.” You hesitate, watching him. You want to say no. Want to tell him to find someone else, that you don’t owe him anything. But at the same time… you do love tutoring. And despite everything, you’d hate to see someone fail because of their own stupid pride. Even if that someone is Lee Heeseung. 

So, against your better judgment, you sigh. “Fine,” you say, and immediately he brightens. But you hold up a finger. “But if you pull that shit again, I’m done. No second chances.”

He nods immediately. “Got it.” 

You squint. “I mean it, Heeseung. One more time, and I’m out.” 

“I know, I know,” he says, lips curling up into something that almost looks like a real smile. “I won’t be late.” You purse your lips, still doubtful. “We’ll see.” Heeseung stands up, stretching. “Five sharp, yeah?” 

“Five sharp.” 

A slow smirk spreads across his face. “Yes, ma’am.” 

You roll your eyes and start gathering your things. “See, this is exactly what I mean.” 

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. No teasing. I’ll be good.” Somehow, you highly doubt that. As he walks away, hands stuffed in his pockets, you watch him go, feeling a mixture of irritation and reluctant curiosity. Because for all his bullshit, for all his cocky, self-important assholery… A small, tiny part of you is curious to see if he’ll actually change. And you hate that. So much. 

That night, you and Yunjin fall into your usual routine—Chinese takeout, pajama shorts, and an unnecessary rewatch of Grey’s Anatomy. The apartment is warm, dimly lit by the soft glow of your laptop screen. The air smells like sweet and sour chicken, and your chopsticks lazily poke at your carton of lo mein as Yunjin lies sprawled across the couch beside you. “I still can’t believe you’re actually tutoring Heeseung,” she says around a mouthful of fried rice. 

You groan, letting your head fall back against the couch. “Don’t remind me.” 

“You hate him.” Yunjin continues. 

“Exactly! Which is why this is actual hell for me.” You huff, setting your carton down on the coffee table. “He’s such a dick. He thinks the world revolves around him just because he’s good at hockey.” 

Yunjin hums, twirling a noodle around her chopstick. “Soobin says he’s not actually that bad.” You scoff. “Oh, of course Soobin would say that. Heeseung’s his teammate.” 

Yunjin shrugs. “Yeah, but like… he really meant it. Heeseung’s just—” She pauses, pursing her lips like she’s debating whether or not to say something. You narrow your eyes. “What?” 

Yunjin sighs, setting her food down. “Soobin told me something about him. A story, actually.” You blink. “About Heeseung?” 

She nods, sitting up a little.  “Do you wanna hear it?” You hesitate, rolling your eyes. “Do I need to?” 

Yunjin grins. “Oh, absolutely.” 

You groan, but you can’t deny that you’re a little curious. You grab your drink, leaning back against the couch. “Fine. Spill.” 

Yunjin sits up even more, tucking her legs beneath her. “Soobin told me that back in high school, Heeseung wasn’t—like—this.” She gestures vaguely. “He wasn’t popular. Or cocky. Or even a star player.” 

​​You raise an eyebrow in disbelief. “What do you mean? He’s insanely good.” 

“I know,” she says, eyes widening. “But apparently, his coach barely let him play. He wasn’t one of the ‘favorites,’ you know? So he rode the bench most of the time.” That… does surprise you. The Lee Heeseung you know is the player everyone talks about, the guy who steals the spotlight like it was made for him. The idea of him sitting on the sidelines, ignored, is hard to imagine. 

“One day,” Yunjin continues, “one of the team’s star players got hurt before a big game. They had to put Heeseung in, and—” she snaps her fingers “—just like that, he destroyed everyone.” You blink. Surprised, this was not what you were expecting at all. 

“He played so well that the entire crowd went nuts. Coaches were watching. He basically stole the game, and after that? He got a full-ride scholarship. Just like that.” Your brows knit together, trying to picture it. “But after that game,” Yunjin says, tilting her head, “he changed. Like, overnight.” 

You frown. “What do you mean?” She exhales, leaning against the couch. “I mean he stopped being the quiet kid. He got stronger, started training harder. And when he got to college? Boom. Whole new personality. He’s loud, cocky, untouchable.” You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, that part tracks.” 

Yunjin gives you a look. “But don’t you get it? He had to change. He was treated like nothing for years, and the second he proved himself, he made sure no one would ever look down on him again.” You chew on your lip, staring at the flickering light of the laptop screen. You don’t know what to do with that information. Because it’s easier to hate Heeseung when he’s just an arrogant, self-absorbed jock. When he’s just some guy who gets on your nerves. But now there’s a reason behind it. And you hate that it makes you see him differently. 

The next day, when you step into the library, you expect to wait. You expect to sit down, go through your notes, tap your fingers against the table while checking the time, wondering how long you should stay before giving up. But Heeseung is already there And it throws you off.

He’s slouched in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, head tilted down as he stares at his phone. His brows are furrowed, lips pressed together, his thumb hovering over the screen but never quite moving. It’s an expression you’re not used to seeing on him. Tense. Quiet. Serious. It doesn’t suit him. 

You shake it off, forcing yourself to walk over. You pull out your chair with a sharp scrape against the floor and drop your books onto the table. Loudly. Nothing. You fight the urge to roll your eyes and sit down. “Alright, we’re starting with Henry the Eighth today.” 

No reaction. You tilt your head. “You know, the king who had six wives? England’s most dramatic ruler?” Still, nothing. Your patience thins. “What’s more important than not failing?” At that, he finally looks up, but instead of the usual lazy amusement or mild irritation, his expression is sharp. 

“Mind your own business,” he snaps. It hits you like a slap. Of all the things you expected, that wasn’t one of them. 

You straighten, gripping the edge of the table, surprised by the coldness in his voice. Heeseung has been many things since you met him—cocky, arrogant, insufferable—but he’s never been cruel. You inhale sharply, already pushing back your chair. “Okay. If you don’t wanna be here, I’m not wasting my time—” 

“Wait.” The word is rushed, almost desperate, and before you can leave, Heeseung finally puts his phone down. He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling roughly through his nose. “It’s just my dad,” he mutters, like that should be enough of an explanation. You hesitate, watching the way his jaw ticks, the way his fingers tap restlessly against the table. 

“What about him?” you ask, voice softer than before. Heeseung doesn’t look at you. “He was just asking how the season’s going. That’s it.” You study him for a moment, something itching at the back of your mind. This is the first time Heeseung has ever looked like this. Quiet. Withdrawn. Like his thoughts are somewhere else entirely. And last night, you learned something about him—something you never would’ve guessed on your own. 

You shift in your seat, glancing at your open notebook before closing it. “You know…” You trail off, choosing your words carefully. “I heard a story about you.” Heeseung blinks, his gaze flicking to yours. “What?” 

“I heard that back in high school, you weren’t allowed to play much,” you say. “And that when you finally got your shot, you proved everyone wrong.” His entire body stiffens. For a second, you think he’s going to let you keep talking, but then his expression hardens. His lips press together, his fingers stop tapping, and suddenly, the coldness is back. 

“Don’t,” he says flatly. You frown. “I just—” 

He cuts you off with his stern voice. A terrify you didn't want to wander “I said don’t.” It’s sharp, cutting, final. The look in his eyes makes it clear that whatever conversation you were hoping to have? It’s not happening. Your stomach twists, and you shift uncomfortably in your seat, unsure if you should apologize or pretend like you never said anything at all. For a moment, the silence is heavy. Unbearable. 

Then Heeseung sighs, running a hand over his face. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “Just… drop it.” You swallow hard, nodding slowly. “Right,” you murmur, flipping open your book again. “Henry the Eighth.” For a second, you think he won’t even pretend to pay attention. But then he leans forward, picking up a pencil and tapping it against the table. And this time, when you start talking, he actually listens. 

Over the next few weeks you and Heesseung began to find some kind of rhythm that worked for the both of you. And after no time Heeseung was back to usual self. Being extremely and unavoidably annoying. But it was clear to you that all your tutoring sessions were starting to pay off, he was actually learning the material and he..seemed to like it. 

The moment stretches—just a second too long. Your hand lingers against his, warmth seeping through the space between your fingers. It’s stupid. It’s just a high-five. Something you’ve done a thousand times with other people. But when you pull away, you can still feel the ghost of his touch, like it left an imprint. Heeseung’s smirk flickers, something unreadable flashing across his face. But then, just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by his usual cocky grin. 

“See? I told you I was a genius,” he says, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. You roll your eyes, forcing yourself to focus. “That was one right answer out of ten, relax.” 

“An improvement, though.” He points at you like he’s proving a point. “You should be proud. I might actually be learning something.” You scoff, gathering your notes, but your stomach twists in a way you don’t quite understand. Something is different.And you’re not sure what to do about it. One Part of you is scared, another part is excited. And that fear continues to grow the more time you spend with Heeseung. 

The study room is too small. Or maybe it just feels that way because Heeseung takes up too much space—not physically, but in the way he leans back in his chair like he owns the place, the way his presence seems to stretch and fill every available inch. The air is thick with the scent of his cologne—something clean, sharp, a little woodsy—and you hate that you notice it. 

It doesn’t help that you’re sitting way too close. Your knees bump under the table every time one of you shifts. His arm brushes yours when he reaches for his pencil. The tiny room makes every movement magnified, every accidental touch unavoidable. 

You try to focus. You clear your throat and point to your notes. “Okay, so if you actually want to pass this test, you need to remember the causes of the French Revolution.” Heeseung hums, leaning forward. “Right. The people were pissed.” You deadpan. “And why were they pissed?” 

“Uh…” He chews the end of his pencil, eyes flicking to the page in front of you. “Something about taxes?” You exhale. “Something about taxes,” you echo, circling the words in your notes. “Yes. Specifically, the Third Estate—” Before you can finish, Heeseung shifts, leaning over your shoulder to get a better look at your writing. And that’s when it happens. His arm presses against yours. His face is too close. And suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of everything—the warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne, the way his breath fans lightly over your shoulder.

You force yourself to stay still, to not react. “You have really messy handwriting,” Heeseung murmurs, completely oblivious to the absolute chaos in your brain. You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the fact that his voice is lower, softer in the quiet of the study room. “Maybe if you actually wrote your own notes, you wouldn’t have to suffer through mine.” 

“I like yours better,” he says, smirking. You scuff, shoving your notebook toward him. “Then read them yourself, genius.” 

He laughs, finally leaning back, and you exhale—only now realizing you were holding your breath. It was nothing. Just an accidental touch. And yet your heart is pounding out of your chest. You shake it off, clearing your throat. “Okay. Back to the revolution.” Heeseung smirks like he knows something you don’t. But he doesn’t say a word. And somehow that’s worse. 

The party is loud—too loud, too chaotic, too much. You don't even know whose house this is. The bass is thumping through the floor, the air is thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and way too much cologne. Yunjin, as always, is in her element, talking to literally anyone with a pulse, dragging you around as she bounces between groups of people. You don’t even know why she drags you along to these things if she’s not even going to stay with you. 

You're scouting your surroundings when you see him. Lee Heeseung. But he’s not like he usually is, No cocky smirk, no playful teasing, no girls clinging to his arm. He looks… different. Closed off even. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, a red Solo cup dangling from his fingers, but his eyes are unfocused, staring off at nothing. The usual arrogance in his posture is missing. He just looks… tired. 

You hesitate. Normally, you’d avoid him. You’re not sure why you don’t this time. Maybe it’s because he’s alone, or maybe it’s because this version of him—the one that isn’t performing, isn’t playing up his reputation—intrigues you. So you walk over, crossing your arms. “No girl hanging off you tonight?” Heeseung barely reacts at first. He blinks, like he’s just noticing you, then shrugs. “Not in the mood.” 

That’s not the response you expect. Usually, he’d fire back with something smug, something flirty, something to get a rise out of you. Instead, his voice is flat. You glance at him, studying his expression. His usual lightheartedness is gone, replaced with something heavier, something clouded. His fingers tighten around the cup, his jaw shifts slightly, and he isn’t looking at you. Something’s on his mind. And for some reason, you care. 

“…You wanna get out of here?” The words slip out before you can stop them. Heeseung finally looks at you. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—surprise, curiosity, maybe even relief. And for a second, you think he’s going to brush you off, flash you that smirk and tell you not to flatter yourself. But instead, he nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.” 

Outside, the night air is cold, but it feels… lighter. You walk side by side down the street, neither of you saying anything at first. The party fades behind you, the music growing distant, replaced by the quiet hum of the night. It’s weird. You’ve never been alone with Heeseung outside of the library. You’re used to him in controlled environments—study sessions, parties where he’s surrounded by people, the ice where he’s the star. Not like this. Not just… walking.

“You okay?” you ask eventually. Heeseung huffs a laugh, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket. “Didn’t think you cared.” You roll your eyes. “I don’t.”

He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Liar.” You bump your shoulder against his without thinking. “Seriously, though. You’re acting different.” Heeseung exhales, looking up at the sky. For a second, you think he won’t answer. But then—

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Just hockey stuff.”

You frown. “You’re always dealing with hockey stuff.”

“Yeah, well.” He pauses. “It’s my whole life.”

You glance at him, watching the way his features harden, his usual carefree exterior cracking just enough for you to see through. And you remember what Yunjin told you—that he wasn’t always the hotshot, that he had to claw his way to the top. You don’t push him. Instead, you say, “Wanna grab food?” He blinks. “At this hour?”

“Diner down the street’s open late,” you say. “And you look like you could use pancakes.” Heeseung huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. But then he looks at you—really looks at you. And something shifts. “…Yeah,” he says, nudging you with his elbow. “Let’s get pancakes.” And just like that, the night takes on a different shape. 

The diner is the kind of place that always smells like coffee and syrup, no matter what time of day it is. The booths are cracked with age, the neon sign outside flickers every few seconds, and there’s a quiet hum of old music playing through the speakers. It’s not fancy. But it’s warm, and right now, it’s exactly what you need. Heeseung slides into the booth across from you, stretching out his legs so they nearly brush against yours. You don’t know if he does it on purpose or if he just takes up that much space. You ignore it. 

A waitress comes by, barely looking at either of you as she takes your order—pancakes, coffee, extra whipped cream. Heeseung raises an eyebrow at you, amused. “What?” you challenge. “I told you. Pancakes fix everything.” 

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. But there’s something softer about him now. Not in the way he usually teases you—this feels different. And then the moment settles into a more calm setting. You lean forward, resting your arms on the table. “So,” you say, tilting your head. “Wanna talk about it?” 

You expect him to dodge the question, maybe throw out some sarcastic remark to avoid actually telling you what’s going on. But for the second time that night, Lee Heeseung surprises you. He exhales, running a hand through his hair, making it even messier than before. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “My dad found out about my grades.” Your stomach twists. You already have a bad feeling about where this is going. 

Heeseung lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “He says if I’m gonna throw my entire hockey career away for some stupid class, then I don’t deserve his financial support anymore.” He pauses, staring down at the table. “Says I should ‘get my priorities straight.’” Your heart clenches. You should’ve expected something like this. It’s not uncommon—parents putting pressure on their kids, pushing them toward success, expecting perfection. But something about the way Heeseung says it, the way his voice drops just a little at the end… You know that feeling. 

“I just—” Heeseung exhales harshly, gripping his fork a little too tight. “I never feel like I’m enough for them, you know?” 

You don’t even think. You just say it. “I do.” 

Heeseung blinks, lifting his gaze to meet yours. You swallow hard, suddenly feeling vulnerable, but you push through. “My mom and I don’t talk anymore,” you admit. “She didn’t approve of me getting a history degree. She wanted me to go into the family business with them.” You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “When I didn’t, she basically—shunned me. Acted like I was a disappointment. Like I wasn’t worth her time anymore.” Heeseung stares at you, expression unreadable. You feel like you should keep talking, should fill the silence, but then Heeseung leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table. His gaze softens. 

“That’s fucked up,” he says, voice quieter now. 

You shrug, picking at the edge of your napkin. “Yeah, well. It is what it is.” There’s a pause. Then— “I don’t think it is,” Heeseung mutters. You look at him, and for the first time since you met him, you realize that Lee Heeseung isn’t just some cocky, aggravating hockey star. He’s a person. A person with his own struggles, his own fears, his own wounds. The realization shifts something inside you. The waitress comes by, sliding plates of pancakes in front of you, breaking the moment. Heeseung blinks, like he’s shaking himself out of whatever just passed between you, and you do the same. 

You don’t kiss. You don’t hold hands. You don’t even bring the topic up again, but the both of you feel it. Something was different. 

You glance at the time on your phone and exhale sharply, tapping your fingers against the table. Heeseung is late. Again. It’s been twenty minutes, and you’ve already convinced yourself that if he’s not here in five more, you’re leaving. To say you were disappointed would be an understatement, you were more sad than anything. You had thought that the two of you had made some much progress. You’re mid-internal rant about how utterly irresponsible he is when you hear the sound of hurried footsteps. 

“I know, I know,” Heeseung says before you can even open your mouth. He holds up both hands in mock surrender, slightly out of breath. “Before you rip my head off, I brought you something.” You narrow your eyes as he slides a coffee cup and a neatly wrapped pastry across the table. 

You hesitate, suspicious. “What is this?” 

“A peace offering,” Heeseung says with a grin. “Your favorite, by the way. Thought it might keep you from murdering me in cold blood.” Your lips part slightly, surprised. “How do you even know my order?” 

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “You get it every time we go to the campus café. Not that hard to remember.” You press your lips together, trying to ignore the fact that your stomach does a weird little flip at that. Instead, you roll your eyes and mutter, “Still an asshole,” before taking the cup. 

Heeseung chuckles, sliding into the seat across from you. “Yeah, yeah. But at least I’m a thoughtful asshole.” You’re about to start the tutoring session when a static-filled announcement echoes through the library speakers. “Attention, students: The library will be closing early tonight due to a scheduled event. Please begin packing up your belongings.” 

You blink, glancing at Heeseung, who’s already stuffing his books back into his bag. He shrugs. “Guess we’re taking this somewhere else.” 

“Wait!” You call out. “Where are we going?” You ask him, beginning to pack up your own things. 

“Just come with me.” He says simply with a shrug of his shoulders. You huff but follow after him like he said, through the crowd of people also leaving the library. 

You’re not sure how it happens, but twenty minutes later, you’re sitting across from Heeseung in a quiet corner of a late-night café, your books barely touched. At first, you try to focus on history. You really do. But for once, Heeseung isn’t the one slacking off—you are. The conversation drifts. It’s not about Henry VIII or the French Revolution anymore. It’s about movies. 

“What do you mean you’ve never seen Interstellar?” Heeseung looks genuinely offended. You roll your eyes. “Sorry, I just never got around to it.” 

He lets out an exaggerated gasp. “Unbelievable. You call yourself educated?” You nudge his foot under the table. “Pretty sure history knowledge is more important than knowing a random space movie.” 

“First of all,” he says, holding up a finger, “it’s not just a ‘random space movie.’ It’s a cinematic masterpiece.” 

You snort. “Didn’t take you for the type to get passionate over movies.” Heeseung sends you a smirk, one that you had to admit made you feel mushy inside. What was happening to you? “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” And for some reason, you find yourself wanting to change that. Then the conversation shifts again. This time, it’s about childhood. 

You tell him about how you used to sneak into your grandfather’s study to read history books that were way too advanced for you, even though you were explicitly told not to. Heeseung tells you about how he used to skate on a frozen pond near his childhood home, even when it wasn’t completely frozen over. “Nearly drowned once,” he admits with a laugh. “Didn’t stop me from going back the next week.” 

You shake your head. “That explains so much about you.” The conversation flows too easily. The barriers that were once so firm between you are now… blurred. It scares yet excites you at the same time. At some point, you notice Heeseung looking at you for a little too long. His eyes flicker over your face, his smirk settling into something softer. Something unreadable. It has your heart pounding and your palms sweaty. You felt like one of those rom com heroines that were head over heels in love with the witty Jock. What were you doing? Lee Heeseung was so not your type. Hockey players were so not your type. 

“You know,” he muses, tilting his head, “this kinda feels like a date.” Your breath catches in your throat. 

You scoff, trying to ignore the sudden warmth in your face. “In what world?” 

Heeseung grins, leaning forward slightly. “Come on. Late-night café, deep conversation, stolen glances.” He raises a brow. “You sure you don’t feel it?” Your heart stumbles. You don’t know what to say. So you shift the topic into something more casual but still you don’t miss the knowing smirk on Heeseung’s face, like he knew the effect he had on you and he liked it. And a part of you liked it too.. 

The next day, you and Heeseung are back at the library, tucked into your usual corner. The energy between you is… normal. The way it always is. You tell yourself that last night at the café meant nothing. That Heeseung’s words—this kinda feels like a date—were just him messing with you, the way he always does. So you push it away, bury yourself in your notes, and act like everything is the same. 

And for the most part, it is. Heeseung slouches in his chair, tapping his pencil against the table in boredom while you attempt to drill historical facts into his thick skull. He groans dramatically when you ask him a question. He teases you when you sigh in exasperation. Everything is normal. Until— 

“What’s this?” Heeseung suddenly reaches into your bag and pulls out a slightly worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. You blink. “Uh, my book?” 

Heeseung raises a brow. “You’re one of those people?” 

You cross your arms. “What does that mean? A person who reads?” 

He grins, flipping through the pages. “Y’know. The ones who are obsessed with Mr. Darcy.” 

You roll your eyes. “I like the book because it’s well-written. Not because I’m obsessed with some brooding 19th-century man.” Heeseung hums, still turning the pages. “Mm. I liked it, too.” 

You stare at him. “What?” No way a guy like Lee Heeseung read and liked Pride and prejudice. 

He looks up, amused. “What?” 

“You read it?” 

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Yeah. Had to for a class in high school.” 

You’re genuinely shocked. You don’t know why—Heeseung surprises you more often than you’d like to admit. But for some reason, the image of him reading Pride and Prejudice is not one you ever expected. “What did you think?” you ask, genuinely curious. 

He leans back in his chair, tapping the book against his thigh. “I liked the way Mr. Darcy felt about Elizabeth. That whole ‘I tried not to love you, but I did anyway’ thing? Kinda hits, y’know?” 

Your breath catches. Because the way he says it..It’s not teasing, it’s not sarcastic, it's not a joke. The air shifts between you and for a minute you just stare at each other, saying nothing but so many things all at once. Something pulses in the space between you—something unfamiliar, something dangerous, something you don’t quite know how to name. Then, before you can react— Heeseung laughs, then he leans forward and kisses you. 

It’s quick. Just a press of his lips against yours. Light, fleeting. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s a joke. Something so trivial you do with the everyday person, something with no meaning. And it takes you a second to process what just happened before the reality of it slams into you like a freight train. You shove him back. Hard. “What the hell, Heeseung?” Your voice shakes with anger. 

He just grins, laughing. “Relax. I just wanted to see you flustered.” Your stomach sinks. To him it was a joke, kissing me was a joke to see me– Flustered? That was funny to him? You don’t even realize your hands are shaking until you grab your things and shove them into your bag. Your chest feels tight. Your vision blurs. Because it wasn't a joke to you. You didn't enjoy being the punchline to someone's entertainment. “Hey, where are you—” But you don’t let him finish. You walk out. 

You make it all the way out of the library before the first tear falls. You hate yourself for it. Hate that you’re crying. Hate that you’re letting Heeseung get to you. But you can't help it. That was your first kiss. And he stole it from you. It wasn't special, it wasn't meaningful if anything it was the opposite. It was just a joke. A way for Heeseung to entertain himself. You wipe your face harshly, forcing yourself to breathe. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That it’s not a big deal. That it’s fine. But it’s not. 

You’re halfway across campus when you hear footsteps behind you. “Wait—wait,” Heeseung calls. You don’t stop. If anything you walk quicker trying your hardest to get away from him. “Hey—seriously—” He jogs up beside you, still laughing. Like it’s funny. Like it’s just another thing for him to tease you about. And that’s when you’ve had enough. That’s when you break. 

You whirl around, eyes blazing. “You think this is funny?” Heeseung falters, caught off guard by the sharpness in your voice. You scoff, shaking your head. “You don’t get it.” 

Heeseung frowns, finally realizing that you’re actually mad. “I mean, come on. It was just a kiss—” 

“No, it wasn’t!” The words come out louder than you intend. Heeseung blinks. Your throat tightens. You stare at the ground, voice quieter now. “That was…my first kiss.” The words feel like ash on your tongue, burning your inside out. Embarrassment flooding your senses. 

And silence followed, dead silence. Heeseung said nothing at your confession. When you finally look up, Heeseung’s expression has completely changed. He doesn’t look smug anymore. He doesn’t look amused. He looks like he just got punched in the stomach. “Shit,” he breathes. 

You shake your head, swallowing hard. “Forget it.” You turn to leave again, but this time, he grabs your wrist. Stopping you from moving away from him. You want to rip your wrist from his hands, it feels like fire on your skin. You just wanted to get away from him even for just a few minutes to collect yourself, so you could calm down. 

Heeseung, although unintentionally, took something from you. And for some people your first kiss would mean nothing but not to you. You had been waiting for the right time, a first kiss, in your mind, was supposed to be romantic. It was supposed to mean something. Even if you didn't end up with that person in the end. Even if you had the messiest break up it didn't matter because in that moment they were the right person and the feeling was there. 

It was the reason you read romance novels like pride and prejudice. You were a foolish, foolish hopeless romantic and you didn't care. You embraced it but now stuck in front of someone like Lee Heeseung who kissed girls like he changed his clothes you were embarrassed. Because it meant nothing to him, it was a joke to see you red, to see you stutter. You couldn't help but be angry about that and you weren't going to let him downplay it. You had more dignity than that. 

“I—” He hesitates, exhaling sharply. “I didn’t know.” 

You laugh bitterly. “Yeah. No shit.” because of course he didn't. Because in his world silly little romantic gestures and the innocence of waiting for the right time to have your first kiss didn’t exist. Kissing was something you just did for him. 

Heeseung runs a hand over his face, looking genuinely guilty. His usual cockiness is gone, replaced by something that almost looks like… regret. “I—fuck. I’m an asshole,” he mutters, shaking his head. 

You sniff, wiping at your eyes. “Yeah. You are.” 

He looks at you, jaw tight. “I wouldn’t have done that if I knew.” And you believe him. You can see it in the way his lips are pressed into a thin line, the way his jaw clenches like he’s punishing himself for something he can’t take back. A long silence stretches between you. Were you really about to forgive him? 

Then, you exhale, your voice small. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that.” 

Heeseung swallows hard. “I know.” Your throat tightens as you look away, the ache in your chest still present but no longer suffocating. “It was stupid, and it—it wasn’t supposed to be a joke.” 

“I know,” he repeats. And this time, his voice is laced with something heavier. Something genuine. You hate that you can’t hate him for it. You chew on your lip, staring at the ground. A part of you wants to stay mad. Wants to tell him to leave you alone, to let you hold on to your anger because that would be easier. But another part of you—one you’re not sure you like—wants to believe him. 

Because Heeseung might be an arrogant hockey player with a flirty smirk and a ridiculous ego, but… he isn’t cruel. You sigh, rubbing a hand over your face. “I can’t believe my first kiss was with you.” 

Heeseung huffs out a laugh, though there’s no amusement in it. “Yeah. And I can’t believe I ruined it for you.” You look up at him then, surprised by the way his gaze is so… serious. He was being sincere. “I’m really sorry,” he says quietly. “I was just being an idiot. I didn’t think—I didn’t know—” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “I swear, I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.” 

You stare at him for a long moment, searching his face for any trace of insincerity. But there’s nothing. You could tell with utmost certainty that he was sorry, that he regretted it. And against all odds, you sigh, your shoulders dropping just a little. “I forgive you,” you murmur. 

Heeseung blinks. “You do?” 

You roll your eyes. “Don’t make me change my mind.” 

A slow, relieved smile tugs at his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

You shake your head, still feeling a little raw, but… better. Heeseung watches you carefully. Then, after a beat, he hesitates before saying, “You know… if you wanted, I could—” He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking almost shy. “I mean, I could give you a proper first kiss.” You freeze, your heart stuttering in your chest. 

Heeseung seems to immediately regret saying it, his eyes widening. “Only if you wanted—and not now! I mean—just, like, someday. If you ever wanted to, uh—” You stare at him. Then, despite everything, a laugh bubbles up in your throat. Heeseung let out a groan, running a hand over his face in embarrassment “Just, forget i said anything.”  

But you’re grinning now. It was your turn to tease him and man it felt good. 

The arena is alive with energy, the kind that shakes the walls and hums beneath your skin. You’re here. At a hockey game. Voluntarily. Yunjin nearly fell off the bleachers when you agreed without your usual dramatic sigh and drawn-out complaints. She had pestered you the entire way here, elbowing you in the ribs, wiggling her eyebrows, making heart gestures with her hands. 

“I know why you suddenly want to come,” she had sing-songed, a smug grin plastered on her face. You had simply rolled your eyes, refusing to entertain her antics. But now, sitting in the middle of the buzzing crowd, you feel… different. 

For the first time, you’re actually watching the game. Not just tolerating it, not just suffering through it for Yunjin’s sake—you’re watching, eyes trained on one player in particular. Lee Heeseung. 

You’ve never really paid attention before, never really noticed the way he moves across the ice like he was born on it. He’s fast, insanely fast, weaving through players with a sharp focus you’ve never seen from him anywhere else. The same guy who saunters into tutoring sessions late, who smirks and teases and never takes anything seriously—here, he’s different. He’s serious. Disciplined. And you suddenly understand why people look at him the way they do. Why he’s not just good—but great. 

Your chest tightens as you watch him skate down the ice, stick-handling the puck with effortless precision before passing it off to a teammate. A minute later, the puck is passed back to him, and in one smooth motion, he winds up his shot. The slapshot is powerful, cutting through the air before slamming into the back of the net. The entire arena erupts. Heeseung’s teammates swarm him, cheering, helmets knocking against each other as they embrace. The student section roars, chants of his name ringing out through the stands. 

And you— You cheer. For the first time ever a hockey game has actually excited you. You let the fact that it was a grueling, animalistic sport slip away from you and you allowed yourself to have fun. To watch the people around you at the edge of their seats and you be a part of it. You weren't sulking in your seat wishing you were anywhere but here, no you were having fun. It was liberating. Why hadn;t you allowed such a simple pleasure before. 

You don’t even realize it at first. It’s small, just a quiet “yes!” under your breath, but Yunjin hears it. Her head whips toward you so fast it’s a miracle she doesn’t get whiplash. “Oh. My. God.” 

You blink, startled. “What?” 

Her jaw drops, hands gripping your arm in a death hold. “You just cheered.” You open your mouth to protest, but she’s already gasping dramatically. “I can’t believe it. You—you like hockey. You like hockey.” 

You shove her off, cheeks burning. “I do not.” 

“You do! You just cheered! You’ve been watching the game, and not in a ‘God, this is so stupid’ kind of way, but like a real fan.” She gasps again. “Oh my God, do you have a jersey under your coat? Are you secretly a hardcore Lee Heeseung fangirl?” 

You glare at her. “I swear to God, Yunjin—” 

But she just grins, eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “You like him.” 

Your stomach flips. “I do not.” 

“You do!” She wiggles her brows, giddy like she’s just discovered the best gossip of the century. “You’re watching him like he hung the moon, and you cheered, and you didn’t even complain when I dragged you here!”  

You shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. “I just—” You hesitate, glancing back toward the ice where Heeseung is still grinning, fist-bumping his teammates. And for the first time, you admit it to yourself. You like him. You really like him. Even if he stole your first kiss like it was a joke, even if he’s late sometimes, even if he never takes anything seriously with that stupid little smirk on his face. You like him. Lee Heeseung had surprised you. He was nothing you had thought him to be. He was funny, he was kind, he was smart even if he thought otherwise. 

The realization settles over you like a weight you’re not sure you’re ready to carry. Because no way does Heeseung feel the same way about you. Does he? He called your little cafe hang out a date. He’s told you things about himself that i’m sure only his closest friends would know. He kissed you for god sake. Maybe he does like you back? 

“Even if i do like him..” You mutter finding it hard to get the words out. “It’s not like he would like me back?” 

“It doesn’t hurt to find out right?” Yunjin asks with a big dopey grin on her face. 

“That’s the thing..” You trail off “It does hurt to ask, because if he doesn't like me back then it will be awkward, it will ruin everything we've done so far.” 

“Sure.” Yunjin nods “But you can’t walk around with this crush looming over you. Things like this can’t go unsaid..” 

You just nod at her not really wanting to further conversation here of all places. The game was over and everyone was starting to leave, it would be humiliating if someone were to hear the two of yours conversation. 

“Come on.” Yunjin grabbed your arm “We have to wait for Soobin..” 

You stand outside the rink with Yunjin, your arms crossed over your chest as she bounces on the balls of her feet, clearly eager to see Soobin. The energy is still electric from the game, students lingering in groups, buzzing about the win. You’re pretending to listen to Yunjin ramble about some play that Soobin made, but your eyes keep flickering toward the players filtering out of the locker room. Looking for him. But Heeseung’s nowhere to be found. 

You’re not sure why you care. Not sure why your stomach twists in disappointment every time another player walks past and it’s not him. You were sure you looked like a little lost puppy, how pathetic of you really. 

“Looking for someone?” Yunjin cooes, a grin on her face. You shake your head at her relentlessness. She never gives up does she. 

“No.” You deadpan “I’m not.” 

“Sure.” she giggles. But she didn't believe you. And truthfully you didn't believe yourself. 

Luckily, Soobin finally emerges, and Yunjin squeals, launching herself at him. He laughs, catching her with ease, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. “Did you see my goal?” he teases. 

“I saw everything,” Yunjin gushes. You roll your eyes, but there’s a small, unbidden smile playing on your lips as you watch them. You always admired their relationship and the way Soobin takes such good care of Yunjin. Sure, you weren't the biggest fan of hockey players but Soobin was one of the good ones. Yunjin loved him, so in turn you loved him too. Unless he hurt her. Then he’d had hell to pay. But, they've been going strong for two years now so the chance of that happening was slim to none it seemed. 

The moment is cut short when a group of guys from the opposing team walks past, their presence immediately shifting the air. “Nice win,” one of them says, voice dripping with sarcasm. His eyes land on Soobin. “Lucky, huh?” 

Soobin tenses beside Yunjin, but his expression remains neutral. “Just played our game, man.” 

One of the guys scoffs. “Right. Guess even a broken clock is right twice a day.” Jake and Jay join the group just in time to hear that, their easygoing post-game demeanor sharpening. 

“Problem?” Jake asks, his usual grin gone. It was so unlike Jake to not have a beaming smile on his face. He was almost never this serious from what you’ve seen of him. 

The guy just smirks. “Not at all. Just wondering what your team is gonna do when Lee Heeseung finally crashes and burns.” Something in your chest tightens. 

Jake’s jaw ticks. “Excuse me?” 

“Oh, come on. You know it as well as we do. Without hockey, Heeseung is nothing. Just another dude who peaked in college and has nothing to fall back on.” The guy laughs, shaking his head. “Damn shame, really.” You see red. 

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you step forward. “Excuse you?” The guy turns to you, clearly amused. “Oh? And who are you?” 

“I’m the person telling you to shut the hell up,” you snap, surprising everyone—including yourself. Heeseung might drive you insane. He might be arrogant and cocky and an infuriating flirt. But the way they’re talking about him—like he’s disposable, like he doesn’t matter beyond what he can do on the ice—it bothers you. It bothers you a lot. More than it should maybe. But at this moment you didn’t care. You sure as hell were not going to let sore losers talk down on him when he wasn’t even here to defend himself. 

You keep going, anger bubbling to the surface. “You don’t know anything about him. You don’t know how hard he works, how much pressure he’s under. He’s one of the best players in the league, and that’s why you’re all so bitter.” You let out a scoff. “And if he did quit hockey tomorrow? He’d still be ten times the person any of you are.” The group goes silent for a beat. Then the guy just laughs. He actually laughs. You tense up, readying yourself to really have at them. 

“Damn,” he snickers, looking at his teammates. “She’s got it bad.” Heat rises to your face. Was it really that obvious? Were you just humiliating yourself? You cursed yourself for opening your mouth in the first place. For allowing these assholes to get under your skin. 

You open your mouth to argue, but he just shakes his head, still chuckling. “Good luck with that, sweetheart.” Then they walk off, leaving you standing there, seething and embarrassed for making a scene. 

“Damn.” 

You turn to find all eyes on you. It made you want to sink into yourself and put yourself away for the next year. A closed off hole in the dirt would be a better place for you right now then where you were currently. Jake raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Didn’t know you had that in you.” 

“Neither did I,” Jay adds, smirking. 

Even Soobin is looking at you like he’s seeing you in a new light. Everyone was looking at you like you were a totally different person than who you were. And you didn't know if you liked it. 

But it’s Yunjin who nudges your side, grinning knowingly. “Interesting.” You groan, rubbing your temples. Because, yeah. It is interesting. Because for all the times you’ve denied it, all the times you’ve tried to pretend you don’t care about Heeseung— You just proved, in front of everyone, that you do. 

The next day, you wait for Heeseung at the library, tapping your pen impatiently against your notebook. Five minutes turn into fifteen. Fifteen into thirty. But he never shows. Annoyance bubbles inside you. Typical. Still, something feels different this time. After the kiss, after everything that happened, you expected—no, hoped—things would shift between you. Instead, he’s just… disappeared. And you hate that you care. Everything was ok. He was flirty, so why was he ignoring you? Why was he flaking? 

So, against your better judgment, you find yourself heading toward the frat house. The music is low, a few guys lounging around, but it’s nothing like the parties you’ve been dragged to before. When you ask where Heeseung is, they just gesture upstairs, some of them giving you looks you pointedly ignore. You don’t even knock. You push open his door to find him sitting on his bed, scrolling through his phone. 

He barely spares you a glance. “What do you want?” 

You scoff. “Seriously? You skip tutoring and act like I’m the one bothering you?” Heeseung tosses his phone aside, finally looking at you—but there’s no teasing glint in his eyes, no smirk. Just something unreadable, something guarded. “I didn’t ask you to come here.” 

You frown. “Yeah, well, I didn’t ask for you to ignore me, either.” 

Silence. Heeseung rubs the back of his neck, exhaling harshly. “Look, just forget it.” 

You shake your head, frustration growing. “Why are you being like this?” 

“Like what?” He quips with a sarcastic laugh. It makes your blood boil. 

“Like this. Distant. Rude. A total asshole.” 

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Funny. I thought that’s how you always saw me.” 

“That’s not—” You stop yourself, clenching your fists. “What’s your problem?” 

Heeseung stands, suddenly in your space, forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. “My problem?” His voice is sharp now. “My problem is you making me look like an idiot.” 

You blink, taken aback. “What?” The confusion coursing through you was palpable. You couldn’t remember a time you had made him look like an idiot. The two of you hardly interacted outside of the library and you certainly hadn’t been around each other when your friends were near. So what the hell was he talking about? 

“Last night,” he mutters, his jaw clenched. “You stood there, in front of everyone, and defended me like I’m some kind of fucking charity case.”  Oh. Oh. 

Your breath catches in your throat. “That’s not what I was doing—” 

“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me,” he interrupts. “I don’t need you to tell people I’m more than hockey. I am hockey.” His eyes darken. “And just because we kissed doesn’t mean you’re my fucking girlfriend.” 

The words hit you like a slap. You open your mouth, then close it. You don’t even know what to say. The silence stretches between you like a canyon. 

“I wasn’t trying to-” 

“I didn’t ask for you to do that,” he cuts you off. “I don’t need saving.” You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “I wasn’t trying to save you, Heeseung. I was just—” 

He laughs, but it’s anything but amused. “You were just what?” 

“Caring,” you snap. “I was caring, okay? God forbid someone actually gives a shit about you.” Something flashes across his face—something raw, something almost vulnerable—but it’s gone as quickly as it came. A beat of silence. Then, softer: “I don't need you to care.” 

And that, somehow, it hurts more than anything else he’s said. You nod, pressing your lips together. “Just drop it.” He says with finality. But you weren't done. No, you were fired up. 

You should. You should just let it go. But instead, you shove his shoulder. “No.” 

He looks at you, startled. “Did you just—” You shove him again. 

He catches your wrist. “You’ve got some nerve.” You glare up at him. “And you’re a coward.”

His grip tightens slightly. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” You take a shaky breath. “You push people away because it’s easier than letting them in. It’s easier than admitting that you actually give a shit.” Heeseung’s eyes flicker with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?” You swallow. “Then prove it.” His grip on your wrist tightens. And then, suddenly— His lips are on yours. 

This time you don’t push him away, this time you welcome him. Because you wanted this, more than you’ve wanted anything else before. It’s rough, heated, and you should push him away. You should be furious. But instead, you find yourself kissing him back. You barely register him walking you backward until your back hits the wall, his hands gripping your waist, his lips trailing along your jaw, your neck. The argument, the hurt, the frustration—it all melts into something else entirely. Something that has been building since the first moment you met. And you don’t stop him. How could you when this was all you’ve wanted. All you’ve been thinking of. The kiss is hard, almost punishing, like he’s trying to prove a point. But you don’t pull away. You kiss him back, fisting the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer. 

It’s heated, desperate, fueled by something neither of you want to name. His hands find your waist, and before you know it, you’re stumbling back onto the bed. Your heart is racing. This is a bad idea. This is reckless and impulsive and everything you swore you wouldn’t do. But when Heeseung hovers over you, his lips brushing against yours— you don’t want him to stop. And you beg him not to. 

“Don’t stop.” You breathe pulling away an inch to whisper the words. “Please.”

“But-” He stutters his own breathing labored “You’ve never..” 

“I want to.” You nod at him, giving him all the reassurance he needs. 

“Are you sure?” He asks you, his lips leaving a small trail on your neck down to your collarbone. “Tell me you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure heeseung.” You grabbed his face, so his eyes were leveled with yours. “I want you.” 

Heeseung’s hands continued down the expanse of your body. Running his palms up and down your sides until they reached your waist. He pulled at your body until you’re forced down onto your back with a huff. 

“You’re so beautiful” Heeseung mumbles from above you. “I’m so lucky to be the only man to see you like this…” He coos as his hands made quick work of sliding your yoga pants down your legs revealing your white cotton panties to his eyes. “Right baby?” He hummed “I’m lucky right?” 

You could barely form words as you watched drink in the sight of you. You nod at him that being the only form of communication you could offer him. His hands run up your body again, slowly caressing you. Until he reached your tank top covered breasts. His hands squeezed at them causing a broken gasp to leave your lips. 

You had never been touched by a man like this. So sensually, so erotic. Your body felt ablaze with need for him; you didn't know how to contain yourself. “Please.” You whispered, lifting your hips off the bed, showcasing your ever growing need for him. 

“Be patient baby, I want to take my time with you.” Heeseung pulled at the top of your tank top, yanking it down to expose your breasts to him. He smiled at you, a smile that had made you feel warm inside, safe. His hands kneaded the skin of your breasts. Breathy moans left your lips as you watched Heeseung in fascination. He was beautiful like this. You had never seen a more beautiful man before. 

“I’m going to touch you now, okay?” Heeseung asked, and for a second you were confused until you felt his nimble fingers on your most sensitive area. An area that had not yet been explored. It had your breath stuttering, your nerves alight. 

Heeseung’s finger circled your clit, his eyes watching your for any signs of discomfort. “This might feel a little uncomfortable, just tell me if you want me to stop and I will okay?” 

“Okay.” You sigh. Heeseung’s finger dips inside of you and at first the stretch is uncomfortable but not painful and soon..it starts to feel good. A moan leaves your lips before you could stop it. 

“Fuck.” Heeseung hisses eyes trained on your pussy and how well you were taking his finger. “I’m going to add another one..you’re so tight.” 

“Oh my god.” You whispered as the feeling of his fingers going in and out of you became almost too much to bear. 

“Does that feel good, baby?” Heeseung whispered eyes still trained downwards, watching himself fuck you with his fingers. 

“Yes, fuck yes.” Your moans were loudly and could probably be heard throughout the entire house but you didn’t care. It felt too good. 

Suddenly, the feeling was yanked from you when Heeseung pulled his fingers out. His hands immediately traveled to his pants, yanking them down in one fell swoop. “You’re ready for me.” He said, pulling your hips to the end of the bed. 

“Heeseung…” You trailed off “Is it going to hurt?” You asked him. Heeseung looked at you with a softness you had rarely ever seen from him before. 

“It will sting a little..” He admits “But tell me if it's too much and I'll stop right away.” 

“Okay, i’m ready” You give him a little smile and a nod, mentally preparing yourself. You were about to lose your virginity to a guy that wasn’t even your boyfriend. And you wanted to, you were excited to. 

Heeseung lined himself at your entrance watching your face to gauge your reaction, the last thing he wanted to do was hurt you. You felt him run the tip of his cock up and down your folds, collecting your wetness. And finally after what felt like forever he slid in. slowly, inch by inch. The stretch was far more uncomfortable than his fingers. And he was right to say it would sting. But it was not unbearable. And finally when he was fully inside, hips flush against yours you had felt so close to him, more close than you had ever felt to anyone. It was almost romantic. Not almost, it was. 

Heeseung slowly moved himself in and out of you allowing you to get used to his size. 

“God.” He hissed out, his fingers making dents in your thighs as he tried his best to contain himself. “So…fucking…tight.” 

“Yeah?” You asked, your voice light and airy. Your hands reached for his shoulders digging your fingertips into his skin. “Does it feel good?” 

Heeseung groaned at your words pistoning his hips harder inside of you. “Y-yes” He stuttered. “Best pussy i’ve ever felt.” 

You smiled at his crude words but you would be lying if you didn't think his words to be oddly…sweet. 

“Faster.” You moaned, moving your hands down to circle at your clit. “You can go faster.” 

Heeseung let out another deep girdled groan lifting your knees to your chest allowing himself to hit a deeper spot inside of you. It had you gasping for breath. The new angle sends you hurtling to your orgasm before you could even catch your breath.  

“Fuckkkk” Heeseung’s moans were like music to your ears, a sound you had never thought you would have the pleasure of hearing and now that you have you would never give up. 

Your orgasm served as a catalyst to his as he pulled out, leaving you feeling empty. His hand worked himself up and down, his breathing heavy and chest heaving up and down. “Oh my god.” He groaned as droplets of his cum landed on your stomach. You watched him with wide eyes, your own chest falling in tandem with his.

“Are you okay?” He asks after a while, letting you both catch your breath. 

“Yeah..” You sigh. “More than okay.” 

The next day, Heeseung is out of town for an away game, leaving you alone with your thoughts—ones you don’t particularly want to sit with. Over thinking the night the two of you had over and over again. It was perfect, in your mind. And you didn’t regret not one bit. 

When Yunjin suggests another movie night, you jump at the distraction. Wanting a way to calm your raging nerves. An hour later, the two of you are curled up on your respective sides of the couch, Chinese takeout containers balancing on your laps, Legally Blonde playing on the screen. But you’re barely paying attention. Your mind is still tangled in the events of last night—the heat of Heeseung’s touch, the way he kissed you like he couldn’t get enough, the things he whispered against your skin. 

It’s only a matter of time before Yunjin notices. She shoots you a knowing look, pausing the movie. “Okay. Spill.” 

You hesitate, staring down at your lo mein. “Spill what?” 

She scoffs. “Don’t even try that. You’ve been acting weird all night. Like, more weird than usual.” 

You exhale, pressing your lips together. Then, before you can overthink it, you blurt, “I slept with Heeseung.” The silence that follows is deafening. Yunjin just stares at you, chopsticks frozen mid-air. “You what?” 

You groan, setting your food down. “You heard me.” She blinks. “Oh my god.” 

“I know.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“I know!” 

Yunjin drops her chopsticks and grabs your hands, shaking them. “Okay, okay. Start from the beginning. How did this happen?” So you tell her. You tell her about going to the frat house, about how Heeseung was being an asshole again, about the argument that escalated into something else entirely. By the time you’re done, Yunjin is still holding onto you, eyes wide. “So… what happens now?” You bite your lip. That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Because the truth is—you don’t know. 

“I have no idea,” you admit. “We didn’t really talk about it. He had to leave early for the game this morning.” 

Yunjin watches you carefully. “And how do you feel?” 

You hesitate. “I don’t regret it.” That’s the one thing you’re sure of. Yunjin nods, but there’s a flicker of concern in her eyes. “Just… be careful, okay?” 

You give her a small smile. “I will.” She studies you for another moment, then sighs dramatically, flopping back against the couch. “Well, damn. I guess this makes you a hockey girlfriend now.” 

You snort. “I am not a hockey girlfriend.” 

“Not yet.” She waggles her eyebrows. You groan, throwing a pillow at her. She yelps, laughing as she ducks. 

Monday rolls around, and you’re actually excited to see Heeseung again. It’s ridiculous. You know it’s ridiculous. But after everything that happened, after the way things felt so different between you, there’s a small, traitorous part of you that wonders if things have actually changed. But then hours pass. And Heeseung doesn’t text. Doesn’t call. You tell yourself you're not the type of girl that obsesses over whether a boy will call her or not but it’s hard not to. Not when said boy just made you feel like the most special girl in the world. The one who took your virginity and made it the most special moment of your life. The boy you're falling so madly and deeply in love with. 

You’re not that type of girl. By the time evening comes around, you’ve tried convincing yourself a hundred times that you don’t care—that you don’t need to hear from him. So when Yunjin texts you, asking if you want to grab food at the diner, you immediately say yes. A distraction is exactly what you need. A night at a little diner with your best friend who knows about Heeseung. You can get some perspective from a girl who's in a happy and healthy relationship. She’ll tell you that Heeseung is just tired, he was away all weekend playing Hockey he might just want to rest. All your worries will be satiated and then you can focus on having a good dinner. 

The diner is packed when you walk in, the usual buzz of students filling the space. You and Yunjin are making your way to a booth near the back when she suddenly stops short. You follow her gaze—and feel your stomach drop. At a table near the center of the diner sits Heeseung, Soobin, and the rest of the hockey guys, all laughing loudly over burgers and milkshakes like they don’t have a care in the world. And Heeseung—he looks fine. Like nothing happened. 

Yunjin glances at you. “Do you want to—” Before she can finish, you take a breath and start walking. You’re not going to hide from him. That would be pathetic. You’re just going to go over, say hi, and act normal. But the second you and Yunjin reach the table, you can feel the shift in energy. 

Heeseung tenses when he sees you, his usual cocky smirk faltering for a second before he recovers. “What are you doing here?” You blink, taken aback by his tone. “Getting food. What does it look like?” Some of the guys at the table snicker, and your stomach twists. You feel small. You feel helpless. 

Heeseung leans back in his seat, his jaw tightening. “Didn’t realize you were such a fan of hockey hangouts.” 

You furrow your brows. “What?” Your heart drops to your stomach. 

He shrugs. “I mean, I just didn’t peg you as someone who follows guys around, but hey—good to know.” 

The table erupts into laughter, and heat flares up your neck. You cannot believe this. is he seriously—after everything—is he seriously doing this right now? He’s humiliating you. And for what? To look cool? To hurt you? Because it was working, he was hurting you. Soobin, however, notices immediately. His gaze flicks between you and Heeseung, frown deepening. You glance at Yunjin, whose mouth is already set in a furious line. But before you can say anything, she grabs a cup off the table—one full of soda and ice—and without hesitation, throws it straight at Heeseung. 

Gasps ring out. The laughter stops immediately. Heeseung sits there, stunned, soda dripping from his hair and down his face. The entire diner is watching now, but Yunjin doesn’t care. “What the fuck, Yunjin?!” Heeseung exclaims, jumping up, shaking the liquid off his hands. She glares at him with pure, unfiltered rage. “You are such a fucking asshole, Lee Heeseung.” 

Then she grabs your hand, yanking you away from the table before you can even process what just happened. Leaving your heart at the table with him. Shattered for everyone to see. 

The second you’re outside, the cool air hitting your flushed skin, you exhale sharply. “Holy shit.” Yunjin looks just as pissed as you feel. “What the hell was that?” 

You shake your head, anger and humiliation swirling inside you. “I don’t know.” But what you do know? You’re done. Done making excuses for Heeseung. Done thinking that maybe—just maybe—he’s not the person you feared he was. Because he just proved exactly who he is. And it hurts. 

When the two of you are back at the dorm you allow yourself to cry, to feel the emotions as they came. The heeseung you thought you knew would never do this to you. But it was clear to you now that he only used you as a means to pass his class. His sweet personality was only a well executed act that you were stupid enough to fall for. How could you fall for that? Hockey boys were nothing but egoistic man boys who threw each other around, chasing a puck for a living. They lacked sustenance, they lived their lives like barbarians and you hated them, and everything they stood for. 

You yanked your phone out of your back pocket before swiping to Heeseung’s contact. You hovered over his name for only a second before you opened messages and typed out; “Tutoring is done. Don’t text me, don’t call me. Goodbye.” and you wished you could gather the words to hurt him the way he hurt you but you just didn’t have the strength. You wanted to forget Lee Heeseung and hockey all together. 

Days pass in almost a blur. You contine life as usual only Heeseung is no longer a part of it. You avoid him like the plague, if he’s near at all you bolt. There was no talk of hockey in the dorm anymore. Yunjin was just as pissed and hurt as you. She was the best friend anyone could ever ask for really. 

It was Friday night when you finally had time to settle in for the night. You had an old copy of pride and prejudice in your hand and a hot cup of tea next to you. Yunjin was with Soobin for the night so you were finally alone. It was just past ten-thirty when the sound of pounding on your dorm broke you out of your reading trance. You hurried out of your bed, opening the door with a sense of urgency. Only to be met with Heeseung. 

He was holding a piece of paper in his hand, sporting a grin on his face. The audacity of him. To show up to your dorm..grinning. Was it is lifes mission to torture because it sure did feel like it. The look on Heeseung’s face as you slam the door almost makes you falter. Almost. You stand there, heart racing, hands clenched into fists as you try to steady your breathing. On the other side of the door, you hear nothing at first—just silence. And then: “Wait—no. Wait.” 

A loud knock. You squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to do this. “Please, just open the door,” Heeseung says, his voice muffled. 

You shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “Go away, Heeseung.” 

“I—no. Not until you listen to me.” Another knock. Then another. “I swear I wasn’t using you.” 

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. “Oh, really? Could’ve fooled me.” 

“I mean it.” His voice is closer now, pressed right up against the door. “That night at the diner—I fucked up, okay? I was an idiot. I didn’t want the guys to know about—” He pauses. “About us.” Something about the way he says us makes your stomach twist. You hate that a part of you still wants to listen. “Why?” you ask, your voice sharper than you expect. “Why is it so humiliating to be seen with me?” 

“It’s not,” he says immediately. “That’s not—fuck. That’s not what I meant.” You don’t respond. You don’t know what to say. “Can you—” He exhales, frustration laced in his voice. “Can you at least open the door so I can look at you while I apologize?” You hesitate. Of course, you hesitate. You should just tell him to leave. He doesn’t deserve the chance to explain himself after what he did. But against your better judgement and like a complete and utter idiot, you unlock the door. 

The second it swings open, Heeseung is standing there, wide-eyed, like he wasn’t sure you’d actually do it. He looks… tired. Like he hasn’t slept in days. Slowly, he lifts the crumpled test paper in his hand. “I got a hundred” 

You glance at it, then back at him. “Good for you,” you say again, flatly. “I guess using me was worth it.” 

His jaw clenches. He rubs the back of his neck. “I know you don’t owe me anything. I just—” He shakes his head. “I panicked, okay? I thought if the guys found out about… us, they’d—” 

“They’d what, Heeseung?” You cross your arms. “Make fun of you? Say something stupid? Newsflash—people say stupid shit all the time.” He looks away. “You don’t get it.” 

“Then make me get it.” 

His hands tighten into fists. His lips press together like he’s warring with himself. “I just—I’ve spent years making sure people see me a certain way. That I’m not the same loser I was before.” You stare at him. “And you think being seen with me ruins that image?” 

His head snaps up. “No.” He steps closer, and for the first time since that awful night, his voice is softer. “That’s not what I meant.” He swallows. “You make me feel different. And that—” He shakes his head, frustrated. “That scares me.” You don’t know what to say. Because what do you do with that? What do you do with the fact that this boy, the same one who humiliated you in front of everyone, is now standing here saying things you never expected to hear? 

A lump forms in your throat. “Then maybe you should figure out what you actually want, Heeseung.” He looks at you, something raw in his expression. “I already know what I want.” But you don’t let yourself believe him. Not yet. So you step back. And this time, when you close the door, you do it gently. And you let yourself cry because that’s the only thing you can control right now. 

The next night you're curled up in bed, the soft glow of your laptop screen illuminating your face as a movie plays in the background. You’re not really watching, though. You’re just existing, letting the noise drown out your thoughts. The door swings open, and Yunjin and Soobin step inside, their laughter filling the space. Yunjin glances at you before excusing herself to the bathroom, leaving you alone with Soobin. He hesitates for a moment before sitting down on the edge of your bed. “Hey,” he says gently. “How are you doing?” 

You don’t even look away from the screen. “I’m great.” 

Soobin scoffs. “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England.” 

You sigh, finally meeting his gaze. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s trying to piece you together. His usual playful demeanor is gone, replaced with something softer. “Heeseung is a mess,” Soobin says after a moment. “He misses you. And he’s sorry.” You swallow the lump forming in your throat. You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to care. But despite yourself, a single tear slips down your cheek. 

“He used me, Soobin,” your voice cracks, and you look down at your lap. “How can I forgive him? Why would I?” Soobin sighs, shaking his head. He doesn’t hesitate when he says, “Because you love him. And he loves you.” Your breath catches. it’s so simple, so matter-of-fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he’s just waiting for you to admit it to yourself. Before you can say anything, Yunjin steps out of the bathroom, looking between the two of you. “You ready to go?” she asks Soobin. 

He nods, standing up. But before he leaves, he gives you one last look. “Just… think about it, okay?” Then, they’re gone, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You sit there long after the door closes, Soobin’s words echoing in your mind. Because you love him and he loves you. 

Your heart clenches, and you wipe at the tear on your cheek, frustrated. It shouldn’t be this hard. You shouldn’t still care this much. But the truth is—you do. You sigh, curling up tighter in your blanket. The movie playing in the background is one you’ve seen a million times, but you’re not paying attention. Your thoughts keep circling back to Heeseung. His face when you shut the door. The way his voice wavered when he admitted you scared him. 

Does he really love you? Or is this just another game to him? You don’t know. And that uncertainty terrifies you. Opening your heart up terrifies you. A soft knock pulls you from your thoughts. Your stomach twists, half-expecting it to be Heeseung, but when you open the door, it’s Sunoo. “Hey,” he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Yunjin texted me. Said you might need company.” 

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. Of course she did. Sunoo plops down next to you on the bed, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl in your lap. He watches you for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. “So. Are we wallowing or plotting revenge?” You huff out a laugh, shoving him lightly. “Neither.” 

“Boring.” He sighs dramatically, throwing himself back against your pillows. “Okay, then what’s the plan? You’re clearly miserable. And I’m pretty sure Heeseung is too.” You don’t say anything, just stare down at the popcorn in your hands. Sunoo sighs again, but this time, it’s softer. “Look, I get why you’re mad. You should be mad. But…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not close with Heeseung and I barely know him since it’s my first year, but I’ve never seen him care about anyone the way he cares about you.” 

Your chest tightens. “Then why did he treat me like that?” 

“Because he’s an idiot.” Sunoo shrugs. “And because he’s scared. But mostly because he’s an idiot.” You roll your eyes. “Not helping.” 

He nudges you. “I’m just saying… Maybe talk to him. Really talk to him.” You sigh, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know if I can trust him again.” 

Sunoo is quiet for a moment, then says, “Then make him prove that you can.” You swallow hard, his words settling into your chest like a weight. Heeseung owes you more than just an apology. Maybe if he really wants you, he’ll fight for you. And maybe you, just maybe you’ll let him. 

That weekend, Yunjin had had enough. She wasn’t about to let you wallow in self-pity any longer. “You’re coming to the game,” she announced, standing in front of your bed with her arms crossed. You groaned, pulling your blanket over your face. “Pass.” 

“Not an option.” She yanked the covers away. “You’ve spent all week moping. You need to get out.” 

“I am out,” you deadpanned. “My bed is out.” 

“Not what I meant.” She rolled her eyes. “Get dressed. Now.” Despite your protests, she wasn’t having any of it. Eventually, after an absurd amount of bribery (including the promise of ice cream after), you gave in. By the time you arrived at the arena, the energy in the air was electric—fans were buzzing with anticipation, the scent of popcorn and arena food filling your senses. The rink was already packed, the game about to start, and you felt out of place among the sea of jerseys and face paint. Yunjin, however, was thrilled, chatting with other students and cheering before the puck even dropped. You sat stiffly beside her, arms crossed, doing your best not to look at the ice—because you knew if you did, your eyes would immediately find Heeseung. 

And you weren’t ready for that. A few minutes into the game, Yunjin’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out, eyes scanning the screen before she let out a dramatic sigh. “Ugh. Soobin left his gloves in the locker room. Can you please grab them for him?” 

You turned to her with a glare. “Why can’t y—” 

“Just go do it,” she cut you off, shoving your shoulder lightly. Something about her tone made you pause. She sounded too casual. Too… calculated. You narrowed your eyes. “This feels like a setup.” 

She gasped, all mock innocence. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing?” You weren’t convinced, but the alternative was sitting here and enduring the game, so you sighed. “Fine.” 

Yunjin grinned, and you shot her one last suspicious look before heading down the corridor. The locker room hallway was eerily quiet, the distant sound of the game muffled through the walls. You pushed open the heavy door, stepping inside, expecting to see rows of empty benches and Soobin’s gloves lying somewhere in the mess of gear. instead, standing in the middle of the room, was Heeseung. Your breath caught. He looked different off the ice—less intimidating without his helmet, his hair damp with sweat, curling slightly at the ends. He was still in his jersey, the bold number on his sleeve catching the light, his hockey bag slung over one shoulder. 

And he was staring at you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was heavy, charged with everything that had been left unsaid. You clear your throat, gripping the strap of your bag tighter. “I’m just here to grab Soobin’s gloves.” Your voice is steady, indifferent. Like seeing him doesn’t completely shake you. 

Heeseung nods slowly, then gestures to the bench behind him. “They’re over there.” You walk past him, determined to just grab the gloves and leave, but as soon as your fingers curl around them, Heeseung speaks again. “You’re here.” 

You freeze, but don’t turn around. “Yunjin dragged me.” A beat of silence. Then, softer—almost hesitant—Heeseung says, “I didn’t think you’d ever want to see me again.” 

You inhale sharply, gripping the gloves tighter. Finally, you turn to face him. “You made that pretty easy when you humiliated me.” Regret flickers in his expression. “I know,” he murmurs. “I was an idiot. A complete asshole. I told you, I was scared.” 

You scoff. “Scared of what, Heeseung? That people would find out you actually cared about me? That you weren’t just some player?” 

“Yes,” he admits, and the raw honesty in his voice takes you off guard. “I was scared of how much I cared about you. Scared that you’d realize I wasn’t good enough for you.” Heeseung runs a hand through his damp hair, exhaling shakily. “I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to make you feel like you didn’t matter, because you do. You do more than you realize.” 

Your chest tightens, emotions crashing over you all at once. You want to be mad. You want to scream at him for the way he made you feel. But there’s something in his voice, in his expression—genuine remorse, vulnerability—that makes it hard to hold onto that anger. “You really hurt me, Heeseung,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He steps closer, carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll run. “I know. And I’ll spend as long as it takes making it up to you.” 

You swallow, emotions warring inside you. For a moment, neither of you move. Then, hesitantly, he reaches out—giving you the chance to pull away—but when you don’t, his fingers brush against yours, light and uncertain. “Can we just… start over?” he asks. “Please?” 

Your heart pounds. A part of you wants to walk away, to protect yourself from getting hurt again. But another part—maybe the bigger part—wants to believe him. You take a deep breath, looking into his eyes. “Okay.” 

“Okay”

@izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @dawngyu , @hyukascampfire , @saejinniestar , @notevenheretbh1 , @hwanghyunjinismybae, @ch4c0nnenh4, @kristynaaah

series taglist. (★) @saejinniestar , @vixialuvs , @slut4hee , @xylatox , @skyearby @m1kkso @jakeswifez @heartheejake @hommyy-tommy @yunverie @lalalalawon

@strayy-kidz @wolfhardbby @kwiwin @immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @starfallia @mariegalea @adoredbyjay @strxwbloody @lovingvoidgoatee @beeboobeebss @zyvlxqht @weyukinluv @flwwon

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[bullet-prooflove]

Sex, Lies and Cocaine Dreams: John Carter x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @anna-bailey @ofsoapsuds @queenslandlover-93 @gemofspace

Summary: John takes his revenge on the man that shattered your dreams.

Companion piece to:

Dreamer (NSFW) - John dreams of you when he's with someone else.

Little John - You try to keep John's mind off the task at hand.

The First One Is Always The Hardest - You comfort John after the death of a patient.

Forget-Me-Nots - John wakes up hung over in a strange bed and with an unexpected memento of the night before.

Speak Your Truth - John speaks his truth in the aftermath of a tragedy.

Trauma - John makes a realisation after his confession.

Fever - John gets more than he bargained for when he attends a friend's stag party in a Chicago Speakeasy.

Minx (NSFW) - John had no idea he had such a deviant little minx on his hands.

Always - You and John discuss the reasons behind your dancing.

Diamonds - John's friend and rival makes you an offer you can't refuse.

The Stethoscope - John's world is turned upside down when he finds your stethoscope in his locker.

Elderberry Wine - You come home to find John waiting for you.

Ryan Burkefield II’s life falls apart over the period of a week.

It starts with a seemingly random drug test before the first championship Polo game of the season. Burkey, he never gets drug tested, it’s part of an agreement he has with their coach. He likes to party the night before a big game, it helps him relax, get in the zone but somehow he ends up standing in the bathroom of the arena with his dick in his hand as an official from The United States Polo Association watches him piss into a cup.

It’s beyond humiliating.

The worst part is that when he tries to bribe the asshole for his clean urine, the man looks at him with such disdain that Burkey starts to have heart palpitations. That’s when he knows his Polo career, the thing he’s been training for his entire life, it’s over.

The news hits the sports pages the next day.

Disgraced Polo player receives a lifetime ban.

He thinks it couldn’t get much worse but two days later a new headline runs.

Sex, Lies and Cocaine Dreams: Behind The Scenes of America’s Former Polo Champion.  

It’s an exposé on him running across ten pages of the Chicago Tribune.

There’s interviews from the women he’s been with, details of his exploits, his kinks. They tell a story of perversion and coercion, of the threats he made to their positions, the money he paid for their silence.

That isn’t even the worse thing, the worse thing is the pictures. Polaroids stolen from the  private collection he keeps locked up in his safe back at his condo. They can’t show the risqué parts, they block them out with black ink but what they do show…

Well now everybody knows about the kink in his dick.

When he interrogates his housekeeper about how they managed to get hold of the images, she tells him that one of his friends stopped by to return a tennis racket. The thing is Burkey hasn’t played tennis in over six months, he’s been too busy training for the Polo championship.

It snowballs after that…

His life starts to fracture in ways he didn’t even think possible.

Jacinta publicly calls off the engagement, tossing the $500,000 ring into the lake while the paparazzi snap pictures. His speaking engagements, the charities, the schools, the sportsman’s dinners, they all dry up. Social invitations are rescinded because he’s too tainted to be around, people stop returning his calls. Shares at his father’s company start to tank because every news single cycle is a fresh scandal, a new fall from grace.

The stories from boarding school.

The hazing in college.

The tutor he paid to have an abortion because Burkey doesn’t like using condoms.

All of his secrets are laid bare for the world to see.

He has no idea why, not until the day he walks into Miller’s Men’s Club and finds Johnny Carter sitting in his seat. The other man is reading a newspaper with Burkey’s face splashed all over the front, smoking a Cohiba Behike, the same brand of cigar from the night of his bachelor party. He lowers the Tribune, blowing a plume of smoke out into the air as his dark fathomless eyes fixate on Burkey, standing there before him.

“Tomorrow Carter Equities will be buying out Burkefield Venture Capital. They’re going to carve it into pieces and sell the subsidiaries on the market for dimes on the dollar.” He stubs out his cigar in the marble ashtray before setting the newspaper down on the 200 year old mahogany table. “You see that’s the thing about new wealth, there’s no permanence, no legacy. Your father’s business will disappear and in a year’s time you won’t even be a thought at a fundraiser.”

“You did this?” Burkey croaks, his hands curling into fists. The skin across his knuckles turns white. “Why?”

“You know why.” Johnny responds, raising to his feet and picking up his coat from the back of the chair. He folds it over his arm neatly before he addresses the other man. “You hurt the person that I love most in this world. You took her dreams and you shattered them. I don’t know what the future holds for her but I’ve just made damn sure that there isn’t one for you.”

“All of this…” Burkey spits. “All of this for some stupid whore.”

“No.” Johnny snaps, the word reverberating through the quietness of the room. Heads turn towards them as he jabs his finger into Burkey’s chest. “She is not a stupid whore, she’s a woman, a woman who refused to sleep with you so you destroyed her life. Now I’m returning the favour, I’m destroying yours.”

“You can’t do that!” Burkly retorts, his voice turning shrill. “You can’t-”

“It’s too late Burkey.” Johnny cuts him off as he walks out the door. “It’s already done.”

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[azsazz]

Over Ice (Part 2)

Hockey!Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 3122

(Part 1)

_________________________________________

“When you said you got me a t-shirt,” you sigh, once again adjusting the hem of the jersey Mor provided you. Notshirt; jersey. The bottom of the Velaris Bats uniform has been trimmed—startlingly low. Or is it cut too high; you wonder with a swallowed curse. The damned thing nearly shows off your entire midriff. “I thought you meant, like, a normal fucking shirt and not whatever this is.”

Mor scoffs, shoveling a handful of popcorn into her mouth as she weaves her way through the throng of people towards your seats. Her long strides in her black heels hard to keep up with. “That is a Mor Original, and I only made it cuter,” she huffs indigently, like your discomfort is the sole inspiration behind her “designs.”

This isn’t the first time you’ve allowed Mor to pick out your outfit, but it’s definitely going to be your last, you try to remind yourself. The handful of times you’ve thought this exact thing before is laughable, and you’ve never once remembered. She’ll continue to cut the hems of shirts and alter skirts into even shorter skirts until the end of time, probably.

She’s been the crafty type since you first met her. Anything that she could add personality to was subject for a good old shot of “Mor’s Touch:” clothing, home décor, even the cocktails she mixes—which often go from something as simple as a Dirty Shirley and turning it into a cherry-passionfruit with a hint of lime drink, mixed with tonic instead of Sprite and garnished with a frilly umbrella stuck through three Maraschino cherries because “one is simply not enough.”

You agree, and you’d never admit to your eccentric roommate that it’s the most delicious drink you’ve ever had. Goes down like lemonade and has you going from a corner-stander to someone in the center of the dancefloor in two drinks flat.

You wish you had one right about now to get you through the night.

Your mind wanders to Gwyn back at the dorms, wondering what she’s going to be getting up to tonight. You don’t need to wonder, you know how your red-headed roommate prefers to spend her nights, curled up on the couch beneath a thick blanket, a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels within reach, and her laptop in her lap, creating fantasy worlds for her characters to live in some day.

A surge of pride for your roommate fills your energy tank. Sometimes people truly do find exactly what they were made for in life, and Gwyn was born to write. You’ve only read a few snippets she’s been willing to share, but you can’t fathom forming sentences the way she does, creating worlds and characters from her mind alone, seeing a vision in your mind so clear that it would be a crime not to share it with the world.

You’re not sure you’ve ever loved something that much, but Sports Medicine is pretty damn close. Psychology, is not.

You shiver as the cold of the arena hits the sliver of skin that’s exposed itself once again while you were taking a sip of your drink. Goosebumps pebble in response, coursing over the entirety of your body within seconds, causing you to shiver.

You should’ve fought Mor harder about bringing your jacket, but at least she left you sleeves, her shirt has been cut into a tank that hardly reaches the bottom of her ribs, and there’s a deep cut down the collar, creating a perfect ‘V’ that shows off her incredible tits.

You’d know, you’ve seen them before.

“Oh. My. Gosh. You two look so good,” a girl gushes, steps into you and Mor’s path, halting you from your first steps down the stairs to your seats. She’s chipper, a camera poised in her hands, the thick strap around her neck. He shiny, chestnut hair is braided into two tails, draped across her shoulders.

Behind her thin-framed glasses, her bright blue eyes sparkle with excitement as she peruses you and your roommate up and down, admiring your outfits.

“I told you,” Mor murmurs, elbowing you in the side before raising her voice to answer. “Thank you so much! I spent all day on these, and this one doesn’t appreciate my hard work at all. It’s a refreshing change of pace to hear a compliment instead of ��Mor, don’t you think this is a little too much?’” You scrunch your nose at Mor’s terrible impression of you. Too nasally, too annoying.

The photographer laughs like it’s her full-time job, and you scowl.

Way to throw me right under that speeding bus, Mor.

“Do you mind if I take your picture for the team’s social media account? You two would make a great first slide in a carousel for school spirit,” she gets this faraway look in her eyes as if she’s picturing it now. “The interaction you’d get us,” she sighs dreamily. “I might even get promoted.”

You groan internally when Mor perks up even further. “I think I love you,” she blurts, pupils heart-shaped. “Do you want to sit with us? We have an extra ticket.” She’s bought one for Gwyn, hoping she would join in on this sporty girl’s night, but your other roommate had been adamant about her dislike of the sport, and had gotten a pass while you were dressed up like a doll and dragged out of the dorm.

The girl’s laugh is like a windchime, soothing and melodic. “I wish I could, but duty calls,” she waves her camera around in answer. “Maybe I’ll catch you at one of the after parties, though. Here, you can give me your Instagram and I’ll DM you after tagging you in the photos.”

She and Mor exchange socials and names. Feyre. It’s unique and suits her well.

After adding your own Instagram on her phone, you hand the phone back, posing with Mor. Of course, knowing your roommate as you do, it’s not just one picture that Feyre takes. They’re both beaming, and one picture turns into ten. Ten poses, nine sips of your drink because you don’t know what the hell else to do. Eight frantic smiles, seven internal sighs, and six side-eyes from passerby, trying to find their seats. Five giggles from friends, four embarrassed blushes, three warnings that you are so done with this, two people ignoring you, and one announcement overhead signaling the start of the game in a few minutes.

“So nice to meet you, Feyre,” Mor calls as you begin guiding her away. You have no clue where you’re going, but any movement closer to any empty seat is better than the photoshoot you just had in the middle of the walkway. With a parting smile at the photographer, Mor continues, like she’s all for standing there all night instead of supporting her cousin on the ice. “Message me!”

“Clingy, much?” You grunt at the poke to the arm that gets you.

“Oh, come on! It’s not like I’m going to replace you,” she scoffs with a brush of her long blonde hair over her shoulder. You swear, the guys sitting in the front row swoon. “Besides, you can never have too many friends. It’s not possible.”

You’re pretty sure it is possible to have too many friends, but you keep that thought to yourself. You suppose you have one more spot in your life for a friend, but if the pictures turn out terrible and are blasted on the Bat’s Instagram, that spot might disappear. You’re already feeling mortified enough from the public display of taking photos.

“Yeah, yeah,” is what you decide to go with. “Now, where are our seats?”

“I don’t like the look of that,” you mutter wearily, squinting to see what’s happening on the ice. You might not know anything about hockey, but you know malicious intent when you see it. It’s in the way that the Penguin’s player leans closer to the Bat’s center, nudging his shoulder as he speaks, his slimy grin growing with each jab.

The game’s been fun so far, much to your surprise. The crowd surrounding you is all for the team, chanting songs that you need to learn immediately because they’re so much fun. The music that blasts around the stadium during every break is on-point, not too old of songs and not too overplayed like at the one football game you’d been dragged to last year (also by Mor, but not because of a family member on the team, because of an entirely different member.)

“Is that my cousin?” She asks, brown eyes sharp as she examines the players. Their fronts are to you, no seeing the names painted across the back of their jerseys. You refrain from mentioning how Mor should at least know her own cousin’s number—since their written on the sleeves—but you keep that thought to yourself when her red painted nails tighten around the box of popcorn, crushing the flimsy cardboard. The strain of the muscle in her jaw matches the boy on the ice’s, you notice with a fleeing glance at your roommate.

Tension coils your gut. You find your fingers wrapping around the edge of the seat you’re perched in, gripping the bleachers so tightly that you swear you feel the cool metal warming and warping.

You’re not the only two who have noticed the shift in the moods of the players on the ice, parts of the crowd are beginning to rise from their seats, cheering growing from a low rumble to a thunder of screams, caws, and jeering.

The puck is barely a millimeter from the referee’s hand before sticks are thrown to the ice, gloves following as the two players slowly begin to circle each other. It looks like something out of an animal documentary: two predators about to snap at each other’s throats in a fight for the territory.

The anticipation of them going blow for blow lights a fire deep within your belly, your core perking up for attention.

You shouldn’t be thinking like this, shouldn’t get getting turned on by the idea of two boys about to knock each other’s teeth out. Should be thinking about your best friend’s cousin like this at all.

Shooting a guilty glance at your roommate, you breathe a soft sigh of relief that’s swallowed by the shouts of the crowd when you see that Mor hasn’t picked up on your sudden shift in mood—both mentally and physically.

All the players on the ice slide back to make room for the brawl that’s about to break out and a sick feeling bubbles in your stomach, almost overpowering the arousal as you wonder why no one is attempting to stop them.

There isn’t time to voice your concern, isn’t time to do anything except bolt to your feet with a gasp so harsh it sears your lungs when the Penguin’s player is the first to swing. Your heart is lodged in your throat, your breathing holding in your throat as you watch in anticipation. He lashes out with a curled fist so fast that by the time you blink, it’s over.

His hit doesn’t land.

There’s no time to feel the relief trying to rush through your veins because the Bat’s center is retaliating, throwing himself forward after swiftly dodging the attack. He grabs the other boy by the collar of his ice blue uniform and hauls him into his closed fist.

His opponents helmet goes flying off with the snap of his head backwards. He stumbles, but manages to stay upright, snagging a handful of the Bat’s jersey to try and steady himself.

You look to the benches flanking the ice, wondering why no one is joining the fray. It’s now that you realize it’s not that they don’t want to help their teammate who is quickly ducking away from another fist, it’s because they can’t.

There’s a boy standing nonchalantly, hazel eyes pinned on the scene before him. He looks eager almost, leaning so casually against his stick, chin propped on the edge of it like he’s watching the newest action movie from the best spot in the house.

Even the goalie seems to be unconcerned, taking the few moments he has to take a swig of water and adjust his helmet, squatting low and shooting side to side in his box, as if trying to keep limber for when the game resumes.

One of the refs is attempting to hold back a burly boy who seems much too large to be skating at all. His helmet has also been shucked off, revealing long, shoulder length wet hair that clings to his face and neck like a bee on honey. His gloves are abandoned on the ice too, and his stick has skidded to a stop upon hitting the sideboards nearby. You can’t make out the words he’s shouting, but with the feral grin you make out, you know they’re fighting words. With each bark he seems to be inching closer, like the full-grown man in the stripes trying to hold him back is nothing more than a soft breeze, and his is a twister barreling right through.

When he shakes his head, you catch sight of a bloodthirsty grin that has a shiver sliding up your spine. He’s enjoying this?

“Mor,” your worry tries to escape, only for the words to stick in your throat as more noises join the fight, loud as gunshots. Both the Bat’s and the Penguin’s players are rapping their hockey sticks against the boards separating their benches from the ice, war cries falling from their lips.

They’re all enjoying this.

“That is my cousin,” Mor screeches, her perfectly plucked brows pulled tight as she tries finally makes out the number on the back of the jersey that’s gripped so tightly in the offending players grip that you’re pretty sure the stitches are popping with the force. “Kick his fucking ass, Rhys!”

Casting a frantic look to your roommate, you realize that not even she seems to be fazed by the fact that her cousin is in the middle of a fight that could very seriously end badly, especially with the knives on the bottoms of their feet.

But, if everyone’s rooting for their player to win this battle, you can too.

As gruesome as the scene before you is, you wish you had a better seat, somewhere with a better viewpoint than all the way on the other side of the ice. You can’t to be able to hear the threats they’re growling at each other, your attention completely enraptured now that you’ve shoved your worry to the wayside.

With his newfound hold, the Penguin’s player strikes again, and this time, his hit slams across Rhys’ jaw. His head snaps to the side with the nasty hook and his helmet slips to the ice, the sound eaten up by the goading of the crowd.

They swing around, unsteady on their skates as each of the boys tries to topple the other over. You catch a glance at his face. It’s hard to see, and his shaggy black hair is splayed across his face like a spiderweb, keeping you from making out his features. You catch the blood dribbling down his chin, the anger etched in the clench of his jaw as he grits his teeth, managing to twist himself into a position where he has the upper hand on the Penguin’s player: a headlock.

Your heart thunders in your chest as you watch Rhys pound his fist into the other boy’s face once, twice, three times before his opponent’s feet fall out from under him. Rhys releases his hold, allowing the boy to slip lamely to the ice.

“Atta boy, Rhysie,” Mor shouts, once again shoveling popcorn into her mouth with a grin so bright it could melt the ice in the rink before you. She turns to you, golden brown of her eyes glowing with excitement. “Our parents would be so proud.”

She turns back to the scene before you can voice your confusion on that statement, tucking away the information that if you win a fight in hockey, it’s a great accomplishment.

You watch Rhys as he’s escorted by referees who guide him towards the penalty box. He’s examining his knuckles, not caring that he’s abandoning his equipment as he goes, grimacing as the adrenaline begins to fade. He pokes at them, frowning at whatever he feels.

You pray they’re not broken.

The rest of the players seem to be getting back to the game, like one of their teammates isn’t being casted away on an island across the ice. Okay, so it’s just another bench and he’s not that far from them, but you’re shocked that this is the end of the fight, both players carted into separate timeout boxes away from their teams.

Rhys plops down on the bench, pulling a water bottle from a hidden holder, washing the blood from his knuckles before examining them for a second time. You watch him flex his fingers, twist his wrist this way and that. You can’t seem to keep your eyes off him, even with the game picking back up and Mor shouting cheers when the Bat’s manage to steal the puck right from the drop, carting it down the ice with a speed that rivals a racecar.

He must be satisfied with his examination because Rhys is throwing his head back, and it’s almost as if he’s squirting the water from the bottle directly onto you with the way that the apex of your thigh’s wet at the sight of him. He sips the water, holding the bottle a few inches from his face, and you watch the water cascade down his chin and over his throat, bobbing with each swallow. It mixes with the blood from his split lip and slides into the collar of his gear.

You swallow harshly, suddenly parched.

When he’s had his fill of the drink, he moves the bottle further back, using the spray to wash his hair away from his face, and your breathing shallows. It’s as if the hand he’s using to squeeze the life out of the bottle is constricting around your throat, because suddenly, you recognize the sharp of that jaw, the curve of those eyebrows and the straight of his nose. All his angular features come together in the perfect picture of hotness, knocking the breath fully from your chest when he straightens his chin, looking out onto the ice to watch his teammates score the last goal of the second period.

He's the boy from this morning: the overachiever, the one who called you darling.

Mor’s cousin.

Rhysand Cunningham.

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

@saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofbatboydreams @mrsjna @velarisdusk @bionic-donut @tenshis-cake @eleganttravelercloud @lilah-asteria @serena05 @bwormie @soph1644 @house-husband-of-castlemurdock @tothestarsandwhateverend @topaz125

[twstfanblog]

Hey :3 I have another request :3 sorry I'm just a big ass Silver simp and I'm starved for content :3

Anyways! You know how Silver hates to be idle? Like that's his pet peeve, and I can't sit the fuck still ever- so!

SWORD TRAINING DATE 🗣️🗣️🗣️ 🔥🔥🔥

My brothers have some weird hobbies so I have held a sword before so it's not like I'm getting knocked on my ass right out the gate, but like... I'm still getting knocked on my ass cause like- Intermediate swordsman vs Trained Knight of Malleus Draconia, Son of General Vanrouge ™... Yeah there's a clear winner there and it ain't me.

But yeah. SWORD FIGHTING DATE 🗣️🗣️🗣️🔥🔥🔥 WITH INAPPROPRIATE AMOUNTS OF SEXUAL TENSION 🗣️🗣️🗣️🔥🔥🔥 IDK MAN THERE'S JUST SOMETHING ABOUT SWORDS AND HIM AND HIM WITH A SWORD THAT JUST FUCKING GETS ME🗣️🗣️🗣️🔥🔥🔥

Thank you <3

Sword Courting

Silver x Reader

Sword training was a chore, a recreational activity, and as simple as breathing to Silver. Once his father had deemed him ready to hold a wooden blade with some type of grace, he'd been training. It was only an added bonus that he didn't fall asleep as easily when he and Sebek practiced.

But, while he was tutored heavily in the blade, he wasn't sure how effective he'd be as a teacher.

Silver checked over the wooden tool, making sure the handle was properly covered with the cotton stripes, "Are...you sure about this? I'm in full support of you learning proper technique for self defense reasons, but am I the right one to teach you?"

The prefect smiled from across the practice area, still stretching in a warm-up routine, "I mean, I couldn't think of anyone better! Unless you mean to have Sebek or Lilia teach me-"

"No, this is for the best."

"Wow, not even a moment to defend your dad..."

"I love you and believe in your abilities. But, I am sure you'd die from my father's training methods..."

The prefect smiled dryly, walking over to take the sword from Silver's hands, "Thank you for the vote of confidence..."

"I just..." Silver looks away, his face a mixture of bashful and pensive, "I don't want you harmed..."

"..." The prefect smiled, leaning over to press a kiss Silver's cheek before walking away, "Don't worry! I'm much tougher than I look." They turned around, wooden sword in hand and moving to mimic a stance they've seen Sebek do, "Now, let's get started!"

Silver corrected their stance before grabbing his own wooden sword and standing opposite of them. He guided them, showing simple swings and block moves before he moved closer.

"Ok. We'll start simple. Use the moves I demonstrated and we will work to more complex moves as we go."

" Got it!"

What followed could barely be counted as a spar between babies. The dull clicks of wood gently tapping wood as Silver lack lusterously blocked and swung his blade. While he had sacrificed his normal battle mindset to keep the lesson safe, the prefect had grown more annoyed at seeing just how much he was holding back.

When Silver went to swing his sword, instead of blocking, the prefect swung their sword to hit Silver on the forearm. Their attack proving too harsh in their frustration, the resulting clack of Silver's sword moving to block was enough to make both of their eyes widen.

"...Um...I think it best we stick to basics-"

CLACK

The prefect moved again, this time thrusting their sword forward to his stomach only to have it quickly slashed away. Working on pure muscle memory, Silver moved to attack back with more force.

The once dull and rhythmic clicks had turned into a rapidly off-beat assortment of sounds of wooden swords clashing and chest-heavy grunts. Even with the prefect being the clear aggressor of the two, almost chasing Silver around the arena, the knight was stone-faced. He'd let the stray grunt slip past his lips, but his movements almost effortlessly blocked their swings. He couldn't place why the racing of his heart felt so different from normal training, why the sound of the prefect's panting made something in his brain rattle against a cage he never knew was there.

As they lock eyes, the prefect suddenly close enough to grab unto the collar of his shirt, a desperate attempt to stop his elusions. Silver wasn't entirely sure what happened. But the now enormous cage within his mind rattled his very bones and he moved without thinking.

He gripped the prefect by the collar, lifting them off of their feet and over his head. Slamming them to the ground and pinning them beneath him. The two of them staring into each other's eyes as they gave ragged and gasping breaths. As his breathing evened out, he finally took notice of their position. Him straddling their hips, one of his knees pressed against their inner thigh with a hand balled into a fist and pressed in the area between their visible collarbone and sweat-laced throat.

Blushing, Silver blinked and pulled away, but didn't release the prefect's shirt, "Sorry...Sorry, I got carried away. I might have thrown you too hard, are you hurt-"

"Silver, I don't know where this is going, but I am ok with it."

"..." Silver felt the blush on his face darken, the prefect looking into his eyes with an almost hungry intent. He briefly looked to the side before looking back to them, "Where...Where are we going?"

"I don't know, but if you throw me like that again, we're gonna find out."

[marvelstars]

TPM

The phantom menace movie is so important not just because of Palpatine´s conspirations but because it shows exactly what were the systemic failures that allowed for Palpatine to get so much power, it´s very important for the plot of the prequels even if it wasn´t appreciated at the time.

Queen Amidala appeals to the laws of the republic to help free her world from an illegal invasion and the only answer she gets is that they will discuss it in a comitte because they are not even sure she is telling the truth while at the same time the Federation is putting her people in camps. This leads to her accepting Palpatine´s counsel to nominate him to become Chancellor and use what little power she has on the Senate as a Planetary leader to call for a vote of no confidence on Valorum, who was actually the only one who helped her by sending the Jedi because he was totally unable to help her in his own arena of the Senate. He only could help her going behind the system not using the system.

The Senate could have chosen to listen to Padme and help Naboo, they didn´t, it was a mid rim world of little importance to core worlds so their problems were added to the agenda for when they could have time.

Fans forget Anakin wasn´t in canon the only one who criticized the republican system, Queen Amidala goes back to her planet telling Palpatine she hopes he can do something to bring back sense into the republic because it was failing.

This is central to the plot.

This scene is connected to Anakin being rejected by the Jedi Order not because he wasn´t skilled enough or because there was something bad with his character, it was because of his age and because he worried about his mother, a slave living in a world run by slavers with a bomb inside her body that could go off at any point in time.

Anakin´s fears for his mother were not irrational, they were logical and understable, the Jedi could have still rejected Anakin and help free his mother if only in thanks for services done in favor of the Order by giving asylum to a Jedi Master during one of his missions if doing the right thing wasn´t enough motivation.

The Jedi Order choose to ignore Shmi´s situation and accept Anakin only after he showed the magnitude of his skills in the force, not because of the good he did for Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan and Naboo without expecting anything back, Anakin did it because it was the right thing to do but this clearly wasn´t the reason why he was accepted as a Jedi, bad beggining for a difficult training with a child who was a former slave with the scars to show it and then the Council agreed to send him to someone without any previous experience as a master, as a favor for a knight and in honor of one of their fallen comrades not because he was the best possible teacher for a future Jedi.

Neither Anakin or Shmi fate were of importance to the Jedi which also lead to them allowing Palpatine to tutor Anakin since he was a child, because what does it matter? Anakin is the outsider, he needs to fit himself into the Jedi Order´s mold, not the other way around.

Would they have been so careless with other padawans of their order, letting them be teached by a politician who pressured them to allow confidencial contact with them? or this kind of negligence was just part of Anakin´s particular situation?, I hope for the good of those padawans this isn´t the case with them and even if it isn´t, they are still treating Anakin differently, just in a negative manner.

Those two plot points are the direct link to ROTS but they are often ignored by the fandom, a shame because this is point a that leads to point b and c, AOTC and ROTS.

The fight, the battle of the fates, was fought in TMP and the Republic and the Jedi Order lost it, they just didn´t realize it at the time.

[lecsainz]

DATING WITH JACK

parings: jack hughes x girlfriend!reader

summary: how I think it would be to date jack

authors note: I'm going to start writing about hockey, so if you have any requests, feel free to send them.

✩. . . masterlist !

You and Jack met at a local coffee shop in New Jersey. You didn't really follow hockey, so you had no idea who he was. He noticed you and tried to hide, thinking you might be a fan, but you just thought he was being shy.

When he finally mustered the courage to strike up a conversation, you didn't recognize him, and we had an awkward exchange about our favorite coffee flavors. Jack was pleasantly surprised that you wasn't starstruck.

Our first date was at a local art gallery, as you was more into art than sports. Jack, wanting to impress you, did some quick research on famous artists, which led to some amusing mispronunciations of artists' names.

Jack and you tried to keep our relationship low-key, given his status as a professional athlete. We enjoyed quiet evenings at home and occasionally attended games where you'd pretend to be just another fan.

Jack becomes your personal hockey tutor, explaining the rules and strategies. You start to attend games regularly, and your interest in the sport grows.

You and Jack enjoy watching movies and cooking together on your off days. He's a huge fan of your homemade dishes.

You support Jack in his career, even if it means traveling for away games. You become a true Devils fan and proudly wear his jersey in the stands.

He teaches you the basics of ice skating, and you share cute moments on the rink, occasionally falling but always laughing.

On off-days, you both enjoy exploring the beautiful parks and beaches along the Jersey Shore.

Jack's teammates adore you, and you've become a regular at team gatherings, where you've made friends in the hockey world.

You've introduced Jack to some of your favorite non-hockey hobbies, like hiking, cooking, and binge-watching TV series.

He's always there to comfort you after a tough day, and you support him through the highs and lows of his hockey career.

You two have a playful rivalry in mini-hockey games at home, and Jack swears you have a hidden talent for slapshots.

Date nights often involve watching classic hockey games together or attending charity events to give back to the community.

You've traveled together to see other NHL arenas, making it a goal to visit every one over the years.

[nadvs]

the power play (part four)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

< prev

Rafe is at his best right before a game. His blades hit the ice, cold air fills his lungs, and for the next two hours, he needs to focus on only one thing: winning.

He circles the rink in line with his team, a quick warm-up before the visitors come on. The crowd’s cheers echo across the arena as he rips past the far penalty box, looking through the glass to see if you followed his advice to start coming to games again.

You did. He catches your smile, and his jersey on you, as he races by. He’s sure you’ve been even more chipper lately. If that’s possible.

You’d texted him after you woke up in his bed a few days ago: I bumped into Beck on my way out and he doesn’t approve of our relationship lol

He responded: Told you

He hasn’t heard from Emma, but at least he knows this act he’s putting on with you is affecting her. She wouldn’t have been looking over so much the other night if it wasn’t.

And if she was telling you the truth, that she still likes coming to games, she’s probably in the stands right now, watching him. She must still care, at least a little.

His grip on his stick tightens when he remembers that she left that frat party with another guy. And because the universe has a vendetta against him, he catches her in the spotty crowd, with that same guy’s arm around her.

He grits his teeth, rage rushing through him. He’ll just have to lay it on thicker with you and make it real obvious how much happier he is without her.

════════

“How are things going with you and Rafe?” Lyla asks, gently squeezing your arm as you sit together in the stands.

“Good,” you say, your eyes following Beck as he glides across the ice. You wish you could gush to her about how bothered he seemed to see you leaving Rafe’s room.

“Moving pretty fast if you’re already wearing his jersey,” she chuckles. “He’s nicer than I expected.”

You have to stifle a laugh. In front of Lyla, Rafe managed to come off as kind of a sweetheart.

“There’s a lot more to him than he lets on,” you respond. And you mean it. Although he has an aggressive exterior, you’ve seen glimpses of softness, of depth.

“He treats you well?” she asks.

You smile at her, appreciative that she’s looking out for you, ashamed that you’re lying about what you and Rafe really are.

“He does,” you say.

════════

From the moment the horn signals the start of the game, you tell yourself to watch who you’re meant to be here for – your supposed boyfriend.

Within minutes, it’s not a conscious decision anymore. You can’t take your eyes off of him, even if you tried.

Rafe is in another element. He doesn’t lose focus for a second. He sharply intercepts passes and doesn’t hesitate to throw himself where he needs to go. He’s fearless, giving and taking hits like he’s indestructible.

As you watch him and think about all that’s happened between you since he walked into that study room, you realize he’s not who you thought he was when you met him.

Emma was right about a few things, but the man is nowhere near pathetic. He’s not a trainwreck.

He’s complicated, and he hates it about himself, because the way he looked at you when he called himself fucked up the other night is something you can’t forget.

Near the end of the first period, Rafe is sent to the penalty box for cross-checking. He skates to the box with a scowl and sits on the bench to frustratingly tap his stick against the floor.

Scattered knocks rattle the glass behind him and he looks over his shoulder to see you’re trying to get his attention.

You’re pressing up your phone against the glass to show him a note on your screen, a reminder of his joke from the night at the bar.

Penalty Count is typed at the top, with 1 :( underneath it.

His anger dissipates, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk as his eyes dart up to yours from behind his helmet’s visor.

You’re wearing a bright smile and for the first time since he started playing hockey, he doesn’t entirely hate sitting in the penalty box.

════════

You walk into the study room the next day to see Rafe in his usual seat.

“You’re here already,” you tease, shutting the door behind you.

“You’re late,” he murmurs as he scrolls on his phone.

“No, you’re early.” You settle in your seat. “You must really love my company.”

He scoffs, but doesn’t deny it.

Truthfully, you’ve been looking forward to seeing him again. Even when he’s tightly wound, which is most of the time, you’re starting to enjoy being with Rafe.

You have a suspicion that he’s starting to enjoy being with you, too.

“So…?” you ask, eyes on the novel sitting in front of him. “What’d you think?”

“It was fine,” he says.

“Big deal coming from you,” you say. “Do you like reading yet?”

“No,” Rafe responds abruptly. “This one just wasn’t as boring. Things actually happen.”

“True,” you say, feeling triumphant nonetheless. “Have you checked your grades lately?”

He shakes his head. You pop open his laptop and see that the first essay you worked on together has been graded.

“An A,” you say happily. Rafe doesn’t know the last time he hit an A. He coasts on B’s and C’s and it’s been enough. “That’s amazing. See what happens when you apply yourself?”

“Alright, relax,” he says, although admittedly, telling Coach about this is going to feel really good.

You smile and shrug, then open the folder of essays you’ve worked on together. You tap on the most recent one to see a full page of small paragraphs.

“You liked the book and you wrote a whole page?”

“Didn’t say I liked it,” Rafe clarifies.

You start to look over his work. He usually finds quotes and very obviously pastes their meanings from online study guides, but at least he’s starting to put time and effort into it.

“I can tell you put more work in,” you say. You read over an excerpt near the end.

“There are times in life when the most comfortable thing is to do nothing at all.” Conway says this to the other travelers so they get used to a situation they can't change.

“This part has a lot of potential,” you say, pointing to the paragraph. “The discussion question is about how Conway’s personality affects his quest, so this would be a good point to work from. Can you relate to it?”

“To what?”

“To his adaptability,” you say.

“No.”

“So…” You tap your fingers. “The opposite? You’d say you’re not adaptable?”

He shrugs, guarded and distant.

You gaze at him curiously. You don’t even try to do it, but you do; you tug at his strings, all while smiling at him in that frustratingly pretty way.

“I think you are,” you observe. “You got used to these sessions pretty quickly. You obviously didn’t want to be tutored, and you really didn’t want to read, but you’re doing it. You could’ve been way more stubborn.”

Rafe glances down at the closed book. He never thought of himself that way. He’s always just noticed the flaws, the gaps. Maybe you’re right. Maybe he handles change better than he thought.

The same rush he felt at that frat party hits him. You stared at him in a way that made him think he was seconds away from being seen for who he really is. And you’re doing it again.

“It’s ‘cause you nag so much,” he says dismissively.

“Yeah, but you listen to my nagging,” you laugh. “I’m serious. Give yourself some credit. You could write about it for the reflection portion.”

You direct your attention back to the laptop.

Rafe looks at you again, watching you read, and he realizes that he can’t remember the last time someone pointed out something good about him the way that you just did.

════════

Near the end of the hour, you’re almost done the assignment. You glance at the time, sit up in your cushioned seat, and save the file.

“Try to finish this before the next session and then we can give it a final edit,” you say as you shut the laptop and slide it towards Rafe. “And start the next book if you can. It’s a good one.”

You hand him a paperback.

“I know the championship starts the weekend after next and it’s going to be midterm season,” you continue. “You’re going to be really busy. I’m here to support you, but I’m not writing anything for you.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, already well-versed with your I’m not doing work for you spiel. He turns to put the book in his bag, but you stop him.

“Wait. I have an idea. Can you pretend to read that real quick?” You pull your phone out of your pocket and tap the camera. “Girls post their boyfriends, right?”

After your encounter with Beck in the hallway, you’ve been riding a high. For whatever reason, he cares that you’re with Rafe. It’s given you a sense of power you’ve never felt. And it makes you want to test just how much you can get to him.

“Does it have to be me reading?” Rafe asks flatly.

“Your love for literature is what made me fall for you,” you fawn.

Rafe frowns, but he gives in. He opens the book and pretends to focus on a page, giving you the opportunity to snap a photo that looks candid. You type a heart into the caption and post it to your story.

“I wonder if Beck will watch it,” you murmur. “Or even care.”

“He will. He’s been shootin’ me looks since he saw you leave my room.”

You still.

“How did you not tell me this?” you say.

Rafe scoffs, “You already know he’s jealous.”

You don’t match his confidence, letting out a short hmph as you start to pack up your things.

“He could just be worried about me,” you mumble. “As a friend.”

“What the hell is there to worry about?”

You don’t want to tell him what Beck said, that he called Rafe intense. He would easily clue in that he didn’t mean it as a compliment.

“Not worried,” you say. “Confused. I just… I spent years getting my hopes up over him and I don’t want to keep doing it. I don’t know if he’s jealous, but I want him to think I’ve moved on.”

“For the tenth time, he’s jealous,” Rafe states, swinging his backpack over his shoulder as he stands. “You’re smart. You should know that.”

“Smart?” you beam. “That’s the first nice thing you’ve said about me.”

“And the last,” he says before he steps out of the room. He paces away slower than usual to make sure he hears you laugh.

You finish packing up and check your phone again. It’s satisfying to see that Beck already viewed your story, minutes after you posted it. You never knew a lie could feel this good.

════════

Two nights later, you’re at the campus arena for the last home game before the championship, sitting next to Lyla behind the net. As you expected, it’s harder to get good seats now that more spectators are attending.

The game is in full swing as you chat with your best friend about her upcoming joint birthday party. When you’d first talked about it a couple of months ago, you were excited to go back to her and Beck’s childhood home, which always felt like your childhood home, too, and to see all your old friends from high school.

You remember daydreaming about the party when Lyla had told you about it, and the way you’d wondered if by then, Beck would’ve asked you to be his girlfriend.

The more you’ve distanced yourself, the sadder you are that you hinged so much hope on him. It’s a painful wave every time, remembering the wasted years.

“My mom accidentally spoiled my present,” Lyla says, showing you a photo of a bracelet on her phone with a string of texts from her mother below it, frantically saying that she meant to send that to her dad.

“Oh, no,” you laugh. “It’s really pretty, though.”

“It is. I’m going to pretend I didn’t see it,” she says. “Are you still driving up with us? Or did you want to come with Rafe? My parents would love to meet him.”

“They know?”

Just a few days ago, you were proud of how convincing you’ve been, but the thought of the lie spreading to Lyla and Beck’s parents overshadows any satisfaction, making your stomach cold with guilt.

“My mom asked about you,” she replies. “I told her you’ve been seeing someone. You should bring him.”

Even though this is what you both agreed to, the thought of dragging Rafe to a party and surrounding him with strangers he’s expected to fool feels unfair.

He’d loathe every second. And you’re not sure how well you could lie to the people you grew up with that this brooding, prickly man has stolen your heart.

But not having Rafe with you when Beck’s around is more daunting than ever. You want to look secure. Happy. And it’d feel good for all your high school friends to see how hot your new boyfriend is.

And you should probably stop thinking about Rafe as hot.

“I don’t know,” you reply, looking out at the ice again, unsure if he’ll agree.

“Well, the invitation stands,” she says. “I’m not done vetting him.”

“I’ll see what he says,” you say with a laugh.

The seconds tick closer to the end of the last period. The opponents charge down the ice, a final effort to tie up the game and head into overtime.

Rafe is quick on his skates, ready to take on the charge, but when he gains possession of the puck, an opposing player rapidly checks him from the side.

He slams into the wall and drops to the ground. He’s not doing what he always does; he’s not getting back up, shoving the guy who shoved him.

You’re standing without even realizing you made the effort to, trying to see his face as his teammates and the referee surround him.

“What just happened?” Lyla says.

“Rafe got knocked down,” you answer, not expecting the tremble in your voice. “Really hard.”

Moments later, he stands, keeping his head down as the referee leads him off the ice. The collision was bad enough that he needs to leave. Worry wrings out your insides.

“I hope he’s okay,” she says.

You nod, your heart pounding loud, so loud that you can’t hear anything else going on around you.

════════

You’d normally hang out with Lyla after a game, but you can’t ignore the worry sitting in the pit of your stomach. You tell her you’ll stay at the arena to make sure Rafe is alright, and meet her at her dorm after.

You’re standing outside the double doors that lead into the home team’s block, the volume in the main hall starting to slowly drop as spectators pool out. Every time the doors squeak open, you’re disappointed when you see it’s not him.

When you eventually meet Beck’s eyes, sorrow and happiness cling to you, a confusing mix of all the things he’s made you feel over the years.

“Hey,” you say, your voice thin as he comes through the doors. “Is he okay?”

“He was just getting checked out,” Beck tells you. His eyes drift down for a moment, no doubt noticing Rafe’s jersey on you. “He should be out soon.”

Your eyes widen in relief when you spot Rafe pushing through the door, his duffle bag hanging from his shoulder, his hair damp and messy.

You step towards him and for the first time, the embrace you give him isn’t for show. It’s genuine.

“That guy was an asshole,” you say, your cheek pressed against his chest as he leans over to meet you halfway in the hug. His hand glides over the small of your back. “He didn’t have to slam into you that hard.”

“Stupid’s a bad word, but you can say asshole?” Rafe mumbles.

You snort a laugh and pull back. Rafe notices Beck, the reason you’re touching him like this, watching from behind you.

“Did it hurt?” you ask.

“No,” he lies, his shoulder still throbbing, his pride too loud to silence. “Just came outta nowhere.”

“Did they find anything they’re worried about?” you ask. “A concussion or…?”

Rafe notices that Beck steps away, his lips in a tight line, looking like he just realized he isn’t a part of this conversation, clueless to the fact that it’s only happening because he’s there.

“No,” Rafe answers. He leans a little closer, his gaze sweeping past your shoulder. “He left.”

Your brows pull together in confusion.

“I’m not here for him.”

Rafe stares down at you. Your words, and how simply you said them, tighten the knot in his chest.

He’s still trying to catch up with everything that happened in the last half hour, so the unwelcome confusion of why his legs are suddenly weak, of why an unexpected thrill is consuming him when you look up at him like that, just adds to the chaos in his mind.

“It was nothing,” he finally says.

You take in his tense expression. It’s like he’s in shock that you care so much. You thought by now he knew. Did he think you didn’t mean it when you said you wanted to be friends?

“Okay,” you say. “So, I may have spiralled a little, but in my defense, that was scary. If you were concussed, I really would have to do your work for you.”

Rafe doesn’t understand how you make him smile before he even realizes it’s happening. It’s alarming at this point.

“Good game,” you tell him. “Other than that one part.”

He’s stuck in place as he watches you walk away with his last name draped across your back.

════════

It’s Monday evening and the campus dining hall is growing busier as you finish up your dinner. Your eyes travel over the words in your book, blocking out the noise around you.

When you stand to pack up, you see a figure approach from the corner of your eye. You look up and recognize her. Emma’s friend, Gabby offers a disingenuous smile.

“Hey,” you say, the word coming out like a question.

“Hi,” she replies flatly, not nearly as friendly as she was when you first met her a few weeks ago. She tucks her hair behind her ear, fidgeting before she speaks again. “Are you and Rafe really a thing?”

You can’t imagine she’s asking to satisfy her own curiosity. Emma must want to know, too. And you’re prepared to lie through your teeth.

“Yeah,” you say. “Why?”

“Were you waiting for them to break up or something?” she asks with a chuckle devoid of any real amusement.

You realize she must think you’d had your sights set on Rafe while he was in a relationship, swooping in once he was single.

“I didn’t know they were together until I met you guys,” you say. “And the first time I even talked to him was the day after that.”

“He was begging for her back like, two nights before then,” she reminds you, the implication heavy. You knew this was a risk going into it. You look like his rebound.

“Yeah, but then he met me,” you say with a soft laugh.

“Lucky you,” Gabby scoffs.

Rafe had confided in you about how much it bothered him that his ex’s friends never approved of him. If you weren’t sure you truly cared about him, you are now. Agitation pricks at you. You have no desire to be nice to this girl.

You collect the rest of your things, disinterested in carrying on the conversation. Regardless, you need to play your part, to act careless and confident. But she doesn’t leave.

“How could you want him after what Emma said?” Gabby mutters.

“Most people would say the kind of stuff she did after a messy break-up,” you reply with a nonchalant shrug.

“What does he say about her?”

“He doesn’t bring her up,” you lie.

Every word will get back to Emma. You remind yourself of what Rafe said when you first agreed to do this. Make it look like we’re better off without them.

“He did say once that now he can see what it’s like to actually be happy with someone,” you say, “but that’s it.”

Gabby’s visibly irritated, saying nothing else before she walks away.

You text Rafe the moment she’s out of your sight: Your ex’s friend just asked me how serious our relationship is

He replies almost instantly: What did you say

You tell him that you’re on your way to your dorm room if he wants to talk in person. He tells you he’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

════════

Rafe’s still frustrated that the team’s physical therapist told him he needs to skip practice for the next week, which benches him for the first championship game.

He’s even more frustrated that his shoulder keeps radiating in pain, days after he took that hit on the ice. He’s been hurt countless times before, but an injury has never bothered him for this long. And never right before such an important stretch of games.

So, hearing that something’s going right, that Emma must’ve sent her friend to you to get information, gives him the boost he needed.

You answer your door with the bright smile that’s seemingly always on your face.

“Boyfriend!” you say happily. “Come in.”

He sighs to feign annoyance, but his smile gives him away. He walks into your dorm room and sits in your desk chair.

“So, turns out we’re really good at this,” you tell him, settling on your bed with a bounce. “I ran into Gabby and she was all like, are you really with him? And I was like, yeah, and then she implied that I waited for you guys to break up to swoop in on you.”

“What a joke,” he chuckles.

“And she asked me if you’ve talked about Emma. I said you only said that now you can see what it’s like to actually be happy.”

He flashes an impressed grin. Emma will hate hearing that. After everything she’s done to him, it’s a win to know that this will mess with her.

“I take it that was a good answer?” you ask.

“No shit,” he laughs. He scratches his jaw, eyes glimmering with amusement. “Anything else?”

“Not really.”

Rafe’s stomach twists when your eyes dart away.

“No?” he says, a note of accusation in his tone.

You’d already decided that you wouldn’t echo the cruel things his ex said, how she’d laughed over the fact that he called her in tears. There’s no point in kicking him when he’s down.

But there’s also no point in being dishonest. He’s either great at calling you out on your bullshit or you’re terrible at lying to him or it’s a winning combination of the two.

“She seemed confused that I wanted to date you after I heard what Emma said about you,” you relent. “And before you ask, I already told you I won’t repeat it.”

Rafe stiffens, a palpable shift in his demeanor, his mood turning on a dime right in front of you. You’re used to it by now.

“Just be straight with me,” he says.

“It’s not important,” you reply. “She obviously got her friend to talk to me. That’s what matters.”

Rafe sharply whispers your name, his voice dripping with irritation as he rubs his forehead.

“What?” you sigh.

“I bet whatever she said to you was shit she already said to me before.”

“So, then what’s the point of me saying it?”

“Why are you being like this?” he asks sharply, his face contorted in frustration, his blue eyes hard with anger.

You cross your arms, blinking slowly. You won’t fight his fire with your own. He’s brokenhearted and you know how fragile it feels to be in that state, because you’ve been living in it yourself for far too long.

And you refuse to tell him something that would just hurt and embarrass him.

“You’re done with her, right?” you say. “You don’t need to hang onto her words. It’s for your own good.”

Rafe shakes his head again, knees bouncing as he stares at the floor.

It’s infuriating that you think you know what’s best for him. You have no idea what his fights with Emma were like. He can stomach what she said about him and he hates that you think he can’t. As if he’s weak.

He’s gotten this far in his life without anyone trying to protect him like you are right now, and the last thing he needs is your pity. He’s already had a rough day and the spur to make you feel just as bad as he feels is an impulse he can’t curb.

“Might as well end this, then,” he mutters. “They’re both jealous. We got what we wanted.”

He watches the light leave your eyes, the dissatisfaction bristle over your face. He should have known that someone like you would eventually run out of hope in him. It was inevitable that once you looked too hard, you’d be disappointed.

You pout, exhaling a humorless laugh. His spiteful words are a sucker punch. And you’re sure he knows that.

“End it? Right when it starts working?” you say. You sigh, your shoulders sinking. “Okay. We’ll say it was just a fling that fizzled out. Easy-out clause. Like we agreed.”

Rafe’s lips screw up in discontented annoyance before he storms out of your room, leaving you with an empty feeling you didn’t know he was capable of giving you.

next >

author’s note there will absolutely be grovelling in the next part 🙂‍↕️

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[chbnews]

WEEKLY NEWS: 09/02/25-15/02/25

Join the CHB News Discord!

Camp Announcements:

The Apollo Cabin is reminding campers not to eat inedible objects. Again.

The Demeter Cabin is kindly asking people to not steal. They also are reminding old and new campers that the camp’s lost and found is located in the Big House.

Cabin inspections are coming up! Please remember that the cabins that fail are on cleaning duty with the harpies!

The Camp Game this week is Freeze Tag with the Satyrs. Please remember, no killing or maiming.

Camper Updates:

The Anonymous Dionysus kid that was turned into a teacup during the hide and seek competition has made a full recovery.

Jude Vianzon was claimed by Apollo and has began his training as a combat medic.

The Tyche camper that was shot in the foot by a stray arrow has been released from the Big House, but is still on crutches.

The Hermes Cabin warns that there have been more monsters in the area than usual, so make sure you travel with a buddy and follow the rule of three!

The Athena campers are extending an invitation out to those who are working on schoolwork- they have open tutoring hours all week. Schedule signups are available on the door of their cabin and in the Big House.

Game Winnings:

The Blue Team has won the camp-wide Hide and Seek competition!

The Hecate Cabin won the three legged death race this week!

Upcoming Events:

The Aphrodite Cabin is hosting a ‘DIY Fashion and Makeup’ course in the Arts and Crafts building on Monday.

The Hephaestus Cabin is hosting a ‘Forging 101’ safety class for new campers on Tuesday and Thursday.

The Apollo Cabin is holding classes for field medics, and will be giving away first aid kits on Tuesday.

The Iris Cabin is hosting a movie night at the amphitheater on Wednesday. The movie will be ‘Shrek 2’

The Ares, Athena, and Nike cabins will be hosting fighting lessons Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon. Signups are posted at the Arena.

Camp Gossip:

The Stoll brothers have been caught smuggling in a backpack filled with KitKat bars and Reese’s by the harpies.

Tension between the Hecate and Aphrodite cabin have grown, and people think they’re about to start a small war.

A dryad threw an acorn at a Hermes camper who accidentally dropped a wrapper on the ground, sparking a strange battle involving various nuts and pebbles. The dryad won.

An Iris camper and Hypnos camper have been seen holding hands. Rumor has it they’ve started dating.

A Nemesis camper was caught trying to start a fight between an Athena camper and a Hebe camper. Sources say the Nemesis camper was, instead, fought by both of them.

Weekly Question:

What is the scariest monster to fight?

- Camp Half-Blood News Team

[kmatrixx1130]

TYPE § drabble

PLOT ; Ellie and Abby, rival hockey captains from wealthy families, clash fiercely on ice, their legacies and attraction fueling intense competition.

The rink smelled like frost and fury, a sharp tang of shaved ice mingling with the sweat-soaked leather of hockey gear. Ellie Williams leaned against the boards, her stick balanced across her shoulders like a yoke, her breath fogging in the cold air of the Seattle Storm’s home arena.

Her green eyes, narrowed beneath the shadow of her visor, tracked the opposing team’s captain across the ice. Abby Anderson, all long limbs and golden braid, glided through warm-ups with a grace that belied the brute force she unleashed in games. Ellie’s jaw tightened. Tonight’s match wasn’t just another game in the Women’s Pacific Hockey League—it was personal.

Ellie’s family name carried weight in Seattle. The Williams legacy was etched into the city’s skyline: real estate empires, tech startups, and a foundation that funded half the youth hockey programs in the state. Her father, Joel, was the anomaly—a self-made man who’d clawed his way from a Texas trailer park to boardrooms, building his fortune with nothing but grit and a knack for reading people.

He’d raised Ellie to be tough, to carve her own path, even if it meant skating through a world that expected her to trade her stick for a suit. She’d chosen the ice instead, her cropped auburn hair slicked back, her jersey hanging loose over broad shoulders honed by years of training. Ellie was all edges—sharp elbows, sharper tongue ( one she used well ), and a playing style that was equal parts precision and chaos.

Across the rink, Abby Anderson was a different kind of force. The Andersons were old money, their name synonymous with philanthropy and power. Her father, Dr. Jerry Anderson, was a renowned surgeon whose foundation bankrolled medical clinics across the Northwest. Abby grew up in a world of galas and expectations, her childhood split between private tutors and figure skating lessons. But she’d traded sequins for skates, choosing hockey over her mother’s dreams of a debutante daughter. Now, in her feminine era, Abby leaned into her softness off the ice—flowing blonde hair, delicate gold jewelry, and a wardrobe of tailored athleisure that screamed understated wealth. On the ice, though, she was a titan, her six-foot frame a wall of muscle and menace, her stick an extension of her will.

The rivalry between Ellie and Abby wasn’t just about hockey. It was about legacy, about two women from gilded cages proving they were more than their last names. They’d clashed since their junior league days, their games a brutal ballet of checks and goals. Ellie’s agility and trash-talking swagger grated on Abby’s disciplined intensity; Abby’s relentless physicality and cool-headed taunts drove Ellie to the brink. Their last meeting had ended with Ellie in the penalty box, blood trickling from a split lip, and Abby smirking from the bench. Tonight, with the Storm facing Abby’s Portland Sirens for a playoff spot, the stakes were higher than ever.

Ellie adjusted her gloves, the leather creaking as she flexed her fingers. Joel was in the stands, his weathered face a quiet anchor amid the roaring crowd. He’d never pushed her into hockey, but he’d been there for every 5 a.m. practice, every bruised ego, every triumph. “You don’t owe nobody nothin’,” he’d told her once, his drawl thick after a long day. “But if you’re gonna fight, fight like hell.” Ellie intended to.

On the other side, Abby’s gaze flicked to the luxury box where her parents sat. Her father’s approval was a rare currency, doled out in measured nods. Her mother, elegant in a cashmere coat, had softened toward Abby’s career but still flinched at every hit her daughter took. Abby had learned early to compartmentalize—to be the poised daughter at fundraisers and the unrelenting captain on the ice. But Ellie Williams had a way of cracking her composure, those green eyes sparking with a challenge Abby couldn’t ignore.

The whistle blew, and the teams lined up for the face-off. Ellie crouched at center, her stick tapping the ice, her smirk a silent dare. Abby mirrored her, her blue eyes locked on Ellie’s, her braid swinging as she leaned in. The puck dropped, and the world narrowed to the scrape of blades and the crack of sticks. Ellie won the face-off, snapping the puck to her winger, but Abby was already on her, shoulder slamming into Ellie’s chest with a force that rattled her teeth. Ellie stumbled, recovered, and chased the play, her legs pumping, her mind a blur of strategy and spite.

The first period was a war. Ellie danced through defenders, her wrist shot pinging off the crossbar. Abby answered with a bone-crushing check that sent a Storm player sprawling, her team capitalizing with a goal. The crowd roared, a sea of green and blue clashing with Portland’s red. Ellie’s trash talk flowed—“That all you got, Anderson?”—and Abby’s retorts were icy: “Keep barking, Williams. I’ll shut you up soon enough.” Their teammates exchanged glances, knowing better than to get between the two captains when they were like this.

Off the ice, their lives intersected in ways neither acknowledged. They’d crossed paths at charity events, their families’ foundations often collaborating. Ellie, in a rare suit, had once caught Abby’s eye across a ballroom, her blonde hair loose, her laugh unguarded. Abby, in turn, had seen Ellie at a youth clinic, patiently teaching kids to skate, her usual scowl replaced by a rare softness. Those moments lingered, unspoken, buried under the weight of their rivalry.

By the second period, the score was tied, and the tension was a living thing. Ellie scored on a breakaway, her shot a laser past the Sirens’ goalie, and she celebrated with a spin, pointing at Abby with her stick. Abby’s jaw clenched, and minutes later, she answered with a slapshot that left the net vibrating. The third period loomed, and both knew it would come down to the wire.

In the locker room, Ellie’s coach barked strategy, but her mind was on Abby.

“I’ll shut you up soon enough.” Constantly repeating.

She hated how the blonde filled her thoughts, how every hit felt like a conversation, every goal a confession. Abby, meanwhile, sat in the Sirens’ locker room, re-taping her stick, her calm exterior hiding a flicker of unease. Ellie’s defiance sparked something in her—a hunger to win, to dominate, but also a pull she didn’t understand.

As the final period began, the ice was theirs. Ellie and Abby traded blows, their families’ legacies, their unspoken truths etched into every move. With seconds left and the score tied, Ellie stole the puck, and barreled toward the net. Abby was there, her last stand a desperate lunge. Their sticks clashed, their bodies collided, and the puck skittered free. The buzzer sounded, and the game ended in a draw—but for Ellie and Abby, it was far from over.

Their rivalry was a fire, a spark that burned brighter in the cold, and as they skated off, their gazes locked, both knew this was only the beginning.

Should I continue this?

Love Tana

[azsazz]

Over Ice (Part 4)

Hockey!Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 3610

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

Notes: Don't judge this part feels kinda meh.

Also in honor of being in Seattle tn and seeing the kraken play 😋

_________________________________________

Un-fucking-likely, indeed, your mind unhelpfully supplies on Monday night when Rhys barges into the study room looking like sex on legs.

His dark hair is damp from the shower he had to hastily take after practice. It’s disheveled as if he’s been running his fingers through it on his brisk walk from the arena to the library. There’s a soft pink to his tan cheeks that makes him look even more fuckable than usual, and you find yourself entranced as you trace the lines of his face.

The cut on Rhys’ lip has scabbed over nicely—you can’t help but notice—and the bruise setting in on his cheek is a mottled Picasso of green and yellow. The sight would make you grimace, but the wound only makes his violet eyes pop. The color draws you in, hypnotizes you as he stares back, until his bag slips off his shoulder and hits the ground with a loud thud that startles you both from your ogling.

You rip your gaze away from his, checking the time on your phone.

He's late. By twenty-two minutes.

“There’s no way.” You say when you manage to find your words. This cannot be happening. You don’t know if you’re struck more by the fact that he’s your tutor or because he looks utterly delectable in that tight black t-shirt that strains against every muscle packed onto his shoulders, arms, and chest. It’s almost as attractive as the gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips and the sliver of skin that calls to you like a siren. You carefully steer clear of that area and swallow harshly. “You’re my tutor?”

Rhysand’s eyes glitter when he tilts his chin to look at you. Normally, a man staring down at you like this doesn’t feel quite as heady as this, but the way that he’s looking at you makes your body tingle, and those tingles quickly converge between your thighs when he drags his fingers through his hair again and his shirt lifts, widening the peekaboo of skin you were eyeing only moments ago, revealing more of the cutting muscle of his hips.

You clutch your pen tightly in your fist because he looks like the king of Velaris University like this, all tall and handsome and knowing.

When he smirks, you consider shoving all your books and notes to the floor and spread yourself across the table, offering yourself up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Rhysand collapses into the chair across from you. It evens the playing field but not by much. He still towers over you, even when he begins leaning so casually in the chair like it isn’t the most uncomfortable piece of plastic you’ve has the displeasure of sitting on. His lap looks like a much more comfortable place to sit, you think, and immediately reprimand yourself for the thought. You mentally scold yourself, removing your gaze from him completely as you try to focus on keeping your mind from wandering to no-no land.

He looks exhausted, like he’s run himself into the ground during practice. Rhys releases a hearty sigh, rubs his eyes, and winces when the bruises protest under the pressure of his fists.

“You know, I pride myself in my knowledge of psychology, but I can’t tell if your shock is from the fact that I’m a very attractive man or if it’s because you think I’m a jock and can’t hack being smart, too,” he says, as his gaze trails you slowly, stopping where the table hides your thighs that are clenched tightly together from his slow perusal.

He’s looking at you like he also wants you laid out before him, and when he meets your gaze again, those violet eyes are hot, playful. Paired with the wink, he seems very pleased with himself. “I can assure you, it’s both.”

Your cheeks flush. He is hot, even more so with those bruises painting his skin and the tight-fitting clothing that leaves little to the imagination. You ache to reach across the table and dust your fingers across his wounds, press an ice pack to them and nurse him back to health. All while straddling his lap.

Woah, girl. Keep it the fuck together. You’re not that desperate.

“Wow,” you scoff, and it gives you the chance to clear your tight throat when Rhys leans over to pluck a few books from his bag. They thunk against the table, filling the room with something other than your erratic heartbeat. He glances at you as he begins to flip through the pages. “For someone who’s twenty-two minutes late to their tutoring session, you sure are cocky.”

Rhysand winces, shooting you an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

You’re stunned silent. There are no excuses. It’s a blunt, honest apology and a promise this isn’t going to be a reoccurring thing. He cares about his commitments as much as he cares about his sport, and it surprises you so much that you’re unsure of how to answer.

You don’t need to anyway, because Rhys continues swiftly, firing off questions in a way to catch up on what he’s missed. “What are you learning right now? What are you struggling with the most? We’ll start there and work our way back to the stuff you feel more confident in, so we don’t waste any more time.”

“We’re learning about behaviorism right now,” you note, looking down at the page your textbook is open to. You don’t catch the heated look Rhys pins you with, and there’s a fleeting thought that crosses his mind at your mention of behaviorism, an explicit one, because he can think of many hands-on approaches of how he’d like to teach you about conditioning and reinforcement, positive and negative reinforcement.

He hums noncommittally, flipping through his notes.

You tap the back of your pen against your textbook. “I have a quiz on Friday afternoon and a test two weeks after.” You sigh, returning to the same paragraph you’ve read three times tonight. You tried highlighting what was important according to the hand-out your professor gave you, but the entire paragraph is a block of yellow. “I can’t seem to keep it all straight.”

“Well, that’s because you highlighted the whole book,” Rhys’ eyes widen in disbelief as he cranes his head to look at your psychology textbook. “Seriously, did anyone teach you how to take notes?”

“I thought you were supposed to help me,” you huff, tossing your pen into the spine of your book and crossing your arms over your chest. You pin him with your most unimpressed look that transforms into a harsh glare when you see his gaze flick up from your chest.

Rhysand doesn’t have it in him to look ashamed. He’s fucking exhausted, and his two-a-days are catching up to him quickly. But he has his own psych paper to write by Wednesday night, right before they head out the following afternoon for a game against the Stags.

“Here,” Rhys says, and flips his book around so it’s facing you. He slides it across the table, shoving all your markers and poorly made flashcards with it. With a scowl, you lift the book and drape it over your own, drinking in the marks he’s made.

The lines are drawn neatly, not too many words highlighted, especially not paragraphs like you’d done in your own book. Your eye easily follows the words, picking up the important words covered by a bright blue.

“Holy shit,” you’d whistle if you could. “Color me impressed.”

Rhysand laughs, and your stomach flips. “See? Pretty and smart.”

The man wasn’t wrong.

You quirk a brow, resisting the urge to pull out your phone and snap a few photos of the excellently organized notes. And maybe a few of the boy who’d taken them himself. That preening smile gracing his lips and glittering eyes is something you want to commit to memory, but if you had the picture of it, late nights might not be so lonely.

“Oh, it’s pretty, now, is it? Describing yourself as hot was too…” You trail off, mulling your words in amusement. Rhysand’s smirk cracks wider, showing off his pearly white teeth, perfectly straight, and all the words you were trying to fumble for melt into a puddle of want.

“Spot on?” Rhys offers, waggling his brows. You carefully tuck your lip between your teeth, smothering a smile of your own. You shouldn’t be amused by him at all, especially since he all but demanded you weren’t to flirt with any of his players.

Rolling your eyes takes some force, but you manage. “Try pretentious.”

“Pretentious or not, it’s true.”

“Alright, Mr. Self-centered,” you roll your eyes.

Rhys cuts you off, “Actually, I’m just a regular center. And captain.”

 You blink at him, the joke almost falling as flat as your empty practice test taunting you on the table. Rhys cracks a wry grin when you shake your head. “Can we get to the important stuff now?”

“Right,” he nods firmly. “Behaviorism. Where should we start?”

You blush heavily. “The beginning, please.”

Rhys’ eyes widen and you groan in acknowledgement. You’re in desperate need of help. You weren’t kidding.

“No problem,” Rhys says, slipping his phone from his pocket. He types quickly, and you only wonder what he’s doing for a moment because he says aloud, “We’re going to need some coffees, it’s going to be a long night. What’s your order?”

Hours later, when you break for the night, you’re in much better spirits.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Rhys curses frantically. His violet eyes don’t meet your confusion, instead he’s looking around as if the small bushes you’re walking beside are big enough to hide a 6’3” hockey player with both his bookbag and his gear bag.

“What? What’s wrong?” His suddenly frenzied energy is rubbing off on you. You search your surroundings, your heartbeat drumming in your chest. It is night out, but you’re not seeing anything except the occasional student making their way across campus or the headlights of a car passing by. You have no idea why Rhysand is freaking out.

He turns to you so abruptly you stop in your tracks.

“Hide me,” he pleads, and you pull a face of confusion.

“What?”

“Hide me, please.” You catch the way his eyes flicker toward the path back to your dorm and you can’t help but follow his line of sight, ignoring his hiss of disappointment when you do.

There’s a girl walking your way, but she’s entranced in her phone. Her dark hair is braided long over her shoulder. It stands stark against her snow-white skin that seems to reflect the moon beaming down onto campus tonight. Her full lips are painted stark red, and the color does nothing to improve her color.

As if she can feel your gaze on her, she looks up. And when she notices Rhys, he goes still beneath her stare.

“Rhys?” She asks in surprise. He doesn’t answer, but she confirms it herself, a huge smile forming on those lips. It looks scary, evil, almost.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and you don’t have the chance to question him before she’s striding towards the both of you like a viper personified. The look in her eyes is sultry, lethal, and the smirk on her red-painted lips has the hair at the nape of your neck standing on end.

“I thought that was you,” she purrs. You frown, and then it deepens when Rhys slides his arm across your shoulders, tugging you tightly into his side.

The girl’s gaze drags to you and the way that she’s looking you in up and down doesn’t make you want to cringe and fold yourself into Rhys’ arms like a shy girl. No, it makes your spine straighten, and you lean further into Rhys’ side, even going so far as to wrap your arm around his waist.

You think you hear him release a breath or relief.

“Amarantha,” Rhys greets, and there’s no warmth in his tone. There’s no anything in his tone, her name is spoken with the inflection of a brick.

You bite your cheeks to hide your smile.

“Where have you been?” Amarantha asks, stepping closer. Rhys’ body coils beneath your touch, and you can tell he’s fighting every urge not to step away from her, even though you think he maybe should. “I haven’t seen you around tri-delta much lately.”

Ah, a sorority girl, you think. That checks out.

Of course, a hockey player would have tried his chances with a sorority girl. You’re sure she’s not the only one either, and the thought of the amount of women Rhys has slept with has a knot forming in your stomach. He’s an athlete for fuck’s sake, and athlete’s always score.

“That’s because I’m off the market, Amarantha,” he says, and you think there’s more to that story that you want to know. If this whole tutoring thing works out, maybe you can hassle Rhys into telling you later. “This is my girlfriend, (Y/N).”

You almost don’t understand that he’s talking about you until he tucks you closer. You stumble and plant your hand against his chest for balance, glaring up at him. It’s exactly what Rhys wants.

Your mouth all but drops in shock. You open your mouth to protest, but Amarantha cuts off any complaints sitting on the tip of your tongue. “Your girlfriend?”

Her tone is pure acid. She almost spits the word, like you’re trash beneath her feet. Your mouth snaps shut with an audible click, and you tear your glare off your “boyfriend,” shooting her the most tooth-rotting, sweet smile you can conjure. “Hi. Amara, was it?”

Her teeth grind and the sharp look she offers would melt you into the pavement if you weren’t immune to bitchy girls who think they deserve what they don’t. Especially when that thing is the gorgeous hockey player at your side.

“Amarantha.”

“Right,” your giggle is fake. “Oops.”

Rhys’ body shakes with laughter and you can’t help but to preen a little. It feels good and his body is warm. The lightning zipping under your skin and the look on his ex-girlfriend’s face lights you up.

“Well, I was hoping maybe we could talk sometime, about what happened with us?” Amarantha finally says, turning her gaze to Rhys. Her face transforms from hatred to innocent in the time it takes you to blink, like Rhys might just feel bad enough for her to give her what she wants.

Rhys hums thoughtfully, like he might actually agree to finding the time to meet and speak with her. Amarantha’s eyes sparkle. She must be thinking the same thing you’re thinking. You don’t like the thought of them alone together, of all the things they already have done together, but Rhys isn’t you boyfriend. No, he’s hardly your friend at all. Actually, he’s your best friend’s cousin, and your mind should not be wandering towards Rhys’ actions in the bedroom, let alone be acting like this with him.

“I’ll think about it, Amarantha,” he finally decides, and you don’t think you like that answer at all, but you shove your thoughts deep, deeply inside of you.

Amarantha steps closer, bats her eyelashes up at him. “I could send you some things for you to think about,” she says sultrily. You scrunch your nose up in distaste. Forward, much?

Rhys gives her that some noncommittal hum he gave you earlier in the night. “We’ve got to get going now,” he answers, tugging you around his clingy ex. “Lots of studying to do.” He lets the innuendo hang in the air. “See you around.”

He doesn’t wait for her to respond, dragging you in the direction of your dorm.

You think you wait an appropriate amount of time before you’re shoving his arm off your shoulder. “What the hell was that?”

Rhys groans and runs his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t know what that was, not really. All he knows is that he’d do whatever it takes to get Amarantha off his case and scrubbed from his memory, and he used you to do it tonight.

He feels like shit for doing that to you, especially when he barely even knows you.

Mor would have a fucking aneurism if she’d seen that.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, staring down at the sidewalk. “I panicked.”

“I’ll fucking say,” you scoff, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. It’s a balmy night out, but without the heat of Rhys’ body beside yours, a chill sweeps over you.

“That won’t be the last of her,” he sighs long and forlorn. It almost makes you feel bad for him, if the next words out of his mouth didn’t make your entire world flip. “I might need you to pretend to be my girlfriend again.”

You’re pretty sure your jaw hits the ground so hard it cracks the concrete beneath your feet. You halt so abruptly, Rhys doesn’t notice for a few steps, too lost in the idea he just blurted out and how perfect it might be. He could rid himself of Amarantha for good.

“What? No way!” You protest, and you’d really like to stomp your foot like a petulant child, but it seems your soles have melted into the sidewalk.

Rhys frowns, and you find you don’t like that look on his face. “Why not?”

What does he mean why not? There are a trillion reasons why this is a bad idea, but you blurt the one that bubbles to the surface first. “I can’t have your team, what makes you think you can have me?”

Rhys’ entire demeanor changes. He straightens his shoulders and stands taller, every muscle going taut with your words.

He raises a single brow. “How many of my teammates do you have your eye on?” He asks, prickling with jealousy. He shouldn’t be, except for the fact that he quite literally ran into you first, and if he can’t have you, then neither can his teammates.

Your cheeks flare with embarrassment. “I—what?” You stutter.

“How many of my teammates do you have your eye on? Or do you need me to rephrase.” Long gone is the cheeky tutor from the library. Now, he’s transformed into some sort of angered jock, like you just told him he’d be on the bench for the rest of the hockey season.

And it hits you, his words. Why would he care if you had your eye on one player or more? He doesn’t own you; he doesn’t even know you, and he’s making assumptions that frankly, are far from fucking true.

“I don’t have my eye on any of them, asshole,” you spit back your lie because it tastes like shit on your tongue. You have your eye on one. Or should you say had your eye on one. Knowing what you know now, you would happily go back in time and run into someone else.

It would never end well, you and him. And it’s the ultimate best friend betrayal.

You glare at Rhys, and he glares at you. You’re sure he’s used to people taking orders from him, but you’re not one of his teammates, and you’re too stubborn to back down.

When it’s clear that you’re not going to entertain his lewd questioning, he rips his gaze away. “C’mon. I have shit to do tonight and it’s getting late.”

“I can walk myself,” you grumble, shoving past him.

You hear his strides before he appears in the corner of your vision, catching up easily with you. Neither of you speak as you continue the last few blocks to your dorm. When you see the tall, looming building, you almost sigh in relief.

Until, of course, Rhys opens his mouth and spouts of another one of his stupid ideas.

“What if,” he starts, and you’re already rolling your eyes. “I help you with psychology, and you pretend to be my girlfriend, so Amarantha gets off my back.”

“Um, no.” You protest, because what the actual fuck is happening right now? “That’s what you agreed to before we ran into Amarantha.”

He shrugs, and it takes all your remaining willpower not to sprint the last block to your dorm. “My terms have changed.”

You scoff in utter disbelief. The nerve of this man. “Fine.” You haul ass to your dorm, more than done with tonight.

“Fine?” Rhys echoes. He sounds shocked. Which he should, because you know he’s taken your reply the wrong way. “You’ll do it?”

“No,” you spin on your heel and almost run face-first into Rhys’ chest. He catches you around your waist, steadying you. You didn’t hear him trailing you, and you don’t know how someone so large can move so silently. You clear your throat, ripping your focus from the tingles on your arms that seem to be coming from his touch, trying to reignite the flare of annoyance that he just smothered. “Not fine as in ‘I’ll do it.’ ‘Fine,’ as in, ‘I’ll find another tutor.’”

“What do you want? Please,” he begs, and he sounds good doing it. His violet eyes are soft, pleading, strands of his black hair falling across his brow. You want to reach up and brush them back for him.

“I want you to teach me how to pass psych,” you answer simply. “Without an ultimatum.”

Rhys’ shoulders fall, but one of you must relent, and it’s not going to be you. Over your dead body. “Fine.”

“Fine as in yes, or?”

He shoots you an unimpressed look. Too soon. You wince and smile apologetically.

“Fine, I’ll help you.”

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

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[peachhcs]

please write more on the backstory of emma and gabe, how they got together!! Love you au’s❤️❤️

yes!! for those who are new and may have not read the au background, tyler is emma’s twin brother who swims at boston college :)

au masterlist

“sooo, you look more smiley than usual,” tyler poked his sister as they sat down in the dining hall together for their usual weekly lunch. the blonde flushed.

“do i?” she wondered and her brother nodded.

“uh, yeah. you look happy and less tired like you haven’t spend hours in the library,” he poked just a bit making emma roll her eyes.

“is that an insult?”

“no. i’m just making an observation,” tyler shrugged and emma shrugged too. she didn’t know if she wanted to tell him about gabe yet, but knowing tyler, he would pick her apart about it sooner than later.

“i’m just happy is that a crime?” the girl laughed a bit.

“no, it’s not. happiness looks good on you. are you seeing someone?” well, he got her there because emma’s entire face flushed a deep pink without her even knowing. tyler smirked. “you totally are. tell me.”

“it’s no one,” she shook her head.

“em, be so serious. no guy has ever made you blush like that before,” the dirty blonde poked her arm and emma rolled her eyes again. tyler was always so nosey.

“he’s just some guy in my french class that i tutor him for econ because i guess he’s really bad at it,” emma gave a brief explanation hoping that was enough to get him off her back.

“how did you even find that out in a french class?”

“he was doing econ in the class because i guess he’s fluent in french,” the blonde shrugged and tyler raised his eyebrow.

“so like you trying to get an easy a?”

“yeah, basically. i dunno. he’s pretty nice. he’s a hockey player,” now that made tyler���s eyes widen.

“you’re joking. you’re dating a hockey player?!” he exclaimed and emma quickly shushed him before others around them heard.

they were twins which meant they knew everything about one another. tyler knew his sister had never been interested in boys who played sports like that because she always thought they were stuck up and acted dumb when they really weren’t, so hearing that she was talking to a hockey player really threw him for a loop.

“we’re not dating. we’ve just been..hanging out i guess?” emma didn’t know how to describe her nightly study sessions in the library with gabe. tyler tsked though as he ate his sandwich.

“right. what’s his name?”

“gabe perreault,” emma said shyly.

“perreault? oh yeah, he’s definitely french. wow, i’m impressed em. you’ve finally come around,” tyler teased.

“shut up. he’s actually pretty smart he just doesn’t want other people knowing that. i don’t know. he’s nice. i like him,” the girl fiddled with her plate.

“i’m not judging you or anything. i’m happy for you. next time we go to a game you have to point him out to me,” tyler smiled and emma flushed.

“he’s been begging me to come to the game on friday.”

“and we’re going,” tyler determined.

“but it’s always so loud at hockey games,” emma grumbled.

“do you wanna support your man or not? we’re going,” tyler said and emma couldn’t argue.

—

she decided to surprise gabe that friday and not tell him she was going. she followed tyler into the arena that was already packed with bc students. emma pulled her sweatshirt closer to her body, forgetting how cold it was in the hockey rink.

tyler found some of his friends to sit with where emma shyly waved at them. even though they were twins, her and tyler had pretty different friends at college, which was actually nice for them because it made them their own person after having all the same friends in high school. tyler hung out with his swimming friends and emma had her own people she met, but it was nice when worlds collided sometimes.

she looked for gabe down on the ice, quickly finding his 34. she nudged tyler’s arm to point him out.

“he looks promising,” tyler teased making emma roll her eyes.

she watched him glide across the ice and handle the puck with ease. emma wasn’t a expert on hockey, but she knew enough to know that gabe was pretty good. really good, actually. he was fast and his linemates kept up with him. emma was thoroughly impressed and she slowly realized throughout the game just how dedicated gabe was to this sport which explained why he sometimes fell behind in school work.

maybe they really were more similar than she thought. emma was dedicated to her school work. gabe was dedicated to hockey in the same way.

when the game finished 4-3 with boston taking the win, the students cheered loudly as the boys headed back down the tunnel. emma followed tyler back into the main lobby.

“i think i’m gonna wait for him to come out. you can leave if you want,” she told him because she knew gabe would probably wanna walk her back to her dorm like he always did after they were done at the library.

tyler smirked though, “ah, i see. you wanna have some you and him time. all good.”

“shut up. i’ll see you later?” emma said and her brother laughed.

“i’m kidding. i’ll see you. get home safe,” the boy grinned and the twins said goodbye. emma perched herself against one of the walls hoping gabe would be out soon.

it was probably about fifteen minutes later that the players started trickling out. she watched all of them come out freshly showered and in their suits again, eyes scanning the crowd for gabe. he came out with his linemates and emma suddenly became nervous. what if he didn’t want her there?

she caught his gaze and the boy’s eyes widened a little. emma waved and the boy flushed as he broke apart from his teammates to greet her.

“w-what are you doing here?” he asked when he got closer.

“i thought i’d come by and see a game. it was actually pretty cool,” emma nodded and noticed the way his teammates eyed her but gabe didn’t pay much mind to them.

“i didn’t even know you were coming,” gabe couldn’t help the growing smile on his lips.

“i like surprises,” she chuckled.

“well, i’m glad you came. you get why i sometimes don’t do my work,” he chuckled too.

“yeah, i think i kind of get it now. you played good. not that i really know a lot, but it was good in my eyes,” her words earned a soft blush on gabe’s already red cheeks.

“thanks. it was definitely a good game. do you wanna walk back to the dorms together?” the boy asked shyly and emma nodded.

“yeah, i’d like that,” and they made their way out of the rink. her and gabe made small talk as they walked back through the now quiet campus.

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #6: Promise

Prompt: halcyon || Master Post || On AO3

A/N: Spoilers for Dawntrail.

---

There are days when Gulool Ja Ja misses when his children were small, precocious things.

Zoraal Ja had had a solemnity about him from a young age, even then the pressure of the court’s expectations hanging heavy on the shoulders of the son of Blessing Siblings. But he had still smiled, rare, precious things, every small tilt of his lips and crinkling of his eyes a treasure to Gulool Ja Ja, as he treasured, too, the little trinkets Zoraal Ja brought back for him from his adventures. His eldest thrived most in the training arena and both Resolve had delighted in teaching Zoraal Ja to wield twin blades, gently guiding him through his first practice motions with wooden practice swords as a hatchling, sparring with him as a stripling when he was finally old enough for live steel. Zoraal Ja had beamed with pride in those days with every word of praise from Resolve or Reason or every congratulatory pat on the head or shoulder.

But despite Gulool Ja Ja’s love, and praise, and the assurances that Zoraal Ja needed to be nothing save himself, the expectations continued to pile on his son’s shoulders, that he needed to be more.

Those had been the days where Tural had been as newborn as Zoraal Ja, too, and Gulool Ja Ja regrets the time taken away from his son that being Dawnservant demanded. Now Zoraal Ja is a young man whose smiles had long since vanished and whose compassion had seemingly withered away, and Gulool Ja Ja can only hope the reserved but happy little boy, the one who had proudly handed him a rock shaped like a wivre, still lives within him.

Koana had also been a reserved little boy, almost painfully shy when he first came home to the palace. He had been Gulool Ja Ja’s faithful shadow, the unspoken fear that he would be left behind once more lurking in his big purple eyes. Teaching him to read and write had seen Koana begin to blossom, however, and Reason had never hesitated to reach for a scroll or book just out of range of the little boy’s chubby arms or answer any question Koana had about what he had read or learned from a tutor or heard around the palace. Always Koana had questions—though never about his people among the Hhetsarro.

It wasn’t until even Reason struggled to keep with Koana’s voracious appetite for learning that Gulool Ja Ja was faced with the knowledge he would need to let his son leave the nest in order for him to thrive. Resolve had fretted, and Reason had soothed, and he had sent many a letter to his old friend Galuf to assess the Studium as an adequate institution for his brilliant boy. But he had seen Koana off to Sharlayan at the docks with pride and an enthusiastic wave and known he would be fine.

His son had brought home many wondrous things to improve Tural, and Gulool Ja Ja is as awed as any of his people by dirigibles and steam engines. Koana had gained confidence in his time away, but Gulool Ja Ja worries his son was blinded by the newness of technological and magical wonders and had lost sight of the brilliance Tural’s own people, that he had not done enough to impart the belief that the past still has wisdom aplenty to guide the present into the future.

Wuk Lamat—his sweet, big-hearted Lamaty’i—had come to be his daughter in secret sorrow, entrusted to him by an old friend. And even as a full grown woman, he would never forget how small she had been as a kitten, nestled in the palm of his hand. She had been such a happy child, and that happiness had followed her into adulthood. Rambunctious, energetic, the terror of the palace; if it hadn’t been himself chasing after his wayward daughter through the halls as she shrieked with laughter, it had been Namikka. Lamaty’i had been a bright ball of sunshine, dragging her older brothers and Cahcuia’s quiet little boy into her games whenever she could.

She had taken to the axe with an enthusiasm that had almost made him leery. But for all her talent and hard work in the training yards, Lamaty’i did not rise to the same level of martial prowess as Zoraal Ja. She made friends easily, effortlessly charming many of the people she met, and she knew the names and families and histories of many of the citizens in Tuliyollal. But empathy and a willingness to listen paled before the intellectual brilliance of Koana.

Gulool Ja Ja should not have been so protective a father with his daughter, should have encouraged her to explore the wilds of their beautiful nation rather than keep her sheltered within the safety of Tuliyollal’s walls. Lamaty’i needs confidence and worldliness still, a deeper understanding of why the elders she listens to so love the Tural of today, of what Tural means.

Gulool Ja Ja misses being able to carry his children in his arms as if they were but little quetzals perched on his shoulders. But the future looms ever closer; age nips at his heels, and as Reason fades and fights with every part of his will to stay with his brother for just one more day, he knows he cannot hold onto the image of his sons and daughter as little innocents. And so he writes to his friends and their own children in Wachenpelo, and Ok’hanu, and Earthenshire, and Iq Br’aax, and Mamook, crafting a Rite to not just test his children—and whomever wins the contest he has planned—but to teach them. To guide them. To mold them.

Gulool Ja Ja is a father, but he is also a ruler, imperfect at both, and he cannot let down the people of Tural anymore than he can his children.

The Dawnservant’s children are called the Promises for a reason. The Promises for an ever better and brighter future.

(But that does not mean, late at night, hunched over the enormous desk in his office, as Reason fights growing weariness and Resolve shifts the stylus from his left hand to his right and moves the lamp closer to his side, that Gulool Ja Ja doesn’t wish he had a tiny, sleeping Lamaty’i  squished into his chair next to him on one side, Koana on the other with a book in his small hands, and Zoraal Ja leaning against his shins while tending to his new blades.)

[blaiddfailcam]

I never really thought about it until recording this, but I like the implication that Malenia's Waterfowl Dance utilizes the pool in the arena similarly to a splashing swan to create a razor-sharp slashes of water. (I know the Hand of Malenia refers to them as gusts of wind, but water seems more fitting for her specifically, especially given that she was tutored by the Blue Dancer who emphasized flowing form to combat the stagnation of rot...)