#thank you for all the reblogs and putting your comments in the tags I LOVE all of them

[joffyworld]

FURTHERMORE,

PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD,

IGNORE THE NUMBERS

They mean nothing.

One thing I forgot to mention is that there's this expectation some people I've spoken to have that if their post doesn't do its usual numbers of notes or comments or likes, whatever the platform you're on uses, then it wasn't "worthwhile" or people "didn't like it".

Dude. Bro. Girly. They. It.

Whatever notes you get, whether it's 10k or 1 is a genuine life touched. People don't come on here and reblog or share or like without having felt something. Okay, yeah, sure, maybe you didn't explode and reach 50 thousand people and they didn't all simultaneously explode from excitement.

BUT THAT'S OKAY.

Social media platforms are designed around algorithms to push content they assume people want to see. Quite frankly, however, these algorithms suck balls. Tumblr might be one of the better in terms of posts reaching audiences and old posts gaining recognition for a long time after they were posted, but it's still just a computer throwing shit on a screen.

I see, and talk to, a lot of artists that feel they can't OC post or that they have failed because "my usual audience size didn't all see the post I made" when there's a dozen things beyond their control that affect whether or not people even know they've uploaded. Here's a short list of shit that can affect whether or not your post is seen by the average joe:

Tags

Notes

Fandom or OC

Followers

Time of Day

The weather outside

The Algorithm™

Luck

Hype around a fandom at a given time

Trends

A total of ONE of these you can control, being the tags. You have literally no say whether your post does well or not, at it SHOULDN'T MATTER. As discussed in the original post, do art for you! These numbers are genuine people behind a screen that have felt touched by what you have made. It doesn't matter whether that's one person ever, or a million people at once. People were altered even in the smallest ways by your creation, whether it was a smile or a happy cry, and that's beautiful. That's what art is, an expression of self that others can find comfort in when shared. But the key words are "EXPRESSION OF SELF." Not what the audience wants, not what God wants, but what you want.

Let me put it this way:

If you open a hospital, and are used to treating a million people a day but then suddenly have a day where only 5 people show up in need of help, is that a bad day? Or is it just good that people didn't need help? One day they might and you'll still be there because hospital equipment doesn't just vanish into thin air one day.

Audiences will see your work when they need to, and when they don't they won't. There's no two ways about it, you're fighting impossible odds if you try to make it any other way. So just let it be, do art for you and fuck everyone else. Because ultimately, the only person you're fucking by doing otherwise is yourself, and the world does plenty of that for us by default.

So go ahead, OC post! Create porn! Create the most angst-riddled depressing shit you possibly can! Don't worry about whether or not it'll do numbers and blow up big, because it doesn't matter! All that matters is that you had fun, and every life you touch with your work is a genuine human connection made over impossible distances that otherwise would've never occurred. Even posting this I'm speaking to people all the way from China to Mexico.

Will they see it? Who knows! But it doesn't matter, as long as one person sees it then that's a good thing. If nobody sees it that's great too! It means nobody needed to, so the world didn't need more lecturing on how to be happy.

Live life folks. No matter who you are, someone loves you, whether they know it yet or not, whether you know it yet or not.

Thank you for coming to my inane rant, have a good day! :D

From,

Jofferson

DO ART FOR YOU! 🫵

FUCK EVERYONE ELSE!!!

Seriously.

I'm so sick and weary of logging on here and seeing creators I adore, and people I don't even know alike, apologising for not uploading or basically begging for a break like they're not a human with needs.

You're literally a human being, with thoughts, feelings and emotions. You're not an art factory, you're not some positivity pump, you're nothing other than a genuine human being living a genuine life experience.

SO GO LIVE IT!!!

YOU OWE THE INTERNET NOTHING!!!!

There should be, and realistically is, no shame in just fucking leaving if you want to. There's no contract you signed, there's no permit you bought or lease you hold. You're a person who decided to share their art with the world, FOR FREE, and garnered an audience of faceless people behind screens who enjoy that art because YOU wanted to make it and share it.

Let me be frank as best I can. You owe the internet nothing, you owe the world nothing and you owe yourself EVERYTHING. You are the only person who can live your life, you are the only person who can create the things you create and you are the only motherfucker that should matter to you when you create those things.

Art is supposed to be a wondrous joy that inspires the mind and indulges ideas that other creatures can't even comprehend. It's supposed to be a magical and fun fantasy land where anything is possible because you make it possible. It's not a 9-5 unless you make it one, so stop making your hobby a 9-5 unless you're getting paid for it, and even then put in limits because no job that you choose to do should end in you burnt out and wishing you'd never started in the first place.

Remember when we were all kids? When we all drew and wrote for fun simply because we could? We'd show people are shit and be like "Mama look!" and she'd clap her hands all proud. But she wasn't why you picked up that crayon, you just did it for you because you wanted to make some shit.

That's how it should be. That's how it is unless you let those fake ass numbers on a screen rule your life. It's all meaningless, the praise may be genuine but that doesn't mean you should spend your whole life running in circles and performing for an audience.

Be a human being! Be an artist! Fuck everyone else!

Just be yourself <3

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

God, Rest Ye Merry

Warnings: kidnap and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Summary: You're sick and you don't think things can get much worse until they do.

Character: God the Bounty Hunter

Day Twenty-Four of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt -i'm too sick to go anywhere!

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

It’s the happiest time of year and you couldn’t be more miserable. Your head is pounding, your nose is stuff, lips cracked from having to breathe through your mouth, and you just want to go to sleep and never wake up. Still, your body is too addled with the flu to allow you that peace. 

Watching the snow through the window, you dig deep down to find the strength to go out. You shudder as you hook a mask over your ears and bend the wire across your nose. As much as you’d love to share the cheer, you’re not that type of person. 

You take your reusable bag and your keys and set out. You pull your hood up as you emerge into the white swirl. The fur around the edge blocks out your peripherals and before you is an endless sprawl, untouched by shovel or plow. It isn’t far to the pharmacy; across the street and down the next corner. 

You trudge through towards the prize of more cough drops and possibly some vitamin C. You’ve gone through most of your supplies, not having bothered to replenish since the last time you had a cold. You’ve been lucky for so long that it has to be absolutely horrid this time. 

You kick through the drifts. The snow is getting deeper by the minute. Some might relish the festive fall but you’re not into it. Thankfully, you’re staying in for the holidays. Not that you have much choice with this chesty cough. 

The snow dampens the sound and you slow as you come in sight of the pharmacy. The silence is eerily still despite the winds sweeping the flakes over the blanketed ground. You dust the snow from your hood and pivot to see around you. You’re the only one desperate enough to be out on Christmas Eve, aside from the poor retail employees sentenced to work in purgatory for those last-minute sales. 

You press on and enter the pharmacy with the jangle of the bell above. You do your best to kick the snow off before you cross the threshold. You pass the shelves of Hallmark cards and wrapping paper and pull your hood down. You read the hanging signs of the aisle and drag your treads towards the cough and cold section. 

As you turn down that aisle, the bell on the door rings again. Strange, you didn’t see anyone on the street. It could be someone who works down the next street or someone brave enough to drive in this. You stop before the shelves of cough drops and get the extra menthol. You might try the vapour rub too. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get some electrolytes too. 

You spend a bit more than you should on your haul but at this point, you’d sell yourself for some relief. You bring it all to the counter as another pair of footsteps softly trace the rows behind you. You pay and the girl behind the till puts it all in a paper bag. You choke back a cough and thank her. 

You pull your hood up in expectation of your delve back into the elements and hug the bag to your chest. Your head slumps as the short walk back seems a Tolkien-ish trek in your condition. You push through the door with your shoulder and slow as you step into the calf-deep downfall. 

You get about halfway down the street. You’re panting as your legs ache and your chest thrums. You look ahead of you as the soft crush of snow comes from behind you. You blink as your head pulses and you turn slowly as you try to see past your furry hood. 

Not fast enough. The snow cushions your fall as you’re thrown into the piles. Your bag falls out of your arms as you murmur and fight weakly against the powder and your own weakness. Your struggle is short and pathetic as the white fades to black, the world and all your agony with it. 

💝

You cough yourself awake. Your throat feels as if it’s lined with shards of glass. You groan and chatter as a chill washes over you. Your arms are heavy as you drag them up to hug yourself in an effort to ward off the cold. 

There’s a tug on your wrist as you do. Your lashes flutter and your head lolls as you raise your hand shakily. The leather cuff below your hand blurs in your hazy vision. You pull again, the resistance enough to deter you. What is that? 

You cough and use your other hand to wipe your nose. What’s going on? What happened to you? You just wanted some relief and now... 

You remember falling. Did you trip? No, something knocked you over. You’re sure of it.  

You wince and force your eyes open, even as they ache. You peer around the dim space. You lay on a thin mattress on a metal frame. There are two pillows, one under your head, another beside you, a grey duvet over you, and that cuff on your wrist. You lift your hand again and examine the chain attached to it. It trails over the edge. 

What the fuck? You’re too sick to even think about trying to get it off. Your eyes scan the shadowy walls, your scalp slaked in cold sweat, and you shiver again. There’s an electric heater glowing orange like the doorway to hell in the corner of the room, and a folding table shrouded in the dim. 

All this because you wanted some cough drops. You shake your head, sending another echo of heaviness through it. You whimper and try to touch your temple, the attempt drawn short by the restraint. 

“What’s wrong with you?” The voice is like gravel. 

You flinch and lift your head, searching the room. Something shifts in the corner and the figure steps closer, his silhouette just discernible against the dark. You scoff and send yourself into a hacking fit. What a stupid question. 

“I’m... sick,” you rasp. 

He’s silent. He moves around as you try to see him clearer. He goes to the table, still nothing more than a fuzzy blob to you. Something crinkles as he bends and he hauls up the paper bag onto it. He peels open the tear in its side. 

He turns and hesitates. He comes around the foot of the bed and the heater gives light to his features. You see him clearer as the single metal lamp next to you illuminates him completely. His features are sharp and stony, his expression emotionless. He holds out the pack of cough drops, almost cluelessly. 

“Will this help?” 

You frown. You sigh but it catches in your scratchy throat. You reach for the lozenges. He lets you take them. He watches you tear open the package and then unwrap one of the drops. You shove it in your mouth and groan. 

“Do you feel better?” He asks. 

You squint at him, “not really. They’re just menthol... for my throat.” 

“Oh.” 

What’s wrong with him? Hasn't he ever had a cold? Bigger question, why did he bring you here? 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says as if he can read your mind. You can’t help but show your discomfort. “I could but I won’t.” 

You frown at him. Did he have to say that? 

“You’re sick.” 

You nod. 

“And alone.” 

You don’t move. 

“My family--” 

“You said you couldn’t go this year. Too expensive to take the train.” 

You snap your teeth shut. How does he know that? You look down at your wrist. He does too. 

“It’s for safety,” he explains but that doesn’t make sense to you. 

“Why...” you begin the question but can’t decide which one would get the right answers. Probably none of them. 

“Take another,” he points to the cough drops. You’re still sucking on the other one. You shake your head and drop the pack on the blanket.

“Won’t help,” you croak. 

He blinks and his blue eyes round, “what will?” 

You just stare at him. You’re half-sure this is a demented fever dream and you’re currently face down in the snow, slowly sinking into hypothermic delusions. He twists on his heel and marches away. He grabs the bag, cradling it to keep the contents inside, and you brace yourself as he comes back your way. 

He puts it on the bed and sifts through. He holds up the large bottle of orange electrolytes. “It’s for babies.” 

You push your elbows into the bed and sit up. He shifts closer. “You should relax.” 

“I can’t,” you say hoarsely and reach for the bottle. “Elecrolytes. Help...” 

“Keep you hydrated,” he finishes. “Makes sense. What else?” 

He reaches inside and takes out the vapour rub. He examines the tin. He untwists the lid and gives it a deep sniff that makes his eyes water. 

“Stinky.” 

“Here,” you reach for it but he keeps it away from you as he reads the tiny writing on it. “Spread across chest...” he mutters as he reads then his eyes flick to you, “take your shirt off.” 

“What?” You exclaim then cover your mouth as you cough yourself halfway into oblivion. 

“I’ll put it on for you. Like it says.” 

“I can do it...” your voice crackles. 

You don’t have time you react as he reaches for you. He shoves the blanket down then tugs on your sweatshirt, drenched in your feverish excess. You squeak but can’t resist him. He strips it over your head as you writhe helplessly. 

You cross your arms over your bra as he pushes his fingers into the menthol rub. As he extends his hand towards you, you shy away. You crush the pillow as he presses his fingertips to your skin and smears the cream over your skin. Your heart is pounding. 

“You shouldn’t be afraid,” he says as his touch lingers and he brings his hand down to feel your heartbeat. “I’m taking care of you.” 

You furrow your brow and stare at him, in confusion, in horror. You have no idea who he is or what he wants, at this point, you’re rooting for the flu to win. He slowly peels away his hand and caps the tin. He turns and searches around, dissipating back into the shadows. 

He re-emerges as he wipes his fingers. He watches you from the foot of the bed as you grab your sweatshirt and pull it back on. He grips the two fingers he used to apply the cream and twists his fist around them and the cloth. 

“Are you better now?” He asks. 

You close your eyes and sink back into the bed. You can’t. You don’t have the energy for this. 

“Not yet.” 

“Oh...” he utters as he looms still. “Well, when you are, let me know.” 

You snort. The way he speaks, the way he just stares, it’s like he’s missing something. It’s just as scary as the cuff on your arm. 

You open one eye and find him still there, watching. 

“God.” He says. You open your other eye and tilt your head.  

“God?” You repeat. 

“That’s me.” 

You drop your head again and exhale. Right, so, maybe you are dead. 

[midoristeashop]

hello I am obsessed with your recent httyd screencap art is it okay if I use it as my computer wallpaper?

Go for it! Wasn’t too sure if that post would get around too much so I would have had better panels 😭 ty for asking, and that goes for anyone else if you’d like to use it <3

[eightmakesonebraincell]

ahhhh!!! i'm so glad to hear!!! writing such a long fic i really try to make sure that it flows well and that the progression of relationships seems natural and realistic, so it makes me so happy to know that that's how it was portrayed 💃🕺

AND NOT YOU STAYING UP LATE TO READ MY FIC 😭😭😭 THAT'S HONESTLY ONE OF THE HIGHEST COMPLIMENTS (and yes i'm very glad you didn't have work in the morning too 🤭 definitely a good way to stay up late then 🤭)

no thank you for reading and for leaving such lovely feedback all the time <33 i hope you have a wonderful day and week and all the hugs and kithes in the world to you too my dear 🥹🫶

our leaves must fall before our flowers can bloom

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

length: 37.6k

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

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

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

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

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

“san!” he yells.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“how come?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

autumn, 2018: pre-season

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

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

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

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

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

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

“captain!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“we’re going to play interstate?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

autumn, present: regular season

“again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“again.”

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

…a rapid and spiralling whirlwind downwards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yeah…teammates.”

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

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

we don’t know that yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“captain.”

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

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

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

“what if we lose?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

hongjoong will not let them fall…not again.

winter, 2018: regular season

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“no…regionals.”

“is it ranked at least?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yes, coach,” jongho acknowledges.

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

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

winter, present: regular season

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“captain–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“why are you just standing there?”

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

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

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

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

“what was what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“then we ask her,” mingi proposes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

winter, 2019: regular season

‘2019 ice hockey rookie stars tournament: team standings’

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

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

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

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

“are you two done looking?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“have you transferred the money?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

for money.

winter, present: regular season

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

nobody sleeps well that night. especially wooyoung.

spring, 2023: playoffs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fuck off, san. i don’t need you.”

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

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

“i’m sorry,” wooyoung chokes out.

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

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

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

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

winter, present: regular season

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“then let us share the hurt with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you stop the drill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you wink, “love you too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yes, coach,” they chorus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

only, it happens literally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yes, coach,” san acknowledges.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the puck flies past the posts and hits the netting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sixty seconds.

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

thirty seconds.

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

ten seconds.

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

two to six.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“coach, wait.”

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

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

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

“coach!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“okay,” he breathes out softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“here you go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“these are all yours?” you confirm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“only during games.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“there is no better time.”

“exactly.”

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

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

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

“food!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and yet, it feels like everything is changing.

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

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

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

pick up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you didn’t go out with the boys?

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

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

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

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

“really?” you worry.

“yes, really.”

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

“i’m your coach, of course i–”

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

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

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

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

as one of theirs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hi, girlfriend.”

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

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

“i can do it myself,” you start.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“gree–”

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

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

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

“wooyoung, no,” you warn.

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

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

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

“oh, shit,” hongjoong winces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it is time for their flowers to bloom.

spring, 2025: playoffs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the finals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

head coach: yeon ha joon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yeosang knits his brows together as he states the obvious, “it’s coach yeon.”

“and?” mingi mirrors his expression with genuine confusion.

it is quiet in the locker room. the coach of the white tigers is indeed coach yeon…and so what? what exactly about the revelation has pushed you all to the edge of the cliff?

mingi cocks his head. “what i’m trying to say is, does it make any difference whether he is their coach or not? think about it–regardless of how he got his team to the finals, he has no unfair advantage over us. there’s no way that he has bribed a fixed win in the finals, and he has no access to any insider knowledge that could jeopardise our tactics and plays.

“the only leverage that he ‘has’ is a psychological advantage–if we can even call it that. but we’re not the same boys who were too naive and powerless to do anything about it six years ago. if anything, we can easily turn this to work in our favour because i don’t know about you guys, but i’m ready to drag his ass through the mud. what we said earlier about not caring for today’s outcome? nah, fuck that. we’re going to fuck him up and show him that he messed with the wrong people.”

he takes everybody’s silence as misunderstanding of his last statement and he hurriedly clarifies there is no violent intent, “by winning. fairly.”

“damn,” jongho whistles. “you’re onto something for once.”

mingi clambers over seonghwa’s legs to grab the forgotten bottle and it goes flying across the room with violent intent. “dude, what the fuck,” mingi grouses.

the dull thud that resounds when jongho holds san’s leg pad up to block the projectile is enough to shift the mood in the room entirely. you finally relax into hongjoong’s side and he moulds you closer to him with the arm that he snakes around your waist as you both watch the locker room erupt into familiar pre-game mayhem.

yunho immediately scoops up the bottle and pitches it again. san stands to the side worrying over his poor leg pads as jongho uses them to bat the makeshift ball. his impressive accuracy makes you wonder whether they would have made it just as big as they are now had they formed a baseball team instead, but then yeosang narrowly dodges the bottle before it gives him a black eye, wooyoung cackles in the background, and you think better of it.

seonghwa joins you both on the bench and amongst all of the mischievous chaos and raucous laughter, you feel at peace, your hands clasped tenderly in the hands of your two captains–in unity, trust and love. you affectionately squeeze their hands with unspoken conviction.

you know your boys are going to play well; you just have a good feeling.

the energy in the room spikes exponentially as you huddle together one final time before you walk out of the locker room, through the hallways and to the arena–one final time before you step out to the ice rink as the red devils, playing in the final match.

you and your boys stand in a circle as close as it is physically possible with their bulky pads and game jerseys that they wear so proudly. it is indiscernible where one of you starts and where another ends from how intimately you all press together. your huddle is a woven nexus of arms and your hearts pound as one entity.

everyone learns of the juxtapositions of the world early on in life. there is no light without dark, there is no happiness without sadness, there is no spring without autumn…and there is no victory without defeat. not a single one of your boys has made it this far without falling at least once, and the conscious thought makes your heart swell and your throat constrict with overwhelming emotion.

somehow, you manage to choke out, “i am so, so proud of all of you.”

yunho and seonghwa’s own eyes start to heat up with wetness. from your side, san kisses your temple with feather-like tenderness, “and we’re so proud of you. y/n, you have grown just as much as we have.”

“thank you for being our coach,” hongjoong murmurs into your ear from your other side, the tip of his nose softly nuzzling you.

wooyoung reaches out to thumb the round of your cheek, “and thank you for loving us when we found it difficult to love ourselves.”

you had always viewed your injury and career with anger, bitterness and anguish…but you have finally come to terms with it. in the process of healing, you have learnt to love yourself, love eight other people, and to be loved. you have had your golden days as an athlete and you are now living your golden days as a coach–

–the very coach of the red devils, your team of boys who are living through their golden days as athletes, and you are going to lead them to victory in the finals.

swiping at a tear that slips down your cheeks, you grin. “boys, let’s win this match and then,” you pause as you meet their determined gazes, their smiles wide with uncontainable excitement, the tension in the room electrifying and palpable.

“let’s go international.”

you may have all fallen before–as athletes, as coaches, as a team–but you will always stand back up together, because at the end of the day your dream is theirs and their dream is yours. and like autumn, the leaves fall for a reason; they must fall before the spring flowers can bloom to their full beauty.

and bloom your flowers have.

[bugbeast]

Self promo for my newest card game, Jewel Thief; but you can play it for free! First, though, let's cover the basics...

TL;DR - Its a 4+ player competetive card-matching game with four rule variants; buy it here or look for the orange text in this post to learn how to play it with a regular deck

"What is Jewel Thief?"

It's a card matching game with a villain; one player tries to match jewels in a 36 card grid while their opponent, the titular Jewel Thief, periodically steals cards from the board. You can check out its page on The Game Crafter for more information, but it'll spoil the rest of this post

"What makes it special?"

The game's turn structure would theorettically allow you, perhaps via some kind of infinite cloning machine, to play a round of Jewel Thief til the heat death of the universe. While I wouldnt recommend that, its lack of a player cap (and ease of set-up; seriously, all you do is put cards on a table) makes it a good party game choice.

But that's not all!

There are three extra rule variants that drastically alter the gameplay while keeping card matching and stealing as main mechanics. I believe the cards are versatile enough to allow for many custom games, too

"Okay, but why should I buy a silly game from some bug nerd?"

First off, ouch. Second off, that's the best part; you dont have to buy it to play it! Jewel Thief can be played with a standard 52 card deck. Here's how:

Step 1. Remove the 10s, Jacks, Queens, Kings and Jokers

Step 2. Download the free rules from the shop page

Step 3. Play the game, matching cards based on their values. You'll need to designate a value as the Diamond jewel for game 4

-------

That's it for my little self-promo. If you dont buy the game, I hope you'll at least give it a try and consider supporting my future projects.

I also post art and photography, which you can find under the bugbeast art and bugbeast photos tags. I hope you check them out

Thank you for your time <3

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Edit (Mar. 25, 2024) : Thank you to everyone who liked and reblogged this; if you play the game I encourage you to share your thoughts in the comments and/or reblogs (even if you hated it). Feel free to share any custom games or house rules you come up with, too. I'd love to try them!

Edit (Aug. 10, 2024) : Final edit most likely; gonna blaze this one more time for good luck then maybe start work on a postmortem for the project, maybe give a little backstory for anyone who cares. Life is a little rough right now, but fate willing, I'll be able to work on/post about my future projects, including the future of Jewel Thief itself

[driverlando]

✧.* #BABYVERSTAPPEN

synopsis: Max accidentally leaks the news of your pregnancy during an interview and he breaks the internet

before you continue- I loveee this # series so much!! if you enjoy then pls reblog and follow :)

✧.* the interview

—

—

✧.* Y/N’s reaction

You hear the front door creak open, and your heart skips a beat. Glancing up from your phone, you see Max walk in with a cautious smile, holding a tub of your favourite ice cream like a peace offering. The house feels unusually quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling energy you’re used to when Max comes home.

“Hey, love,” Max says, trying to sound cheerful despite the tension in the air. “I brought your favourite ice cream.”

You look at him, your eyes narrowing slightly. “Oh, so now you’re trying to bribe me with ice cream?”

Max winces at your tone, setting the ice cream down on the coffee table. “I thought it might help smooth things over.”

You sigh, putting your phone aside. “Max, do you have any idea how many messages I’ve gotten today? Everyone knows now. Everyone.”

“I know, and I’m really sorry,” Max replies earnestly, stepping closer to you. “It just slipped out. I was excited, and I didn’t think—”

“That’s the problem, Max. You didn’t think,” you cut in, crossing your arms and stepping back from him. “This was supposed to be our special moment. Our announcement.”

Max reaches out for your hand, his expression pleading. You pull away, your disappointment palpable.

“You’re in the dog house tonight, Verstappen.”

“Come on, Y/N, don’t be like that,” Max urges, his eyes reflecting genuine regret. “I know I messed up, but I didn’t mean to. I just couldn’t help talking about how happy I am.”

Your resolve wavers for a moment, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. “It’s not just about the announcement, Max. It’s about our privacy, our moment. You know how much this meant to me.”

“I do,” Max murmurs softly. “And I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

You shake your head, though your expression softens just a bit. “You better. But tonight, you’re sleeping on the sofa.”

Max nods solemnly, accepting his fate. “Alright, the sofa it is. But can we at least share the ice cream?”

You hesitate, then roll your eyes in resignation. “Fine. But just the ice cream. You’re still in trouble.”

Max smiles gratefully, relieved that you’re willing to share even this small moment with him. He retrieves two spoons from the kitchen and settles on the sofa beside you, careful to maintain a respectful distance, the mood swings were strong today. You sit together in silence, eating the ice cream slowly, each lost in your own thoughts.

As you near the bottom of the tub, Max suddenly has an idea. “Hey, Y/N?”

You look at him, a spoonful of ice cream paused halfway to your mouth. “What?”

“I know I ruined our announcement, and I feel terrible about it,” Max begins earnestly. “But how about this—you can be the one to announce the sex of the baby. However you want, whenever you want. It’s your moment.”

Your gaze softens as you consider his suggestion. “I like that idea. But you’re still sleeping on the sofa tonight.”

Max chuckles softly. “Fair enough. But at least we’re getting somewhere, right?”

You lean in and kiss his cheek gently. “Yeah, we are. Thanks, Max. This means a lot to me.”

—

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, yourbestfriend, landonorris and 1,357,147 others

yourusername guess the secrets out! (thanks max) baby verstappen we can’t wait to meet you 💘

tagged: @/maxverstappen1

view all 23,527 comments

yourbestfriend congrats!! so happy for the two of you ❤️

↳ yourbestfriend can’t wait to spoil her

↳ yourusername thank you darling! 💘

user1 hey, atleast max let you announce the sex 😂

user2 congratulations!! you’re going to be the best parents 🥳

maxverstappen1 so excited ❤️

user3 is max in the dog house? 😂

↳ yourusername yep.

—

—

✧.* the boys reactions

— Formula One Star Max Verstappen Accidentally Reveals Wife Y/N Y/L/N’s Pregnancy During Interview

By: Sasha, Rumour Radar

In a hilariously unexpected turn of events, Formula One champion Max Verstappen has found himself at the centre of a viral moment after inadvertently revealing his wife Y/N Y/L/N’s pregnancy during a live interview. The impromptu announcement has taken the motorsport and influencer communities by storm, and Y/N later added her own delightful twist to the news.

The Accidental Reveal

The incident unfolded during a press conference following Verstappen’s practice session. When asked about his expectations and what he was looking forward to in the new season, Verstappen, with his characteristic charm and ease, responded, “And for the baby to come too, the next season’s going to be busy.” The interviewer, catching the slip, pressed further, “Did you say baby?”

Max, realising his gaffe, was momentarily speechless. His face turned a shade of crimson as he stammered, “Uh, I mean…uh, no? Y/N is going to kill me.” This candid and unscripted moment sent ripples of excitement through the audience and quickly became the talk of the paddock.

Social Media Explosion

As soon as the clip aired, social media ignited. Fans, fellow racers, and celebrities alike flooded platforms like Twitter and Instagram with reactions, congratulations, and plenty of memes. The hashtag #VerstappenBaby soared to the top of the trending lists, making it clear that the news had captured everyone’s attention.

Fans and media outlets were abuzz with the news. In a move that was as swift as it was sweet, Y/N took to Instagram to confirm the delightful news. She posted a picture of a cake with pink filling and an ultrasound picture, accompanied by the caption, “Guess the secret’s out! (Thanks Max) Baby Verstappen, we can’t wait to meet you 💘.”

Max’s unintentional reveal and Y/N’s charming confirmation on social media endeared the couple even more to their legion of fans. Verstappen, known for his fierce competitiveness and composed demeanour on the track, showed a softer, more relatable side that resonated with many. His initial reaction, followed by Y/N’s sweet Instagram post, painted a picture of a couple who are navigating the journey to parenthood with humour and grace.

Messages of support

The Verstappen household, already bustling with the excitement of the F1 season, is now set for even more joy with the impending arrival of their baby girl. The couple, who have been private about their journey to parenthood, seemed to embrace the unexpected reveal with good humour. Max later took to social media, joking, “Lesson learnt! Next time, I'll leave the announcements to Y/N.”

As the F1 season progresses, Max Verstappen will have more than just his racing commitments to look forward to. The prospect of becoming a father has added a new dimension to his life, bringing a balance between his high-octane career and his personal life. This blend of professional and personal excitement has further endeared him to fans who now feel even more connected to his journey.

Despite the unplanned nature of the announcement, Max and Y/N have embraced the outpouring of support. A close friend of the couple shared, “Max and Y/N are over the moon about the baby. It wasn’t how they planned to share the news, but they’re thrilled with the love and support they’ve received and now laugh over the accidental reveal.”

Max’s teammates and rivals have also expressed their congratulations. Lewis Hamilton, Verstappen’s long-time competitor, commented on Y/N’s post, “Huge congrats to both of you! You’ll be the best parents!” Daniel Ricciardo, known for his playful camaraderie with Verstappen, added, “Can’t wait to meet Baby Verstappen! She’s going to be a little racer for sure.”

The new season

The unplanned revelation has certainly added a fresh layer of excitement to the season. Media outlets have been buzzing with speculation about how the impending fatherhood will impact Verstappen’s performance on the track. Analysts suggest that the new family milestone might provide him with an extra boost of motivation and focus.

For now, the spotlight remains on the happy news of Baby Verstappen. The couple’s playful and endearing approach to this new chapter in their lives has won them even more admiration and affection from their fans. As the countdown to their baby girl’s arrival begins, Max and Y/N are set to experience a whirlwind of emotions, balancing the thrills of Formula 1 with the joys of parenthood.

In the grandstands, on social media, and in the hearts of their supporters, Max and Y/N Verstappen are celebrated not just as a racing power couple but also as soon-to-be parents. The racing world waits with bated breath for more updates, eagerly anticipating the arrival of the newest member of the Verstappen family.

Stay tuned to Rumour Radar for the latest updates on this unfolding story and more celebrity gossip.

—

[starlostseungmin]

husband!minho

✰ notes: third entry of my husband!skz series and as for who won the poll, it’s minho’s turn!! minor warning: sex is mentioned but nothing happened!! i hope you guys enjoy!! not proofread. DO NOT FORGET TO REBLOG, COMMENT AND LEAVE TAGS! thank you <33

seungmin , chan（ lee know ） jeongin , han , changbin , felix , hyunjin.

ꔛ

Husband Minho who asked, “Will you be the mother of my three kids?” instead of “Will you marry me?” on one random afternoon when you were both playing with his cats at his parents’ house. It served as his proposal and gave you a jingle ball because he didn’t have a ring with him at that time. 

Husband Minho who used to be a tsundere and nonchalant person but later changed into a fully affectionate bunny the moment he fell for you. 

Husband Minho who got emotional during the wedding day but tried to hold his tears back since it was expected that his friends would tease him later. He gave up eventually and cried when you slow danced with him at the reception. 

Husband Minho who teased you a lot but in a loving way. He tends to be a menace sometimes but it wasn’t bad. Your big baby just loves to play with you. 

Husband Minho who pretends to be annoyed when you ask for a kiss but deep inside he wants to smother you with all the love you deserve. Eventually, he couldn’t keep it to himself so he cuddles you with lots and lots of kisses. 

Husband Minho who spoils you with his five Michelin-star cooking skills and serves you high-quality food. He is the happiest when you compliment him and finish everything on your plate. 

Husband Minho who loves to drag you along when he goes camping and offers to take care of everything while you rest. He’d only ask for minor tasks from you to help him. 

Husband Minho who sends you weird selfies and cat pictures when you’re not together and says he misses you with the kids (his cats). 

Husband Minho who listens to your worries and gives constructive criticisms but at the same time he comforts you with the things you need to feel better. 

Husband Minho who loves to encourage you to do the things you want as long as it would benefit him and it’s not illegal. “The heart knows what it wants,” He said. “But let’s not go to jail shall we?”

Husband Minho who lets you burst out in anger while he stood there listening to everything. He’s not the type to baby you every time and will be civil when it comes to arguments knowing who is in the right and wrong. 

Husband Minho who will never allow you to sleep unless everything is resolved. He’d be sorry if it was his fault and be the cutest baby bunny that you can’t resist to forgive. This comes along with cuddles and kisses or makeup sex (if you’re both into it). 

Husband Minho whose love languages are acts of service, quality time, and words of affirmation. 

Husband Minho whom you swoon to over and over because of how handsome and cute he is. Never a day you’d miss complimenting him by which he’ll be all red and mushy from being shy. 

Husband Minho who got the interest of touching your butt out of his love and affection. 

Husband Minho who lays on top of you when he sees you lying down on your shared bed the moment he gets home because he’s tired and your presence makes him feel relaxed and secure.  He tends to bury his face in the crook of your neck. 

Husband Minho who is loud and dramatic in the most precious way. 

Husband Minho who never forgets important dates and will throw everything away just to spend time with you. 

Husband Minho who acts like a mother especially when you get sick and is stubborn. 

Husband Minho who is good with kids, and had asked you a few times if you want to have one with him but at the same time he doesn’t want to put pressure on your shoulders. He reassures that he can wait and doesn’t even mind if he spends his lifetime with you alone. 

Husband Minho who feels appreciated and loved when you tell him about the things he means to you and how much you are head over heels for him. 

Husband Minho who gets excited when you give him cat necessities. You wonder that he loves his cats more than you sometimes but he’d say you were equally receiving his love and affection. 

Husband Minho who doesn’t always say he loves you but rather says that you are his getaway from everything. It’s you and him against the world, nothing could replace you as you are his happy place and favorite person. The one who comes second after his cats and knows his priorities but you get the privilege. 

Husband Minho who loves you to the moon and back. 

Husband Minho who treasures you the most and the one he’d put first before everything. 

Husband Minho whom you’ll love for a lifetime, promised to never hurt, never leave, and never break his heart. 

✰ taglist: @notastraykid , @ameliesaysshoo , @l3visbby , @reignessance , @lix-ables , @skzfelixlove , @rachabreathing , @hyunverse , @minluvly , @sleepyleeji , @starseungs , @midsoulz , @oddracha , @armystay89

©️ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍 , 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒.

[bbieangel]

Sticky

Joel Miller x F!Reader (18+)

mdni please

You and Joel find another way to make the summer heat more bearable.

tags: smut (duh), food play (popsicle), anal play, creampie, unprotected p in v (do not! do this! pls!), kind of? oral (f receiving), praising, dirty talk (joel doesn't know how to shut up and we love him for that), mentions of gagging (once), reader is abled, afab reader. joel is 20 years older. idk if I forgot anything else.

word count: 9.2k

a/n: this is just another level –for me, at least– of things I wouldn't normally write. please take my phone away? thanks. I think I was possessed when I came up with this. anyways! hope you enjoy.

this was inspired by If You Like Piña Coladas by @gutsby ! it was amazingly written, I loved it and after reading it I came up with this idea. <3

as always, please enjoy and lmk what you think! reblogs, likes and comments are always deeply appreciated 🫶🏻

It all started when you were out on patrol, scavenging and rummaging through abandoned places, looking for supplies to take back to Jackson.

"Anything, really." Maria told you, as the warmer weather was approaching and you needed anything that would help keep people cool. Especially the elders, kids and babies.

Could a horse carry a whole fan back to Jackson? Not possibly. So Joel got to disassemble it while you took the opportunity to look through every drawer, cabinet and box.

"Joel, look!" You said, holding up some molds. They were the kind that you would fill up with juice and fruit, then put the sticks in them to make a popsicle. Maybe it wouldn't keep you cool, but it was a nice distraction.

Joel chuckled as he saw them. He remembered making those with Sarah every summer in a desperate attempt to keep his daughter in a somehow manageable mood, as she hated the heat and made her irritable. You could see the shimmer in his eyes, the kind that showed up every time he thought of his daughter. He has recently started to open up about her, and you didn't really push him to do it: just let him.

"We should keep those." He replied. "Maybe try making some back at home."

The idea sounded fantastic, and there were more molds as you kept scavenging. Maybe you could even make them and offer them at the town hall for people to feast on while they fought the intense rays of sun.

Once back home, you got to work. Joel helped by squeezing the oranges as well as cutting up strawberries and apples, the kitchen ending up a fruity mess. But you didn't mind, if anything, it made your heart flutter at the sight. It was domestic, tender, to be cooking together. Making a snack to make the summer heat a little more bearable for the both of you.

You set them inside the fridge and honestly, forgot about them until two days later until Joel brought them up. The two of you were plopped on the couch, fanning yourself with magazines as you tried to pay attention to the TV with that old DVD player plugged into it, playing a movie Joel had made you watch more times that you could count on.

You were distracted, and you knew it. And he would be a liar if he said he wasn't. Your cause of distraction? The way Joel's cheeks were slightly flushed, sweat trickling down his tanned neck, how the popsicle would drip down his veiny hands. How he would lick it, God, why couldn't he lick you instead? And he was suffering from the same twisted thoughts. The way your lips would wrap around the popsicle.. he was almost sure you were doing it on purpose. Pushing it inside your mouth and pulling it out with a plop! He could think of the times you'd done that with his cock before, the image being burned inside his eyelids.

He couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't pretend he wasn't affected by you.

"It take you that long to finish that thing?" He spoke up, his voice slightly hoarse from hiding his desire for too. damn. long.

"What do you mean?"

You asked as you bit into it and chewed a smile piece of the ice thing, then swallowed it. His eyes followed the movement of your throat and oh, you knew.

He wanted to erase that shit-eating grin off your face with the tip of his cock, smearing his precum all over your—

"You know what I mean. You're doing it on purpose."

"And you aren't?" You leaned forward, and that made him feel like he'd been caught red-handed. Truth was that, yes, he had been slurping at the thing like he would swallow your juices whenever he found himself on his favorite place on earth: between your legs.

"What if I am?"

"What if I am too?"

The silence between you grew thick, like a string that was taunt with too much tension. Until he snapped it, grabbing the popsicle and shoving it into your mouth. You tried to protest by whining his name.

"Shut up." He spoke as he quickly worked to take off your shorts. He pushed them down and immediately placed his head between your legs, making you open your mouth so much that the popsicle almost fell. He caught it and put it back into your mouth.

"Keep suckin' it, sweetheart. Don't stop 'til I tell ya so."

And you obliged, a small smile on your face as you loved experimenting new things with your man. He licked a long stripe over your damp underwear, making you close your legs around his head. He was quick to separate them and nuzzle his nose against the cotton of it, inhaling your scent. You would be embarrassed if he hadn't done it like a hundred times before. It was nothing new.

"Joel.." You whined, almost pleaded as you gripped his hair. You kept eating the popsicle, licking and slurping at it to provoke him even more. And did he notice.

He looked up at you, eyes dark from his pupils occupying almost his whole irises. He took a finger and pushed at your entrance, penetrating you with your underwear.

"You take what I give you." He reminded you. Your mouth felt open at the sudden contact, aching to be filled. Some of the juice spilled down your chin and onto your chest, and he looked at it like it was the most attractive, sexy thing he'd ever seen. He pumped his fingers a couple of times before his patience broke.

"Damn it, darlin'. I swear I'm tryin' to take my time but today just won't be the case." He spoke, before pushing down his own clothes and your underwear flew God knows where.

He sat you on his lap, pressing you down against the evidence of the effect you had on him. Gently, never being rough, pushed your legs open with his knees and held you like that.

"Oh, look at 'er.. Already cryin' for me, baby?"

He teased, and brought two of his fingers at your slick. You squirmed on his lap, breathing ragged as you tried to find something to hold onto. But he didn't let you.

Instead, with those two fingers, he parted your lips open and looked down at your glistening cunt. It was gaping, closing around air as if it was already preparing itself for the stretch that Joel's length would be.

But.. he didn't do it. Not yet. He pulled the popsicle out of your mouth and pressed it against your hole. Your eyes widened and you gasped for air at the cold sensation, telling him that he couldn't do that, that it was wrong, that—

"Beggin' to be filled, isn't she?" He murmured, hot breath against your ear. He didn't really care about you trying to be cautious, he knew that deep down you didn't care about that either. You wanted to be filled, and he was a man that took your wishes seriously. He placed the popsicle in front of you so you could see it before he slowly trusted it inside of you. You cried out and he hushed you softly.

"Oh, I know, I know." He cooed at you. "She'll get used to it. Now take it."

And you trembled, fighting the internal battle of pulling his hand away or letting him fuck you senseless with a popsicle. The sticky, orange, freezing cold stick was melting inside of you. And every time Joel pulled it out and pushed it back down, some would drip out of your hole. Juices mixed with whatever blend of fruit you poured into those molds, all dripping down to the floor.

You could sense Joel's eyes locked on it, his breath becoming more labored than he would like to admit. He would beg to clean up that mess with his own tongue if it meant tasting your tangy, slightly sour slick.

"Takin' it so good, princess. Look at you. 's it feel good?" He asked, whispering against your ear. You couldn't see him but you knew that he looked pussy drunk, that grin on his face that told you he was high just from watching you take a popsicle or whatever he pushed inside of you.

You were a mess. Hair sticking to your forehead as the old ceiling fan wasn't strong enough to cool down any of you. Your own back felt sticky and hot against Joel's chest. But did he mind? No. He loved every liquid that would come out of you, even your sweat. He had eaten you out after being hours on patrol, sweat pooling in every fold of your body. But he just couldn't wait until you showered. That summed up how little Joel cared about any of that stuff.

Your head fell back against his shoulder and you shut your eyes closed as he stretched you further with the popsicle, the sounds were almost enough to make you want to hide your face in the crook of his neck out of embarrassment. They were almost pornographic, and you felt Joel's cock twitching underneath your ass.

"Joel—Please!" You cried out. "I want it. Please. I can—"

The popsicle was shoved into your mouth, pushing down on your tongue and making you gag softly as he went a little too deep. You could taste yourself in it, and it turned you on even more. Joel was tired of your cries, he would give you what he wanted when he wanted it.

"Hold it." He commanded and you held the popsicle, drool dripping out of it and into your chest, making an orange mess.

With his hands now free, he pushed your hips forward and up, lining the red, unattended tip of his dick against your entrance. You squirmed and cried, voice muffled by the long, cold stick.

"Shh, sh, sh. I got you, sweetheart."

I whispered and pulled you down against it with one swift move, having little to no mercy with your aching hole. He pushed on your lower back and you leaned forward as he started moving his hips deliberately, kissing your cervix every time he went up. He moaned at the sight of orange juice still pouring out of you, coating his cock along with your slick.

"What a sight, baby. I bet.."

He took the popsicle out of your mouth, and you panted for air. Your moans and soft cries filled the room as he filled you, stuffed you full to leave you limping for a week.

"..It'll look prettier like this." You almost didn't hear him, the pleasure overtaking you.. *almost*. But he made sure you did, at least, feel him when he pushed the popsicle into your rosebud, making the small hole stretch around it. He whimpered at the sight, something he never did. You gasped, holding onto the coffee table in front of you for dear life as you could swear you saw your soul leaving your body for good.

The squelching sounds, juices dripping everywhere making a mess around you two, was enough to make you near your orgasm. He pumped the thing in and out at the same rhythm as he raised his hips. You swore you'd never felt more full in your life, warm and cold at the same time in different places. He stared in awe, watching both of your holes swallow both him and the popsicle smoothly.

When Joel noticed that you were near, he picked up the pace of both: the popsicle that entered your anus with ease, melting and filling you to the brim, and his cock that you could swear you felt on your stomach.

"Thatta girl.. milk my cock, sweetheart. Yeah, good fucking girl."

He babbled nonsense, an indicator that he was close too. With not one, not two, but three thrusts he gripped your hips, biting down –gently– onto your shoulder as he painted your walls white with his seed. You could feel your legs twitching as his body trembled, your name coming out of his mouth in soft prayers. You followed quickly after him, closing your walls around his length in a way that almost got it hard again. You stayed there, bodies still intertwined and covered in fruit juices, panting for air until you both came back to reality.

He then scooped you up into his arms and carried you upstairs. He would clean up the mess later, he said as he guided you both into the shower. Once there, he made sure to clean up every dip and crevice of your body while you felt your eyelids drooping. He caressed your back gently and pressed soft kisses against your forehead and shoulders while rubbing you dry, making sure you were taken care of and never felt like any encounter was just to please him. Then, he carried you to bed and cuddled up against you, placing your head on his chest and running his fingers through your hair gently, like he always did to soothe you.

"We gotta make those more often. You know.. to survive the heat."

He murmured with a smirk as you drifted off to sleep. And all you could wonder was how the fuck did a man twenty years older than you have the stamina of a beast.

[redwinelew]

you're my best friend | lewis hamilton [1/3]

social media au. black + actress!reader

summary — you and lewis have been the best of friends for years but the world thinks there might be something more. until.... (read part two here)

face claim — taylor russell

song — you are in love by taylor swift (taylor's version)

warnings — fluff (for now, more angst in the future lol), inconsistent timeline, lmk what else i missed

author's note — as always pls ignore the dates, time, likes, rts etc i really can't be bothered to change them 😭😭

all pictures taken from pinterest. credit to owners.

instagram!

liked by hoooooyeony, ayoedebiri and 2,473,928 others

tagged ynln

lewishamilton happy birthday to the girl who always puts the biggest smile on my face. i love you sweetheart.

view all 4,847 comments

user1 the caption is so fucking insane lmfao

user2 show this post to someone who doesn't know who they are and i bet that person will most definitely that they're dating

user3 user2 ???? are friends not allowed to wish each other happy birthday now or did i miss something

user2 user3 not with that kind of caption no you don't lmfao

francolapinto happy birthday ynln !

ynln francolapinto thank you franco!! ❤️❤️

user4 they're just friends yall they've been friends for years pls

user2 user4 uh huh yeah sure jane

user5 user2 maybe don't speculate about real people's personal life??

user2 user5 can't i'm too nosy

user5 user2 ok yk what what's kinda valid

user6 thank god they're just friends actually cause otherwise the age gap would be insane

user7 user6 1) none of your business if they're dating or not 2) she's a grown 30 year old woman???? istg why can't yall just let ppl be happy

chappellroan happy birthday baddie

ynln chappellroan *totally not freaking out that my fave singer just wished my happy birthday* thank u queen!!

user8 ynln bestie that is SO real of u

ynln you're extra sappy today

lewishamilton ynln it's your birthday of course i'm sappy. i'm always sappy for you.

ynln lewishamilton loser

lewishamilton ynln just for you

user9 ynln lewishamilton i'm gonna jump off a cliff

twitter!

instagram!

liked by mercedesamgf1, tomholland1996 and 5,387,282 others

tagged lewishamilton and mercedesamgf1

ynln i was lucky to have been there during your glory days, but i think i was even luckier to get to support you through one of the most difficult moments in your career and maybe even your life back in 2021 because i know that those dark days would not last forever. i hope you know that you deserve every bit of this win, my darling angel. i love you so much lewishamilton.

view all 7,383 comments

user1 i feel so normal about this caption

user2 what kind of friends call each other sweetheart and my darling angel

user3 user2 ikr like atp they're def oblivious

user4 user3 or maybe they're just scared to confess bcs they don't want to ruin their friendship

user5 user2 there's no way that they're dating like have u guys seen his dating history? he likes older women (nicole, shakira). yn is only 30. maybe they really are just friends

user6 user5 yeah now that u mention her age...... kinda weird to ship them idk

user7 user6 girl she's a grown ass adult woman tf are u on about 😭😭

zendaya send my congrats to him ❤️❤️

ynln zendaya i will!!

messages!

twitter!

messages!

— thank you for reading! part 2 is coming soon <33 as always reblogs and feedbacks are always appreciated!!

[solaireverie]

op81 | best he'll ever write

summary: [ author!oscar piastri x f!driver!reader — social media au ] being the partner and muse of a celebrated author means that fans start connecting the dots sooner rather than later

faceclaim: gracie abrams

author’s note: i'm secretly a ya romcom book girlie and i feel like that shows SO MUCH in this fic 🙈 delusional for life!

[ masterlist / guidelines / lola's masterlist / series masterlist ]

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, liakblock and 534,230 others

geotag: melbourne, australia

yourusername short break down under 🐨

view comments

user great race at the australian gp y/n!

↪ user first points of the season let's goooo

↪ yourusername and hopefully many more to come 🙌

logansargeant STRAYAAA 🦘🇦🇺🦘🇦🇺

↪ yourusername VEGEMITE ON TOAST 🤤

↪ user sometimes i forget that logan and y/n are both gen z 😂

user the puppy is so adorable 🥺

↪ user i wonder whose it is 👀 y/n's said that her schedule doesn't allow for pets

oscarpiastri not my birthday cake...

↪ yourusername sorry not sorry 😉

↪ user who the hell is oscar piastri and why is y/n replying to his comment 😭

↪ user don't you talk about my favourite best-selling author like that 🤺

oscarpiastri has added to their story

seen by yourusername, logansargeant, jennyhan and 124,203 others

you replied to oscarpiastri's story

liked by oscarpiastri, logansargeant, landonorris and 3,393,210 others

tagged: oscarpiastri

yourusername can't believe that little kid is now a 3-time nyt best-selling author 🥹 so proud of you oscarpiastri 💗 i haven't been able to put eighty-one seconds down 📖 available in bookstores near you!

view comments

user i love how y/n always supports and promotes oscar's books 🥺

↪ user they're so adorable together my heart can't take it

oscarpiastri Thanks for the encouragement. Couldn't have done it without you 👍

↪ yourusername damn right you couldn't have 😤

user okay but who took the photo of y/n 👀

↪ user i'm betting it was oscar 😜

↪ user hello what 😳😳😳

↪ user oh my sweet summer child...

liked by yourusername, hachetteaus, johngreenwritesbooks and 293,192 others

tagged: yourusername

oscarpiastri Thank you to everyone who's been on this journey with me. Eighty-One Seconds is finally yours and we can't be more happy to share it with you. As many of you have guessed, it is my homage to Y/N and all the time we have spent together. My wife, my love, my heart. I'm grateful that you're in my life. Forgive me for re-using my words, but here's to eighty-one more years together.

view comments

user hold on a damn second 🤚 his WIFE??? when was this a thing 🧐

↪ yourusername 🤭

↪ user give us answers please 🙏 i haven't had peace since oscar posted this

yourusername i love you too, oscar jack piastri 🤍

↪ user oh he literally named his mc after himself 😭

↪ user GOODBYE??? JACK AS IN HIS MIDDLE NAME??? oh my god they really weren't subtle

williamsracing signed copy when 😏

↪ hachetteaus already on its way 🫡

user honestly i'm surprised they managed to hide their relationship for this long 💀

↪ user oh they did NOT we were just blind

↪ logansargeant I didn't find out until I got the wedding invitation in the mail 🤝

↪ landonorris i think that's just cause you're oblivious mate 😂

↪ logansargeant what???

↪ landonorris they literally make out all the time in williams hospitality

↪ yourusername lando... 😒

user if your man isn't writing a book professing his love for you, what's he doing with his life?

↪ user oscar's set the standard 😌

likes and reblogs are appreciated!

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[gurugirl]

I need a breeding kink blurb PLS 🙏🙏🙏

⛔️ WARNING ‼️ SMUTTY SMUT BREEDING KINK SIZE KINK ALL THE KINK (enjoy 🤭) + plus a link to an audio porn on tumblr to really get into that wet pussy sound 🙈 I'm so sorry in advance but I am in fact ovulating according to my calculator and this was... Anyway there's no plot, this is basically only smut. PLEASE DON'T READ IF YOU'RE NOT INTO THIS KIND OF THING THANK YOU

587 words

😈😈😈😈

"Oh baby... look a'you... getting stuffed so deep. Loves getting her little pussy filled up and bred yeah? Need Daddy's come honey? Need me to put more babies in this belly? Fuck you til your tummy's swollen, your tits are full of milk, and pussy ruined?"

"Mmm..." you tried moaning but you were out of breath and your gargled noises were stifled by the way he was plowing into you, long and heavy strokes that dipped into your guts and punched the air from your lungs. All you could do was lie there with your legs spread apart as he fucked the life from you. His fat cock was making your walls ache he'd been going at if for so long.

"Can't speak, little mama? Don't want the kids to hear do we? That's right... just let daddy fuck you til your come hole is full of my sperm and let it sink in deep so I can knock you up over and over again. Likes her pussy stuffed with cock and come and her womb full of babies..."

Harry loved it when you were pregnant. You already had two kids and he was raring to go for a third. But so were you. You loved watching him be a dad. And you'd love to see him holding another tiny baby again - your tall, tattooed, and strong husband holding that delicate bundle against his chest with tears in his eyes, humming a tune and swaying slowly back and forth. Just for that, you'd give him as many babies as he wanted.

"Already had you stuffed with all my cream this morning, now here you are all sweaty and gagging for more. Fucking need it don't you? Gonna take my come honey? Little mama wants it, yeah?"

You could barely nod but you managed to knock your head back and forth. You were exhausted after he'd already given you two orgasms but now you could feel him coming to his end, his arms were shaking and his thrusts were getting sloppy with that big cock twitching as he stretched your walls. His impressive size was addicting.

"You ready? Think you can take another load?"

"Mmmm..." a pathetic wet mumble fell from your lips as Harry choked out a groan, trying to keep quiet so as not to wake the kids and you felt him throb and throb as he dropped his mouth open wide and pasted his hips against yours, unloading hours and hours worth of vital come into your womb, his balls emptying every drop inside of you.

You were very much done for by the time he pulled out but Harry wasn't. He angled your hips up with a heaving chest and stuffed himself back inside, holding his shaft to keep steady as he fucked his come into you, "There we go. Let's get that all in there," he watched as he dipped inward, keeping you full of his sperm, wet squelches (NSFW LINK - opens up a tumblr audio porn, no visuals 😈) coming from your pussy with the way he was plunging back into you to make sure his come didn't leak out, "Get that pussy fed and happy," he hissed as he pumped in gently, his cock sensitive to the touch after his orgasm.

He enjoyed the view of it... your shiny puffy pussy wrapped around his thick shaft as he pushed his come back inside you until he couldn't stay hard any longer. You were sure that was baby number three.

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[neowinestainedress]

wave | lee donghyuck

pairing: lee donghyuck x fem reader genre: college au, academics rivals to lovers, kinda fake dating, forced to work together on a project, smut, fluff, humor (idk), music major!haechan, music major!mc | not really requested but thank you 💌 anon for the inspo summary: your indifference toward Lee Donghyuck, also known as Haechan, becomes rivalry when he decides to sabotage you. The battle turns into a war, the war turns into a plan, and the plan, well, the plan fails miserably... or succeeds wonderfully. After all, it’s all about points of view. Or, Haechan thinks he found a way to distract you and be better than you, but doesn’t think it thoroughly and screws it up. warnings: smut, mentioned weed consumption, alcohol use, fingering, oral (receiving), unprotected sex, public sex, jealous sex, bickering, teasing, etc | inclusivity notes: reader wears different hairstyles (no mention of texture, type and color), no mention of body type (but haechan lifts her a few times), no mention of skin color, no use of y/n wc: 22.4k (out of 42k)

a/n: finally i’m back! i started this fic more than a year ago so seeing it finally come to life means everything to me. i had so much fun writing it, so i hope you’ll love it too. please, let me know with comments, reblogs (that also help reach more people), or anon. i love knowing what you think. enjoy! also if there are formatting mistakes please let me know cause i’ve been having problems posting this and i copied it without editing it once again.

masterpost (with visuals and playlist) (i can’t post the link or else the post doesn’t show up in the tags, but you can find it on my profile)

Being number one in your academy isn’t a want, but a need.

You didn’t spend your entire life crafting your skills and splitting yourself between the books and the training room for all of that to be swept under the rug when you finally made it to your dream university; Neo Arts Academy.

Surely, with the prizes promised to those on top, you aren’t the only one with that racing passion to drive you through each day. Tons of people try their best, and even put their health at risk to reach the biggest success, but you manage to focus on yourself and keep your life in a pretty healthy balance.

You managed to focus on you… until something, well, somebody, started to come into your way.

Lee Donghyuck, also known as Haechan, his stage name —if he ever made it big in the industry he wanted to be already known.

You never paid him much attention. Honestly, you never paid attention to anybody, your only goal was to take care of your small garden and top everybody else, but when his competitiveness got the best of him, you just couldn’t push him in the back of your mind.

Apparently, his goals are the same as yours, and that isn’t a nice thing considering how competitive your world is. You first truly glanced at him during a songwriting lesson, when he huffed a bit too loudly behind you while he announced to his friend, probably named Mark, that he sucked at writing songs. However, you only chuckled mindlessly that time and went on with your day.

That was your first year there and everything went fine. Then the second year arrived and you applied for your minor degree in dance and that was when Donghyuck’s presence started to be louder. You had nothing against him, but you quickly learned he couldn’t stand you for some reason. Rumours were quick at flying around, being passed from mouth to ear and you knew them.

You simply couldn’t care.

Yet.

Haechan doesn’t hate you. He could never do that. After all, he doesn’t even know you. But he does know something about you. He knows your name, and how it is always on top of his in any ranking. He knows you will always win the contests he wants to win so badly. He knows you are good at theory and practice. He knows he just can’t win with you.

He also knows nothing can touch you. Not because you are unreachable and believe you’re superior to others. Actually, you are very modest about all your academic success, but you always walk straight on your road with the goal perfectly in the line of view.

Haechan doesn’t hate you. Though, lately, he has a strange feeling in his body every time he sits at his desk to study and his only motivation is to surpass you. Nothing different than the first months there, he got pretty soon you were going to be a tough but nice competitor, but fuck he never imagined you would be so hard to beat. Now that after a year he never won or got the top grade and always came second after you, you aren’t motivating him, you are driving him insane.

He doesn’t have many distractions, but he has friends, some hobbies outside of university, and even a part-time job. But you? Is there something that is distracting you? Is there anything that could distract you? He has no idea, not now that he is watching you walk into the room, ready for the classical ballet history class —yes, of course out of all the minors, you had to choose his— and sit a few rows in front of him, all alone as always, taking out your lilac book note and your pen.

Haechan has no idea, but he is going to find out something that can easily distract you and push out of your path.

You know people think of university as a moment to socialise, but being on your own has never been a problem for you. You have contacts with some of your hometown friends, and most importantly, you don’t mind doing things alone; you can go to the cinema when you want, you can pick whatever restaurant you like, you can take a walk, or stay at home.

You’ve always been comfortable in your bubble, and you’d like to keep it that way, but life has strange plans.

“Damn, always on a rush.” You recognize Haechan’s voice, but you don’t bother turning around because you’re sure he’s not addressing you. You think it’s weird he’s sitting next to you, but you blink the surprise away and grab your tablet from your bag. “Whoever put music theory at 8:30 in the morning on a Monday needs to go to jail.”

You chuckle at his comment, subtly rolling your eyes before opening the note app to go where you left it in the previous lesson.

“You write a lot.” This time you’re quite sure he’s talking to you, so your neck turns to look at him and you find him closer than you’d like him to be.

“I annotate, it’s just the essentials.”

He scans the notes quickly before scoffing. “The essentials? I don’t write as half as that.”

“Well, I think this is essential, but we all work differently,” while you’re answering him, you don’t even notice that his friend is not beside him, and you get lost in him for a second, mostly in the scent that’s filling your nostrils now that his brown jacket is so close to you.

“The professor talks too fast, how the fu— how do you get everything?” He stops himself from cursing and backs away, finally making you breathe some air that is not filled with his intoxicating perfume.

“I rewrite phrases. And, to be sure, I record the lessons, so I can re-listen to them in case something doesn’t make sense when I study them. And then I also re-write the not—”

“You record the lessons?” He almost snarls with his eyes bulging out of his skull as he, once again, stands too close to you.

“Is it illegal?” Your head tilts to the side as genuine curiosity blooms on your face.

“No, it’s… it’s…” he sighs, throwing his head back and cursing something under his breath in a tight dialect you don’t recognize. “I never thought about it.”

“Oh, well, it helps me a lot. Sometimes when I’m too tired to read I just play the lessons and memorize stuff while I do other things,” you smile, moving your hair to one side of your neck before grabbing the pen when the professor walks in. “You should try.”

“Oh, you can be sure I will.”

Haechan can’t be so stupid. He can’t believe he can be so stupid. Why didn’t he ever, ever, think about that? That’s a smart idea, better than crying and cursing when he tries to understand what he wrote down on paper when he revisits the notes, or asking Mark if he wrote some phrases he had marked down with several question marks or dots to fill —dots that he never fills.

But he’s still sure he can’t be a terrible student, he had always been on top of his classes, always aced them and his study method worked… but what if yours worked better? Given the results of the past year, and the start of this one, the answer is clear: yours do work better.

But he doesn’t think that it’s the only reason you are beating him in everything. What if you have other tricks?

Haechan is going to find out.

You always believed your only competition was yourself. You never liked to engage with other people and fight them or fear them. But Haechan had given you no choice.

It was an open threat at you when he purposefully told you a different day to turn in an assignment when you were sick, you had no choice but to fight back.

That was when Haechan truly became your rival. He had always been, you two were always at the top, fighting for the first place and the big prizes, but now it was a matter of pride.

Haechan had officially made it on top of your blacklist, at least he could arrive number one in something, not like there was a big competition to be in there, in fact, you didn’t even have one before he pushed your last nerve.

Fucking it up with you wasn’t Haechan’s plan, he wanted to befriend you and trick you into giving him some magic tricks, but things went… wrong. With Mark by his side, it was impossible to sit next to you. During songwriting you got up and sat on another seat in the middle of the lesson with the excuse of ‘not seeing from afar’, and he couldn’t approach you in any other circumstances. So, when you got sick for three days, he thought he could, for once, steal your spotlight.

He wasn’t sure you were sick, but he was sure enough you weren’t going to miss lessons days to study or work on projects; you never needed extra time, unfortunately, he knew it well. So the only thing that could lock you in your place was an illness of some kind. He did feel bad when you came back four days later and asked him if you missed something, he could see you still weren’t at your best, and he could’ve tried his luck by telling you the truth, hoping that the precarious state you were in was going to make you come up with a terrible essay on an instrument of the 18th century, but his eagerness got the best of him, and he lied.

So he had officially screwed his plan of getting closer to you.

“You are an asshole,” you scream, slamming the books in front of him on the table in the garden, not caring about his friends staring at you in shock. “And don’t look at me with that face of ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ because you know what I’m referring to.”

“I don’t, though…” he whispers, trying to keep a distance between you because you look scary —half bent on the table, furrowed forehead, pointing finger— and he thinks you are very motivated to reach over his neckline and strangle him.

You roll your eyes, groaning in annoyance. “You told me Professor Kim left an essay for Monday, I thought I could use the weekend to do an amazing job and he called me to his office because I was three days late.”

Haechan gulps, and the table goes silent, you feel his friends’ gazes on you but they are the last thing in your mind.

“Mind to explain?”

“I… I didn’t do it on purpose?”

“You have to ask me if you are an asshole because your mother didn’t put a brain in your skull?”

“Hey, take it back!” He warns with a pointing finger, glaring at you.  

“No,” you retort, crossing your arms on your chest and standing up straight. “You sabotaged me.”

“You are making things up. Maybe you should be in the creative writing major,” Haechan taunts, a shit-eating grin on his face.  

You gasp offended, clenching your fists to avoid wrapping your hands around his neck. “You — you — ugh,” you huff. “This paper was graded! And you knew it, it’s part of the mid-course work he adds to our final grade. Why would you do that to me?”

“You think I did that on purpose?”

“When did you turn it in?” You ask and when his eyes widen you scream at his face. “See! You turned it on time. I fucking hate you!”

“I didn’t answer,” he tries to defend, a challenging edge in his voice, getting to your nerves more than the look on his face.

“First of all, I can see it in your face. You’re trying to look surprised and even scared, but you’re having the time of your life because, guess what, you can’t surpass me if you don’t play your stupid games.”

He snorts offended, gulping before leaning closer. “You think I can’t beat you?”

“It’s not what I think, it’s what the rankings say, it’s what our professors say, and it’s what all the external opportunities I’ve got say. But if you want to try to prove facts wrong, bring it on,” you shrug, grabbing your things and taking a step back. “No more dirty games from now on, Lee Donghyuck. Trust me, you don’t want me to start playing them too, you might not even see the top three if I do.”

The months to come are fire. You should keep minding your business but as soon as he opens his mouth in class you can’t press your lips together and fake it. You try, every time, but you fail.

“I just mean that the melody is what attracts people,” he argues during a discussion in the songwriting class.

You huff, shaking your head. “People care about the lyrics more.”

He scoffs loudly and the professor glares at him for the reaction but he still goes on. “People won’t listen to a song if the production sucks.”

You turn around, eyebrows pressed in a furrow. “And they won’t listen to a song if the lyrics are dumb, or tell a bad message.”

“Really? Catchy pop music is a thing even if you want so badly to maintain the purity of the art of music with only lyrical depth.”

“I love catchy pop songs, but there’s something objective in music and something subjective, if you paid attention to any of our classes you should know, right?”

The class holds back a laugh and the professor coughs, making you utter an apologize, more addressed to her than your enemy.

“Oh, trust me, I paid attention to class,” he retorts, mockingly smiling at you. “And we’re not talking about the quality but the appeal. People remember the rhythm of the song or the tune more than they remember the words.”

“And words can hold so much meaning for someone they will stick to them forever. Also, lyrics can have different interpretations and if you’re a good writer you can make one song fit for more occasions.”

“That’s dumb,” he says, looking at you up and down after scoffing. “Notes can transfer different emotions, what you said just doesn’t make sense, please.”

“Can we tone it down?” Professor Park warns, glaring at the both of you.

You nod and mutter another apology before speaking up again, “I believe that a good melody can easily attract people at first listen, but if we talk about the long run, a memorable song also needs good lyrics. And Mariah Carey herself said how being a songwriter makes your career last more, so I think it’s telling coming from one of the best voices ever.”

“I think you both make a great point,” the professor cuts the conversation off before you can jump at each other’s throat again. “It would be interesting to make a deeper analysis and maybe break down songs and compare data over time. If it was possible to keep the decorum…” she whispers the last word and you want to disappear because you hate the scene you gave. “But we need to move on with our lesson, so, as I was saying…”

Out of all the heated discussions you had in class, the one about the importance of production and lyrics, led to your worst nightmare, working on a project with him. Professor Park was so nice to pair you together because she wanted to see how your different points of view would’ve worked in the song you had to write and produce and even if you smiled and said, ‘it will be really motivating,’ to avoid yelling at her face, now you want to die.

You’re sure the first two knocks on the door don’t even reach the other side; your hits are too weak and the small apartment in that complex is too loud for anyone to hear. Is this the environment you have to work in today?

You roll your eyes and knock again, this time making sure it’s impossible for them not to hear you. You wait there only for a few seconds and then the door opens, revealing a boy your age you can’t remember.

“Oh, hi,” he cheers, big toothy smile beaming at you. “You must be here for Hyuck, right?”

You hum, nodding and murmuring, “Yes, I have to work on a project with Haechan.”

“Come in.”

You step inside the house and look around briefly before your eyes fall on the table in the small living room; there are books everywhere, headphones on the ground, boxes of food and empty water bottles, and most importantly talks too loud for four boys that were supposedly studying.

“Mark, can you lower the music?”

“Music is what I’m studying, I can’t,” the man you know well replies. “Why don’t you keep your pencil close to you? Jesus, there’s graphite everywhere.”

“You’re so annoying, I can’t go in my room, Jeno still didn’t take down the light boxes,” the brown-haired replies, sending a death glare to the boy at his side who quickly replies to his defence.  

“Hey, I finished shooting half an hour ago and now I have an essay to write, leave me alone.”

“They’re entertaining, aren’t they?” Haechan’s voice brings you out of the haze of his bickering friends, their conversation fades in the background while your anger level rises just seeing his face when you turn around.

“Surely more entertaining than you,” you retort before taking a step forward, pretending to know where to go in that house.

Haechan rolls his eyes, thanking his friend who opened the door —Jaemin— and coming next to you. “You don’t know where my room is yet, so if you’d like to follow me.”

You trail behind him, waving at the men around the table but it’s clear that none of them even noticed your presence. Luckily for you, Donghyuck’s room is at the end of the corridor and the mess that goes down in the other room is not hearable enough to make your day a living hell.

“So, do you have anything in mind?” He asks after you sit at one of the chairs at his desk.

You shake your head, fixing your skirt and pulling out some things you might need from your bag. “Wanted to hear from you first. Since the melody is so crucial, we should start from that,” you mock in a fake-sweet tone, and you feel his glare on your skin.

“You truly are a pain in the ass, you know?” He scoffs, moving his hair out of his face, gaze fixed on you.

“And for what? Because I agreed with your theory?”

“If you have a melody in mind it’s easier to make the words flow.”

“If the melody has nothing to do with the idea, you only have some notes and not a song.”

Now that there aren’t rows of chairs dividing you, the heated argument has led you face to face, literally. And you feel your heart pound in your chest from the anger and, also because it’s weird to be this close to a stranger you can’t stand.

“Okay, Miss Taylor Swift, why don’t you enlighten me and show me what you got?”

You glare at him but he’s unfazed, holding the eye contact proudly. “My lyrics will be better than your production.”

“And are those lyrics in the room with us?”

“God,” you groan, throwing your hands in the air and your head back. “You drive me insane.”

“And you are pretentious and still never prove all the things that that little, bratty, annoying mouth of yours says.”

Deep creases show on your forehead, and you have to turn around because if you see his face for a second more you will slap him. But you want this project done, you have four weeks to turn it in, but you want this torture to be over as soon as possible, so you know you have to put the pettiness aside.

“If we want a great result and good grades, we need good lyrics and a good melody,” you say, calmly facing him again, slowly watching as his face softens. “My words and your production. I don’t care what comes to us first, if you think it can be useful, we could even brainstorm some tunes and catchphrases and then build it around it.”

“Now you’re making some sense,” he exclaims, smiling widely before patting the top of your head. “So that head is not empty.”

“Oh, seriously? I’m trying to have a truce, and you fuck it all up again?”

“No, sorry, I just think you’re really smart when it comes to college but a bit annoying when it comes to life.”

“You’re just mad you can’t beat me.”

“I can,” he retorts smugly.  

“Then why don’t you do it?” You tease, cocking your head to the side.

Haechan scoffs, lips twitching in a quick smirk before he wets them. “I didn’t yet, but are you so sure I won’t?” He whispers, breath colliding with your lips and nose brushing yours, your brain doesn’t even register his hands on your legs right away, only when his fingers caress your bare skin right above the hem you wake up from the haze of having him so close.

“Time will — time will prove us,” you say, turning to the desk and scratching your neck. “Time will tell us, not prove us.”

Haechan snickers, moving closer to see on your tablet where you opened the notes, and smiles smugly. He thinks he found a way to distract you.

The project isn’t done in the first week, and to put a cherry on top, Professor Park decides to make it the big project for the end of the class, adding a cover for the single, a plan to sponsor it, and, if someone feels brave enough, even to record it. Even if you wanted to, a thing this big, and now with so much weight on the final grade, can’t be done in one week.

Yet, you think you’ll have to deal with Haechan only on your weekly meet-ups for that project and during lessons, you never imagined you would have to deal with him even during your library study on Wednesday.

“Why are you studying in the middle of the week?”

“You know, if I had to replicate a sound every time we start a conversation it would be ‘and now, I just want to sit back and relax and enjoy my evening, when all of a sudden I hear this agitating grating voice,’ and that is the sound that plays in my mind, actually.”

“Grating? Really?”

“Well, it’s the quote but it fits,” you reply sternly, bringing your attention back to the book. “Also, the question is not, why am I studying, but why aren’t you? How will you beat me if you don’t?” You wink, laughing under your breath. You don’t even need to see his reaction; you know his jaw tenses and his nostrils flare for a brief second every time you tease him.

You hear the chair in front of you scratch on the floor, and deeply hope he’s not sitting on it. But Haechan is sitting on it, staring at you as if he could steal the information from your brain and pass it to his.

“I am studying.”

“No, you’re not,” you reply, eyes widening when he rips a page from your notebook and a pen from your case. “So, what have you learned since now?”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes to the sky and instead run a hand on your face while sighing deeply. There’s just no way to get rid of him, right?

“You don’t even know what I’m studying.”

“Sound design,” he replies promptly, and you look down to see if he could’ve gotten a grasp from your books but there’s a paper on it and there’s not much written on it. Haechan smiles and moves to the chair next to you. “It’s because I started it too, there are too many notions, it would be a suicide to wait for the finals.”

“Oh, so you do something else other than think about me,” you tease, nudging him with your leg.

“Hey! I don’t think about you,” he replies firmly, frowning.

“Sure,” you huff, waving him off. “So, what do you know?”

“Well, all the basis we learnt last year, so the definition of sound, the path it follows, how it’s perceived based on the medium and how fast it travels through them, slowest through gases, faster through liquids, and fastest through solids, and that temperature effects it as well.”

You smile, content with the reply but you want to test him more. “What about the five characteristics of sound?”

“You think that’s a difficult one?” He asks, almost disappointed at the easiness of your question.

“Well, if you want to impress me so bad, I could ask you to list all the types of compressors?”

“You already know that?” He questions, quirking a brow, trying to think why he doesn’t remember them. “Wait, we didn’t do that in class.”

You laugh. “See, you’re witty. No, we haven’t done that yet, but since you love producing so much, I thought you knew it as personal knowledge.”

“Why do you talk as if you don’t want to do the same job as mine?” There’s a bit of annoyance in his tone, but there’s genuine curiosity in his eyes.

You shrug, pressing your lips together before diverting your gaze.

Haechan gasps. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what you want to do, yet, because I won’t believe it.”

“It’s not that I don’t know,” you reply, a low huff leaving your lips. “I’d like to try different things out, being a PR manager sounds interesting too. And I’m also pretty good at dancing, so that could be a career path.”

“It’s a shame we didn’t start practical courses, I would love to see you dance.”

“Yeah, sure, so you can mock me some more,” you groan.

He shakes his head. “No, you wouldn’t enroll in a program if you weren’t absolutely perfect at it, so I can’t come at your skills.”

“You’re so kind, I think I might love you,” you mock, moving closer to him and pouting before pushing him away with a light push on his chest and focusing on your papers again.

“And by the way, I know the characteristics of sound,” he says, right next to your face.  

You smile and think to yourself that this might be fun. “Good, go on and tell me.”

You don’t get why Haechan’s roommate bicker so much. Not that you could lecture them when, as soon as you walk inside his room, your talks won’t be much different than theirs (worse, probably). But you think you and Haechan, at least, have a reason to fight so much. His roommates are… weird. They are close. They all are, in an annoying way almost, always moving in packs and breaking their back to meet up even if their institutes are scattered around in the Academy. Yet, they get heated pretty easily when they sit in the living room, and you can only blame it on stress as you chuckle, standing against the countertop with a glass of water in hand.

“Donghyuck left you all alone?” Jeno enters the kitchen, distracting you from Renjun screaming at his painting and Mark cursing while he tries to come up with a melody for a small assignment you decided to not worry about —you have Haechan to worry about now.

“Yep, told me to be here at 2 pm just to be in the shower instead,” you reply with a tight smile on your face that makes him laugh and scroll the black hair out of his face.

“My fault,” he explains while pouring himself a glass. “I convinced him to stay at the basketball field when we finished and he couldn’t meet up with you smelling like rotten leftovers forgotten under the august sun.”

“Creative writing?” You ask after you chuckle at his description.

“Nope, photography, Renjun’s worst nightmare.”

You laugh. “It’s because you leave all those big things around his room, right?”

“Our room,” he says, empathising on the first word.

“Okay, communism king, your room but I don’t think your comrade is happy about it.”

Jeno laughs, and hums before gulping down a sip of water. “I’m not rich yet to afford a studio so he’ll have to deal with his bestie working, sweating, and crying his way to the top.”

“You could’ve been a nepo baby and have everything handed to you.”

“Sucks not to be one. I wouldn’t even bother being in Uni, just leaving my best life with my camera and daddy’s money.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Haechan says entering the kitchen, hair still damp and casual housewear on.

“None of your business,” you reply, placing the glass in the sink and walking to the door. “Come on, we have a song to create. It could be our first Billboard number one.”

Haechan sighs, snatching the bottle of water from Jeno’s hand, briefly confused at his grinning face, and then follows you quickly.

“Are you trying to hit on my friends?” He asks, closing the door behind.

“Would you mind?”

“Yes, I’d hate having to deal with you in our group hangouts.”

“You already deal with me. More than you should since you always come to me even when we could not be together,” you say, tilting your head to the side, and sitting on your assigned chair. “Are you perhaps jealous? Do you want me all to yourself?”

“Nah, you can go and fuck all of them right no—”

“Okay,” you don’t even let him finish and you’re at the door, but he springs after you and stops you.

“What are you doing? I was kidding!”

“Why? Since when you can tell me what to do?”

Haechan groans and drags you back to your place, but he doesn’t sit just yet, he’s bent over to be close to you. “I need you here with me to work on this goddam song, and then you can go and have a gangbang in the living room, I don’t care.”

“You’d be mad you won’t be part of it,” you joke, having the time of your life watching his pissed-off expression as he stomps loudly back at his place. “Accept that you will never win with me, and maybe you won’t be so triggered every time we talk.”

“Shit, it’s late,” you murmur, lifting your head from the lyrics you’re trying to write down. Now you got the theme —it’s a love song that you hope won’t turn lame— and even a faint idea of a tune, and while Haechan tried to get inspired by other songs and tried instruments he wants to add to the track, you worked on the words.

“Don’t you think we’re trying too hard?” He whispers, placing the guitar on his bed before standing up and stretching.

“What do you mean?” You ask, lifting your neck so you can look at him after you turn around on the rotating chair.

“Music should come to you, it should be… spontaneous.”

You’d want to roll your eyes, mostly for the spontaneous part, but he’s right. Most artists don’t think about the songs they make, the song comes to their mind when they’re not thinking about it.

“Yes, but do you think we’re doing such a shitty job with this?”

He shakes his head, walking closer to you. “Not totally, I just think that if we want to be on top, we have to work around it differently.”

You gulp when he hovers over you and grips the side of the chair tightly. “Like?”

“We should… relax. Take our mind off of it and just wait for it to come,” he glances at the desk, studying the crumpled tries you gave up on and the only three phrases you were happy with written on the tablet. “We should get inspired,” he whispers, and you’re once again so focused on his face that you don’t feel his hand on your thigh, under the long black skirt you’re wearing, it surely must’ve been on you for a while if the fabric was already crumpled up and his fingers teased the hem of your panties between your hips and stomach.

“Is — is this how you inspire people?” You ask, glancing down with a rising chest but for some reason not pulling away.

“Don’t know, I’ve never done it before,” he chuckles, slowly moving closer to your core, observing the small signs of your body. “Should we see if it works?”

You hate him. You should be working on that lyric for the last half hour you have left. You hate him. He’s making it impossible for you to stick to your ‘minding my business’ plan that had worked through all your school years. You hate him, you do, and yet you nod, humming a feeble ‘yes,’ in response.

“Good,” rolls out of his lips, and it sounds so different from his usual tone, you can’t help but feel hot.

Your nails sink in the chair when his fingers slip right against your clit after he had your consent and starts teasing it.

“So, it’s a love song…” he says, and you frown, heart pumping louder as for a second you think he led you on and you looked like a pathetic horny loser, but his hand is still playing with your pussy and his face is still close to yours. “Chose that because you have somebody in mind?”

“We literally picked it for a reason last week, you —”

“God,” he shushes you up, pushing the panties to the side and teasing your entrance, it’s already damp, but not enough how he wants it. “Can you stop being so rational for once? I know why we picked it; remember I’m trying to inspire you.”

“Wait, you really think some fingering can inspire me to write a love so—” your words shut down when he places a hand on your mouth, eyes widening but pussy leaking an embarrassing amount of cum.

He quirks a brow in surprise and, shortly after, a smug smirk curls his lips. “Oh, so you’re into that?”

You can’t reply, but even if you could’ve, you’re not sure you would’ve said anything.

“So, anybody in mind?”

You shake your head. Your love life has been anything but exciting, and after a few tries, you were sure it wasn’t what you needed to focus on, especially because nobody sparked your interest. Nobody was worth moving your focus from your studies.

“Great, so I guess that’ll have to be me.”

“What?” You mutter muffled, closing your legs and moving on the chair.

Haechan rolls his eyes in his skull, keeping you in place. “Oh, come on, you can fake it for a few minutes. Don’t act disgusted, I’m knuckle-deep inside you,” he says.

“Not yet.”

“I’m knuckle-deep inside you,” he retorts after he pushes into you with two fingers, staring right into your eyes.

You bite back a moan and a curse under your breath. “Fine, but I don’t want to think,” you say. “Just, prove it to me. If you’re good, I’ll be inspired and I’ll come up with the lyrics, if you suck, we’ll go back to our original method.”

Haechan hates that he constantly has to prove things to you, and he hates even more that he does it, almost as if he’s your dog and he has to follow your orders while you keep him on a leash. But if this will work to come up with a great song, and in his outer-songwriting-course-plan to distract you, he won’t complain.

Honestly, he couldn’t complain even if it only meant to finger you. He might want to fight you every time he sees your face but, damn, what a face.

“Shit,” you moan. You don’t want to give him too much satisfaction, but he knows what he’s doing and it’s been way too long since someone touched you like that. Damn, even since you touched yourself like that. Maybe the whole ‘staring at your goals’ was taking some funny things away from you.

“Do you want to turn the song into a Hozier song?”

You huff, you just asked him one thing and his mouth is running again doing the opposite. “You wish you were this good to inspire a Hozier type of song.”

“Really?” He taunts, pressing his thumb on your clit, starting to tease the throbbing nub in circles.

“Yes,” your voice trembles, but your face shows confidence.

Haechan snickers, quickening the pace of his fingers, watching you fight against yourself to not show how much you’re loving it. “One second of this mouth on your pussy and I’d make you change your mind,” he whispers right against your ears, hot breath fanning your skin. “It’s a shame you don’t deserve it.”

You groan, head rolling back in disappointment, and that makes him laugh.

“You have to think twice before running that mouth, babe. Especially with me.”

“Never,” you talk back, opening your eyes and regretting as soon as they meet his. His gaze is too intense, and your brain is too far gone to keep it up.

Haechan only grins, enjoying your wrecked face and the sounds your pussy is making as his fingers keep working on you. You might try to deny him, but your body is speaking to him, and deeply so are you. It’s in your eyes, and your lips trembling, and in the beautiful moans that are rolling out of your tongue.

“Are you close, brat?”

You don’t have it in you to complain, or retort, the orgasm is right around the corner and you fear he would ruin the experience if you said something out of line.

“Answer me,” he orders, lightly slapping your thigh.

“Yes,” you breathe out, biting your lower lip to prevent the whole house from hearing you.

“Good,” he replies, smiling proudly and starting to move faster in and out of you, hitting your sweet spot every time he reaches the base, and torturing your clit with his thumb. And when it’s too much for you, you come. Body trembling against the chair, and legs pushing up as the shocks of pleasure run through you.

“Acid when you talk but sweet to taste,” he hums after pulling out his fingers from his mouth and you only glare at him as you quickly try to get yourself together again. 

“It’s late,” he says, staring at the clock. “Go home and let me know if this was useful somehow. And not by replaying it in your mind at night wishing I was there with you.” He winks and you slap his shoulder hard. “What the hell!”

“I won’t come up with anything on purpose, and I swear if you keep being so annoying, I’ll be terrible at this.”

“You would never, this makes up like 80% of our final grade.” He challenges you with a glare.  

“If I go down, you go down with me,” you retort, face to face, fiercely looking into his eyes.  

“It’s not smart of you.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” you smile sweetly before it drops from your face. “It’s a threat.”

It’s not like you’re trying to avoid him after what happened, but that’s exactly what’s going on. You don’t regret the act per se, you just can’t believe it was so easy for you to agree to do that with him. And you know he will use it against you for eternity.

A very dumb move from your side to give him the possibility to tease you even more and about something you couldn’t defend yourself from.

But if you try your best to change corridors when you see him from afar, walk quickly back to your dorm room, and sit on the opposite side in class (you fail at keeping your mouth quiet, but you need to discuss with him during lessons), it seems like he’s doing everything he can to be on your path.

“I’m starting to believe you’re a stalker,” you huff, clearly scaring him when you stop abruptly in the middle of the library and make him stop in his tracks.

“I’m not.”

You raise a brow, staring at him until he huffs and throws his hands up in the air. “Fine, fine, I was following you but only because I wanted to know what you will study.”

“Why do you care so much about what I study?”

“So I know how to beat you?”

“Isn’t it more exciting if you beat me only using your brain by putting some knowledge in it without seeing my cards?” You say, pushing a finger on his chest and making him walk backwards until his back hits the bookshelf behind him.

“I think sneaky games are funnier, though,” he whispers, hand moving to rest on your side. “Especially with you.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, and taking a step back, freeing yourself from his hold. “The games you’re playing are not sneaky. Why are you always in my business?”

He shrugs. “Why not? So, what are we studying today?”

“We are not studying together.”

“Why? Isn’t it funny? The same study method, same hours, but one of us will be better than the other. That’s a truly equal comparison.”

You run a hand on your face and keep walking to find what you need. “If you didn’t distract me every two seconds, I would’ve already been like five pages into my studying session.”

“Oh, please, you are wondering around the library anyway. I’m just keeping you company.” His body follows yours like a shadow, his heat radiating so close to your skin that you think you might go insane.

“I don’t want your company,” you say, moving your eyes swiftly over the books in front of you as you try to find what you are looking for in the sociology section. When you finally find it, reminding yourself you have to buy it so you can annotate directly on yours, you walk back to your table, but Haechan is still beside you like a puppy on a string. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”

“I could, and I’d want to, but I can’t,” he says, sitting at your side, smiling widely when you glare at him.

“This is a useless lesson for you,” you try to dismiss him.

“Is it? Because we have the same ones.”

“Jesus, okay, fine,” you give up, throwing your head back and raising your voice enough to make some heads turn in your direction. His biggest talent is to exasperate you. “But we give ourselves a timing, and then when we’re done, we’ll have to answer five questions.”

“And who answers to them all?” He asks, there’s a taunting edge in his voice, and a grin on his face.

“Is the best,” you reply as if it’s obvious.

“Yeah, but there should be a prize.”

“Being better than you is the prize.”

Haechan scoffs, and he hates to admit in his mind that he finds your snarky remarks so fucking hot, if you weren’t in a public library and if his job on earth wasn’t to detest you, he would’ve already had you bent on the table.

“I love how you’re always so sure of being better than me.”

You snicker and send him a flying kiss. “Honey, I am better than you.”

“Wait, I just left out a detail!” You almost scream when you compare your answers for the nth time because you can’t believe he has done slightly better than you.

“That detail is important,” Haechan replies unfazed by your indignation.

“No, it’s not. We would have the same score if this was graded,” you insist, feeling more angered than you should. It’s nothing serious, it shouldn’t be serious, but with him, there’s your pride on the line.

“But this is between me and you, so I win. Also, my phrasing in the second answer is better than yours.”

“Shut up, it’s not.”

“It is, and you just have to admit you lost,” he insists, leaning over, staring at you with a challenging raised brow.  

You swallow, eyebrows furrowing, and then you sigh. “Your advantage is minimal. And you only won a battle, because I’m winning a war.”

“Fine, Napoleon, I still won and you’re coming to my place even Saturday so we can do this some more.”

“Hey, Napoleon sucked! He lost the most important battles, the only ones he should’ve won.”

“That’s why I called you that,” he winks, clicking his tongue mockingly.  

“Oh, you think you will win the war? You’re wrong, honey, Waterloo is yours.”

Haechan laughs, standing up after putting his things in his bag. “I’m waiting for you on Saturday…” he says and before you can complain he starts singing, “Waterloo, I was defeated, you won the war…”

“Oh, shut up!” You say, hitting his arm as you push him away, but he giggles and walks away continuing with the tune.

“Waterloo, promise to love you forevermore. Waterloo, couldn’t escape if I wanted to…”

And you think that if only he didn’t try to sabotage your final grades in Music History, you might even find him funny.

Haechan hates you.

If he was sure he didn’t before, he is sure that he does now.

He can’t wrap his head around the fact that you, Miss zero social skills, and negative 100 friends, can be so good at debating. On every fucking topic. You’re well-spoken, witty, smart, somehow it looks like you know everything about everything. And even when you don’t know (and you always specify it — which he shouldn’t find so hot, but he does) you always come up with perfectly thought theories and analyses coming from the small knowledge you have on the topic. The thing he also hates is that you never sound like you’re showing off your skills, it’s just really nice to listen to you and —when he’s not the one intervening against you— you’re the sweetest person ever and everybody in every class absolutely adores you.

He wonders if you’re a robot. Maybe you’re some sort of artificial intelligence sent there to conduct studies on humans’ stupidity, and he was unlucky enough to start a fight with you. You just don’t seem real. And he’d love to dig deeper but he doubts he will find anything relevant.

You might be smart, but you also look incredibly boring. He tried to find out if you had interests, or anything that could distract you, but his research led nowhere. The biggest problem is that he hates you, but not to the point that he wants to get you suspended from University, so he has to find another way to make you slip.

Apparently, you’re playing the same game, but even at this, you are thinking faster and smarter.

“Where the fuck are all my anthropology notes?” Haechan mutters as he looks through his library, moving books and notebooks around, thinking he has gone insane. “Mark!” He screams, rushing to the desk to search again but he knows where he left everything; on the second shelf of the small library in his room, on top of the music theory book that hasn’t moved since a week.

“Yes?” His housemate peaks from the door only with his head.

“Did you mistake our notes?”

“What notes?” Mark furrows, backing away from his friend who looks out of his mind.

“The anthropology notes,” he says, voice full of annoyance because, why does Mark never know anything? He’s in the same course and, yet, he’s always somewhere else with his head. 

“Man, I don’t even take notes during that lesson.”

“What do you mean you don’t? Ugh, never mind,” Haechan groans, rolling his eyes because he can’t believe he can’t count on anybody. “Have you seen them somewhere?”

“Nope,” Mark replies, entering the room. “I mean, I don’t know what they look like.”

“You know right we have a test tomorrow? The winter break is close, and some courses have it. You are studying, right?”

“Yeah, just not every…thing…”

Haechan rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Why don’t you like it? I mean, I know it’s not really music related but it teaches you so much about other cultures and there’s a whole part about how music is different from culture to culture.”

“Next semester, we didn’t get there, yet. It’s a bunch of complicated terminology and theories I just don’t get,” Mark defends. He never understood why Haechan loved studying so much. He is only there for the music, and a few other theoretical lessons, but some courses don’t make any sense to him.  

“So you plan on being terrible tomorrow?”

“I just want a decent result; I don’t strive for perfection like you and your girlie.”

Haechan almost chokes on his saliva. “My girlie? Who’s my girlie?”

“That girl in class you always get into heated arguments with, and then she comes here and I’m pretty sure you make out when no one’s watching,” Mark says so calmly it infuriates Haechan more than if he was teasing him.  

“Shut the hell up! She’s my mortal enemy and while you have been paired with Yangyang for the song project, Professor Park thought it was nice putting her and me together.”

“Yeah, you can still make out with your mortal enemy,” he snorts, hitting his friend with a playful elbow hit.  

“Mark, shut up and leave, I have to study,” he tries to cut short, pushing his friend out of the room.  

“With what notes?”

“I don’t know. I left them on the shelf, and nobody entered my room since Saturday when she — Oh, my God.”

When your name resonates in the empty classroom after you’ve taken the anthropology test, your blood freezes for a second.

“Haechannie,” you cheer cheekily, turning around and pushing your tote bag far up your shoulders.

“Don’t,” he warns, lifting a finger to stop you from starting anything. “I have to talk to you.”

“Sure, the test was easy, right? You might have beaten me this time,” you say but you have to hold back a laugh when you scan his furious, pissed-off expression.

“Yeah, if you studied, it was,” he retorts venously.  

“And you surely studied,” you say, faking innocence.  

“You can study when you have something to study on,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Yes, and you do,” you still play dumb, but when he calls your surname, you know he’s not joking anymore. “Yes?”

“Do you, perhaps, know where the fuck my notes are?”

You look around, shrugging. “Where are your notes, Donghyuck?”

“I don’t know, I’m asking you for a reason,” he retorts, plastering a fake smile that doesn’t reflect in the darkness of his pupils.

“They might’ve mixed up with my stuff when you invited me over Saturday?” You sing-song, tilting your head to the side and shrugging.

“Might’ve,” he repeats, a hint of bitterness in his tone. “It was just a coincidence.”

You shrug again, pushing your lower lip in a pout. “Sometimes… things happen.”

“And if it wasn’t on purpose, why couldn’t you just text me?”

“Because I didn’t notice,” you reply innocently, batting your lashes, knowing it will get on his nerves even more.  

He groans, closing his eyes to calm himself down before he speaks again, “then how do you know?”

“Don’t know, just making assumptions,” you say. “It turns out I’m really good at it.”

“I swear, I — I want to… I want to —”

“To what? Choke me because I got my revenge? Oh, it turns out it’s really not that funny when someone plays with you?” You mock, and in doing so you get closer to him.

“Goddamn,” he groans before your back meets the hard wall of the room and his lips meet yours in a heated kiss, his hands on your body and yours limp at your side as you’re too shocked to react. “I want to — I want to kill you, actually.”

You smirk, chuckling straight at his face. “Filled the space with the wrong letter, ‘cause you’re kissing me.”

“Maybe my kiss is lethal, maybe there’s poison on my lips.”

“Oh, you’re so romantic you’d die for me?” You coo, placing a hand on your heart.

Haechan groans, throwing his head back. “Why are you always so, so, so, God,” he curses, running his fingers in his hair. “I want my notes back, now.”

“I don’t have them,” you say, grinning because he looks wrecked. You know it wasn’t very morally mature for you, but it was only fair. Also, you know he doesn’t arrive last minute with anything, he had already studied everything and you’re sure he had answered everything on that paper, he just couldn’t revisit.

“My notes back when you pass by for the project or it’s war.”

“It’s already war,” you retort when he walks past you to leave.  

Haechan turns around, locking his gaze with yours. “Oh, honey, it can get so much worse than this.”

You felt like testing your luck when his notes weren’t back on his desk, but you had no idea it could get worse than that, until it got.

When he deleted an essay from your computer and you had to remake and finish the work of five days in five hours, so you cancelled a project he was working on for another assignment you had. And then he erased the recording of a course from your phone, so you ripped his notebook in front of his eyes (and his roommates too). The list of petty things is long, and you’re not really proud (you’re sure not even Haechan is) of what you did, especially when things started becoming personal. You two want to destroy each other, but you are honestly just killing yourselves in the meantime.

Your book slams closed so hard that you almost zip your hands in it, and by protecting your fingers you lose track of where you’ve been. “Get lost,” you whisper bitterly as soon as you recognize the hand that did that.

“No thanks,” he replies, sitting next to you.

“I’m trying to read a book in the quiet of the library, so can you leave me alone?”

“It’s a public space, I can sit wherever I want,” he replies, leaning back into the chair, and widening his legs under the table. You know ‘cause you feel his knee push against yours and you have to retract your leg to avoid the contact.  

You glare at him, breathing deeply through your nose because you can’t make a scene here. You two almost got kicked out of a class two days ago, and that was humiliating enough. So, you think that ignoring him is the best thing you can do.

“Wow, so you have a bit of self-control and don’t talk back. Never thought I’d see that day,” he replies sarcastically to your silence with an amused grin that curls his lips.

You hold back a scream and huff loudly, “I truly need you to get fucked right now.”

“Nevermind,” he jokes, pulling a tight forced smile and you close the book again, now too annoyed to even focus on the words on the paper. “I came here in peace, by the way.”

“Yeah, your peace is war in my country,” you reply bitterly, trying to shift away but those damn chairs make the loudest sounds at the smallest movements.  

“That’s because you’re full of prejudices.”

You inhale deeply, rubbing your temple to soothe the headache you know is about to arrive. “Haechan, tell me what you want and then leave me alone.”

He smiles, happy you are finally willing to listen, before he clears his throat. “Okay so, I have to say that some of this is funny. I mean, only the debates and these random talks, but I’m not the biggest fan of all the other stuff we’re doing, so why don’t we bring it back?”

“Bring it back? As in?” You question, raising a brow in confusion.

“I liked it better when we would just compete without tearing ourselves down. If you cancel, ruin, or save one of my projects with the word boobs in it before sending it to the professor another time, I will go insane.”

You hold back a chuckle. You have to admit it was your lowest move, but it was quite funny when Professor Choi had a whole talk in class about being careful before sending out finished projects and exposed him in front of the class.

“No, it wasn’t funny,” he mutters sternly, watching you fight with all the muscles of your face to don’t break into a laugh.

“No, sorry, it was,” you defend, voice trembling, threatening a chuckle to come out. “Like Iloveboobsdemo1 is the best thing I’ve ever come up with. That could be the title of our song.”

“If you want to get expelled from all the academies in the world that would be a perfect idea,” he says, trying to be serious because seriously it wasn’t funny, but when you stare into each other’s eyes for too long none of you two can hold back the laughter anymore. “Okay, fine. It was funny, but I don’t want that to happen again.”

“So? Do you give up?” You taunt, tilting your head after placing it on your palms.

“I’m not giving up, we are changing strategies of our combat.”

“Oh, okay. You will lose anyway in the end, so if this can be more beneficial for me in the meantime, it’s fine.”

He sighs, rubbing his temples, and you chuckle. “Don’t laugh,” he whispers distraught. “I… could you sometimes at least pretend to give me some kind of chance of winning with you and not feeling like you’ll always have the last laugh?”

“I just replied.”

“No, a reply would’ve been ‘Yes, Haechan, don’t worry, we can change it.”

“Too wordy,” you comment, waving him off with a movement of hand.

“You said like ten words more,” he replies, voice breaking in his throat in a whine, but you decide to act as if you don’t notice.  

“It still flowed better. See, that’s why the lyrics are in my hands. You’re really not good with words.”

“You keep doing that,” he groans, slamming a hand on the table, attracting some curious eyes on you before you glare them away. “But it’s fine, okay, so… no more dirty games? No more sabotaging?”

“Yes, no more. Well, not like this, but we can still play a bit, right?” You ask, retracting your hand right when you’re about to hold his to seal the deal.

“Yes, but nothing weird, or you know what I mean.”

You hum, reaching out again and shaking his hand. “It’s a deal, then?”

“It’s a deal.”

The deal somehow turns into Haechan always being next to you. He’s like a shadow, sitting next to you in class, studying with you in the library, and so on. You don’t mind him when he minds his business, but he rarely does. Especially during lessons when you need to focus on what the professors are saying.

You roll your eyes when Haechan sneaks a paper next to your notebook and you read ‘how would a dog wear pants’ with two badly drawn different options on it.

“Does it look like the right moment?” You whisper under your breath, side-eyeing him, and trying to keep your focus on the lesson. You see him nod and decide to mark the second option, thinking that he’d be happy with it, but he has the urge to hear a whole dissertation on something that will never happen, right now.

“Why?” He asks as if you’re not in the middle of a lecture.

“Not now.”

“But this lesson is boring,” he whines, poking your side with his elbow.  

You huff, covering it with a cough when you realize it is too loud, and then take a sip from your bottle of water.

“You didn’t answer,” Haechan insists, this time poking your arm with the cap of the pencil. 

“I picked one,” you mutter, pointing at the paper with your head.  

“Elaborate and change my mind.”

“You think it’s the first one?” You say in disbelief, the utter shock causing the tone of your voice to be louder than you expected.

“Any problems there?” The Professor asks, and you feel your blood freeze.

“Mh, no, nothing, my pen has no more ink, I was asking for another one,” you lie, thanking God you two are sitting far in the back of the class and the Professor can’t hear and can’t see that your pen isn’t dead at all. So, with a suspicious nod, the middle-aged man goes on with the lecture while Haechan giggles beside you.

You glare at him, and he shrugs raising his hands. “If you kept quiet, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“If you let me concentrate on the lesson instead of asking dumb questions, it wouldn’t have happened,” you retort, and he laughs under his breath again, but doesn’t ask more questions. He still ruins your notes with ugly flowers and other drabbles and you let him be because at least he’s being silent and paying attention.

“So, you really are giving up,” you say when the bell rings and the class starts emptying.

“What makes you think that?” He asks, putting his things in his bag, just like you.

“You didn’t write anything down.”

Haechan shrugs. “Why would I? I have your notes.”

“No, you don’t,” you say but before you can realize he rips the notebook from your hands and snaps a picture of the two pages you wrote. “Hey! That’s not fair. That’s my work.”

“Your amazing summarizing skills and my artistic skills. I don’t gift beautiful sunflowers to just anybody.”

“Beautiful sunflowers?” You snicker, starting to walk down the stairs, pushing the notebook into your bag as Haechan follows at your side. “If Renjun saw them he would have a heart attack.”

“Can’t compare Vang Gogh to Picasso.”

“Keep Picasso out of your mouth,” you say threateningly.

“Still, aren’t you happy you will think of me while studying?” He bats his lashes, and you hold back an entertained grin.

“Can’t wait to go through the absolute most painful ulcers every time I glance down on those things.”

He gasps offended, bringing a hand on his chest. “See, this is what happens when you spend all your days on socials and your brain doesn’t know how to appreciate real art anymore.”

“You are so annoying, and distracting. Next time if you sit next to me, I’ll push you off the chair,” you warn, and only when a colder blow of wind hits you, you realize you’re walking back to your places together.

“Right!” He says and you think it’s the good time he leaves you alone, but no, he’s not done. “You didn’t explain why the dog would wear it only on its hind legs.”

“Is it really that serious? Why do you want to know so badly?”

“It’s funny. I’m sick and tired of hearing you only discuss music, sociology, and the media and other stuff.”

You sigh. But you still have a bit to walk, so you might as well have to deal with him and his hypothesis about dogs. “Because pants have to cover your lower body, so legs, and ass and everything else. If you wear them like the first option, half of the ass is out. And also, the back limbs correspond to our legs, we’re divided in half horizontally, not vertically.”

He doesn’t reply right away, processing your answer. And you think you broke him.

“Oh!” You exclaim. “Zootopia, animals wear clothes like the second picture.”

“Really? You had a whole statement that made perfect sense and then you added a cartoon to your thesis?”

“But it still makes sense,” you argue back. “And, most importantly, I made you agree with me,” you wink before stopping when you reach your complex.

“Fine, fine, you’re right,” he gives up before looking behind you. “You live here?”

You nod, searching for the keys in the tote bag, and you think it’s time to stop pretending that’s Mary Poppins’ bag and throw away some useless stuff.

“I thought there were only rooms here,” he states, looking at the big complex a few meters away from the university.  

“There are common dormitories, and then there are some one-room flats. I got one with a scholarship when I graduated. It’s less expensive than an apartment and I get a small place all to myself.”

“Oh,” he whispers. He doesn’t know why he thought you had roommates. “So, you’re alone, alone?”

“No, you can’t come in,” you say.

“I didn’t ask that,” he frowns, offended you would even imply that. “I thought you… well, oh, never mind.”

“Yes, I’m alone, so I can do whatever the hell I want. If I want to cook, I cook. If I want to stay up all night to study, I do that. If I want to dry the clothes in the middle of the living room, that is also the bedroom and the kitchen, I do that.”

“Is it really that small?”

“It’s decent, I guess. It’s spacious enough to live in it comfortably but not big to the point I have to waste days cleaning it.”

“Maybe we could study there, no loud roommates screaming in the living room.”

“I like the mess of your place, and I’ll be there Friday.”

Haechan rolls his eyes. “Come on, I hate the library. Can’t we for once study at your place?”

“I never invited you to my studying sessions,” you groan.

“But you love it.”

“No.”

“Yes, you have an orgasm every time you know something better than me.”

“Please, shut up,” you wave him off, starting to walk away.

“I don’t care, I’ll be here tomorrow,” he screams when you’re too far, clearly running away from him.  

“And I’ll be at the library!”

You never go to the library, to be honest, you were just unlucky enough that the washing machine thought it was the right moment to leak all over the floor and Haechan found you at home with your coat on the couch, the tote bag next to the door and your jeans half soaked as you tried to fix the mess on the pavement.

From that moment, your meet-ups become more and more periodic, whether it’s at your place, his or at the library. You hate to admit it, but the competition drives you forward, and you love seeing his face every time you defeat him somehow.

“Are you busy this Saturday?” He asks while he strums with the guitar to come up with a chord progression for your song.

“Yeah, why?” You reply, poking the cap of the pen to your cheeks, drifting your eyes on him.

“Want to go out with me?”

“What? Saturday is my day to study and do my things like I want to,” you say. It was the only day, along with Sunday, you had to fix all your notes without being wrecked from the lessons of the day, or listen to lessons while cleaning the house, and so on. You tried to squeeze everything there so Sunday could be your free day and you could dedicate it to your hobbies and to write for the magazine you worked for, nothing too serious, just some money to add to the survival costs that your parents would send you, and the monthly entrance you had when you would get called to help a dance studio downtown.

“Great, we’re going out tomorrow.”

You huff, slumping back on the chair. “No, we’re not. I’m busy.”

“You can take one afternoon for me,” he replies, placing the instrument next to him. “Come on, it will be fun.”

“Where would you even take me?”

Haechan smirks. “It’s a surprise.”

When Saturday afternoon arrives, you don’t know how to feel. You spent the whole night trying to find a positive thing about it, and the good thing is that for once you are leaving the house to do something funny —you hoped so— not all by yourself. The bad thing is that the person you are going to do this thing with is Haechan.

You try not to worry about it too much, he’s not that bad when he wants to, and he’s funnier than you’d like to admit, so maybe taking a small break from the obsessive studying and tidying, will do you some good.

When you hear the knocks on the door, you grab your coat and your bag and head to open it.

“Hi,” he says. “Anything to fix before we leave?”

“Don’t say that, they will hear you and break all together.”

Haechan laughs, briefly looking at your body, mostly covered because it’s still cold outside and you have way too many layers on you. “Toy Story for home appliances?”

“Yeah, that would be my life,” you reply, closing the door behind you and walking outside of the complex. “So, where are you taking me?”

“I told you, it’s a surprise,” he says. “Don’t expect anything big, I just don’t want to hear you nag about it.”

“Hey, I appreciate almost everything.”

“Yeah, it’s the almost that worries me,” he says. “Hop in the car.”

“You have a car?”

“Yeah, it’s right in front of your eyes,” he answers, gesturing to the space next to you.  

You turn around, holding back a laugh when you see the old blue car, it’s surely a Hyundai, you have no idea about the model, but you know for sure it’s falling apart. “This is the car?”

“Yes, I’m sorry I’m poor.”

“It will get us killed,” you say opening the door, letting out a breath of relief when the handle doesn’t stay in your hold.

Haechan rolls his eyes and sits in. “Can you don’t be overdramatic for one second?”

“I’m stating facts. Are the airbags still working? Is the oil level high enough? The battery? And the water for —” Your eyes widen when his lips crash on yours. At first, it’s a harsh attempt to shut you up, but then his lips shily go for more, moving along yours with a small flame of need.

“I won’t kill you, but please shut up,” he begs when he pulls away, sooner than you want to, later than he should’ve.  

You gulp, trying to shake the dizziness and the way his kiss made you feel lightweight. You might occasionally still want to wrap your hand around his neck but he’s quite good at being a charmer.

“I’m giving you the privilege to pick the music,” he says once you’re on the open road, the lights of the city shine against the windows and the other cars pass beside you.

“Yeah, can I connect my Spotify to the car? Oh, wait, this model from the future directly brings the singers into your backseats so you can have a live concert,” you joke after seeing the car radio.  

“Wanted to take the metro?”

You laugh. “No, I’m just… why did you say that as if I could connect the aux or the Bluetooth? It was funny.”

“Fine, you’re forgiven,” he says. “Just play it through your phone.”

You hum, already deep into the scrolling of your music catalogue. “Can I put my driving playlist?”

“You have a car?”

“No, I have a driving playlist.”

“Why would you have a driving playlist if you don’t have a car?”

“Because right now it comes useful,” you wink, pressing play without waiting for his answer.

Haechan smiles, quickly glancing at you before his attention is fully on the road. “Baekhyun?” He asks with surprise when the second song starts. “You listen to Baekhyun?”

“Everybody should listen to him,” you reply, already getting defensive because his next words could be the last straw of your ‘relationship.’

“Oh God,” he whispers.

“If you tell me you’re a hater I’m jumping out of the running car and changing the trajectory of your life forever,” you warn, turning to the side to have a better view of him.

“Me? A Baekhyun hater? He’s my father! I just can’t believe you have some sort of sense and taste.”

You slap his shoulder, making the both of you break into a light-hearted laugh.

“You scared me for a second,” you say, placing your hand on your beating heart.  

“Sorry. So, it turns out we have one thing in common,” he jokes, creases creating at the corner of his eyes as his features soften and a genuine smile blooms on his face.

You shrug. “I mean, we have many things in common, actually. That’s why we get along so badly. Maybe it’s true, opposite attracts and that’s why we don’t attract.”

“I think we do attract… proved it a few times.”

“Once,” you reply immediately.

“Twice, with the kiss…”

“You did that to shut me up.”

“I don’t shut up just…” anybody… “I felt like kissing you.”

You smirk, loving watching him struggle. “Nothing wrong to admit you find me attractive,” you tease.

“Unfortunately, your mouth ruins everything.”

“My mouth is the thing that attracts you the most about me, or else you wouldn’t keep lingering around me like bees on honey.”

“Bees make honey, they’re not attracted to it. Bears are.”

“Yeah, you look like a bear, you know?”

He glares at you, and you laugh. “Bears are cute.”

“And attracted to honey.”

“And do I look like honey?” You ask teasingly. “Wait! You always call me honey!”

“It’s a mockery honey, not a sweet honey. You’re not my honey.”

You think about it. “You’re not my honey… could be a line of our song.”

“No academy talking today. It’s forbidden. You have to forget about uni.”

“Fine, I’ll forget about it just for today.”

The dates with Haechan, you can call them dates, right? Well, anyway, whatever they are, they become more common. At first, you tried to reject his weird, most of the time, last minute, proposal, because they would throw in the air all of your plans, but after a while, you somehow still found a way to go back on track without screwing up your academic goals.

“Why don’t you stay?” Haechan asks. It’s another Friday afternoon, and you two met up to go on with the song’s project. Much to your dismay, you have to admit you are the one who’s holding you two back. It’s like words can’t come out of you, not like you want to, at least. But Haechan’s not mad at you. Actually, you like the atmosphere around you when you lock in his room for those sessions. One time, he even made you try edibles to see if you could come up with something, but you ended up making out on the floor instead, so you stopped going for that path.

“I don’t know,” you say, huffing when you glance at the words in front of you and remind yourself that they don’t make sense. “I was thinking of going home and maybe listening to your tracks and…”

“Come up with something?” He drags the chair closer to you and steals your papers to read them. “It’s not as bad as you made it to be.”

“Yeah, it’s a good song, but it’s basic. And I feel like it’s a bit… cliché.”

“You do know that everything has already been written?” He jokes, but it’s not a teasing remark, it’s the truth, and he’s genuinely trying to lift your spirit.  

“I know, but it’s not my style, this is not how I usually write, I —”

“You write?” He stops you and only then you realize what you said. “Like, you have written songs before?”

You nod, shame pervading you when he stares at you with an expression you can’t comprehend. “Are you going to make fun of me?”

“No, I just thought you preferred lyrics over production, but I had no idea you were a lyricist.”

“Now, lyricist… I try, sometimes…”

Haechan smirks, poking your tummy making you cover it with your arms. “So there is something you’re insecure about.”

“Oh, I knew you were going to have a ball about this,” you groan, rolling your head back.

“No, hey, it’s just… I’ve never seen you like this about something you do. You are confident, usually,” he explains with no hint of mockery in his voice.

You sigh, looking at your feet tapping the ground and then look back at him. “It’s just… very personal,” you confess. “I think it’s clear I don’t have lots of friends. I used to, back at home, but here I’m alone. But even back then I’ve always felt like there was something I couldn’t completely let out. That’s why I love dancing, I can express myself in a different way, but I found out it still wasn’t enough and when I started playing the piano again I… started writing. It started almost as a joke, and it was a cheesy break-up song when my ex cheated on me, like the cheap version of drivers license,” you joke and he laughs with you.

“But it was still better than this, I guess?”

You hum, shaking your head. “Nah, my first song was a mess, but then it was like I just couldn’t stop writing, so my songs became my diary. Every time something happens, I write about it.”

He hums, moving the chair closer until your legs intertwine. “So, to write a love song you would need to fall in love?”

You’re taken aback by his question, and don’t reply right away. “No, I just need to be inspired. I’ll watch some movies, and it will come to me.”

His face twists in mild disgust as he shakes his head. “Movies are fake, it’s better to live things on your skin.”

“I don’t have time to date, and I can’t just find someone that easily,” you say laughing. “But don’t worry, I won’t make us fail. I’ll try to edit this and make it work if I really can’t come up with anything else.”

Haechan is not convinced, it’s clear in his face and the way his leg is bouncing nervously, but he doesn’t get back on the conversation. “Are you staying?”

“I have some notes to edit and —”

“You have tomorrow,” he cuts you off. “Come on, I have to do it too.”

You groan, hating the way you can’t say no to his big eyes staring at you. “Fine, but not too much.”

It’s useless to say that none of you get those notes written better.

“God, are you fucking Professor Kim?” Haechan growls, grabbing your wrist and stopping you in the college corridors right out of Music History class, the last lesson of Tuesday.

“What?” You babble out, surprised by his angry tone and his speculation.

“No cause you’re his favourite and it’s driving me insane,” he utters under his breath, glaring at you.

“I’m his favourite?” You tease, tilting your head to the side, loving the fire that turned on between you two. It had been three calm months, the bickerings were too intellectual and you missed this.

“Yeah, I gave him the exact same answer and he found the tiniest thing to say I wasn’t right, just so he could hear yours instead and praise you.”

“Oh, poor baby boy, Professor Kim didn’t give you head pats and now you’re mad?” You pout, patting his head in a mockery gesture. 

Haechan groans, throwing his head back, and pushing you into the nearest empty class, closing the door behind.

“Haechan, what are y—”

“Shh,” he says, shushing you with a stern gaze and a squeeze of your wrist. “You passed by his office the other day, didn’t you? Needed extracurricular help ‘cause you didn’t understand something,” he mocks with a high-pitched voice. “Taught you how to play his flute in a historically accurate way?”

You’d love to laugh at his terrible blowjob-music reference but when his gaze darkens, you only chuckle, and that’s enough to drive him mad.

“God, for you is just a game, isn’t it?”

“You really think I fucked Professor Kim?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure he fantasizes about having you bent over his desk and, fuck, it drives me mad.”

“You wish he fantasized about having you bent on his desk?” You joke, smirking.

He groans. “No, I hate the way he looks at you, and talks to you, the last thing he had to do today was to call you a good girl in front of the whole class.”

Your lips curl in an amused grin, but your heart —and something else— flutter at the way he says ‘good girl,’ you try not to show it and go on with your teasing. “Not my fault I’m good, and I’m interested in his subject.”

“Your fault you lick his boots,” he groans, pushing you flat against the door, standing so close to your nose. “I know you’re smart and you don’t need to ride a dick to be first in class but…” he stops, inhaling your scent, and leaning against your forehead.

You lift his head with two fingers under his chin, and lean in, whispering, “you still want to see me bent over a desk, and you want to be the one railing me, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t reply, not verbally at least. The only answer is a guttural moan and two arms lifting you, making your legs wrap around his waist as he kisses you roughly.

“Hyuck,” you moan into the kiss when he starts walking toward the desk, sitting you on the edge.

“Yeah?”

“We can’t — we — this is, we can get expelled…”

He snickers. “Be quiet and nobody will even hear us.”

“What if they lock us inside?”

“Shut up,” he groans again, kissing you another time as his bag drops on the floor. “You drive me so fucking mad, you have no idea.”

You snicker under your breath, but your heart loses a beat when his hands roam on your thighs, moving closer and closer to your heat. “Wait,” you whisper.

“Wait, what?” He hums, cupping your chin and lowering your head, staring straight into your eyes. Haechan scoffs when your thighs squeeze against each other and he can see you gulping. “Don’t act like you don’t want this,” he whispers, leaning closer to your lips, making you believe he’ll kiss you, but you only get a taste of his thumb rubbing over your full lips, “don’t act like you don’t want me.”

“Haechan!” You scream when he rips off your tights, the tear of the fabric resonating in the room as you look down in shock. “I’m gonna kill you,” you groan but he’s not bothered in the slightest.

“They were getting in the way, and I get rid of everything that gets in my way,” he says with a smirk.

You laugh mockingly. “Then why am I still here?”

His brows furrow and a small pout forms on his face but he shrugs it off. “I’m taking care of you, I told you,” he groans, kissing you harshly. “You’re not winning the war.”

“Oh, and your military strategy is to fuck me?”

“Yeah, until you forget everything.”

You huff loudly when he finishes ripping the tights from your legs, the only pieces left the ones trapped in your shoes, and you’re glad the skirt is long enough to don’t make you freeze on the way back home.

“So much better,” he says proudly, staring at his work of art, letting his hands wander on your now bare skin. “And, now, let’s find out if there’s a way to shut you up.”

You look at him in anticipation, waiting for his next move as if your life depends on it. And you hate to be so eager, you hate you fantasized on it more than you should’ve, but you want to know what his lips feel like. And it’s almost as if Haechan hears your secret thoughts.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” He taunts, kneading his fingers on your flesh.

“Nothing,” you mutter, trying to sound more confident than what you are.

Haechan laughs at you, shaking his head as he slowly gets on his knees, looking up at you. “You are always so fucking proud and annoying.” His hands rest on your knees before he pushes them far apart, forcing you in place as you uselessly try to close your legs. He tsk, shaking his head. “Don’t act ashamed, I’ve already felt you, and tasted you.”

You don’t reply. It’s hard to keep eye contact but this is bigger than sex, this is a game between you two and, he might not beat you in class, but he’s beating you right now.

His laugh brings you back to earth and you hate the smug smirk that’s sitting on his face. “So you do get quiet, thought I needed to give you a taste of my mouth to shut you up.”

You open your mouth to retort but the stern glare that flashes on his face is enough to put you back in your place.

“Good girl,” he says and your body trembles before you can even try to hide it. “Should I get a better taste of you?” He stares at you, waiting for an answer that doesn’t come, not like he wants to at least. “Use your words, babe. You know how to run that mouth when you want to, so, beg for it.”

“Fuck, no,” you retort, trying to move away but his hold on you doesn’t give any signs of loosening up.

“Okay, then,” he says, slowly standing up, and grabbing his bag. “See you around.”

“What?” You squeal, grabbing his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” he replies, shrugging.

“That’s not fair,” you reply, and he snickers.

“What? Are you wet? Do you want me?”

You don’t expect that reply and struggle to find the words, even more now that he’s standing between your open legs, keeping them apart, and his eyes are staring down at you, pinning you down in place. “I don’t want you,” you lie, swallowing the gulp in your throat when his right hand sits on your waist. “I just… I want to fuck.”

“Oh, do you? Well, there are plenty of people here, I’m sure many of them would want you. You know, even if you don’t pay attention to anybody, people look at you,” he whispers, caressing your jaw with his other hand. “First on the list is Professor Kim. Don’t you want to feel the thrill? Come on, go to his office now, so I can have something to hold against you forever.”

You chuckle. “Yeah? Want to blackmail me so I can do all the essays for you? Maybe you’ll get the best grades like this,” you tease, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt and making him groan.

He licks his lips, staring at yours, and you smirk. “I don’t need you to be first, and you know it.”  

“Do I?” you tease. “Want to be first at something?”

“Don’t,” Haechan warns, eyes darkening even more while the tent in his tight pants becomes even more evident.

“What? You can be the first one who fucks me on a desk if you quit playing hard to get.”

“I’m not playing hard to get,” he replies, leaning even closer, your bodies are pressed together and you can feel his hard dick press against you. “I won’t be the one begging, especially to eat you out,” he groans, cupping your chin unexpectedly. “Don’t act as if you didn’t think of this before. I’ve seen the way you get lost in my fingers when we study together. You see me twirl a pen in my hand and you wish I was inside you, don’t you? And when we argue? There’s always a small fragment where you lose focus and stare at my lips. Where do you want them, honey?”

Your brows furrow but your entire body reacts differently, a small shake, while wetness pools down your panties, soaking them even more, and your eyes close because you can’t bear his smug glare.

“I said,” he urges, giving a quick squeeze to your chin, “where do you want my lips?”

“On — on me,” you breathe out, voice muffled by the firm hold on your face.

His lips twitch as he leans closer and kisses your cheek. “Here,” he says, holding back a laugh when your eyes widen. “That was where you wanted them, right?”

“Oh, fuck off, you know what I meant,” you huff.

“No, I’m the dumb one, remember? You are smarter than me, you know everything. I’m always a step behind, I need you to guide me step by step,” he mocks in a condescending tone, pouting.

You take a deep breath. “I hate you.”

“Oh, I know,” he laughs. “But if you use just three magic words I’m sure you’re going to love me for a while.”

You don’t want to give up but you’re on fire, and you fear that the more time passes by the more someone could find you out.

“I’ll ask nicely one last time,” he whispers against your lips. “Then I’ll ask you to do something for me and you’ll lose my lips for the second time. Where do you want them?”

“On my pussy,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes.

“Fucking finally,” he laughs. “Was it so hard Miss big brain?”

“Stop mocking me!”

“Mocking you?” He asks, getting on his knees again before grabbing your panties to pull them down. “I might hate you but it would be dumb to not recognize your qualities, right?”

You don’t reply, you have other things to worry about. For example, your mortal enemies kneeled between your legs in an empty class of your Academy, staring into your soul, ready to eat you out.

“So, since you’re so good with words, here we go again. Beg.” Haechan craves putting his lips on you just as you do, but this is the only moment he can have some power over you. And after the humiliation of today’s class, he has to make you pay for it a bit. Or maybe he just wants to hear that even if you’d choke him and slap him, you still want him.

“Please, Donghyuck, please,” you plead, looking into his eyes.

He’d love to hear you beg for him more, but the way your cunt is dripping on the desk is already enough to tell him how much you want him, and for now, it’s enough.

When his lips come in contact with your skin your legs immediately hook around his shoulders and you can feel the chuckle on your wet folds.

“Eager, honey?”

“Just, please, eat me out already,” you barely have time to finish that he stops playing around and starts moving his mouth on you. Your head falls behind while your thighs squeeze tighter around his face. Your hands clench on the edge of the desk as you try to keep your balance, but it gets harder with every lick of his tongue.

“Keep quiet, the door is closed not locked,” he reminds you, pulling away from you just to pick up again.

You try to don’t be too loud, but he’s better than you expected and maybe this was the wrong time to try this out. You should’ve simply begged him to fuck you, but now that you’re in the middle of this, the last thing you want is to stop him.

One of your hands is brave enough to let go of the hold on the desk and reach his hair to push him closer to your body, surprising him.

Haechan always thought you were much more shy than this, honestly, he didn’t even hope much for this to happen. But you surprise him, not only you let him have you in a random class at your university but you are also pushing him closer.

“You are eager,” he muffles against you, he can’t pull away when you’re pressing him down with so much force, but the way you’re acting is setting him on fire. He loves hearing you moan and whimper, not a word coming out of your pretty lips to confront him, just bliss on your face and voice. And that pushes him to give you even more, putting his entire self into eating you out until he almost drags screams out of you, making both of you forget where you are.

You’re not sure how many minutes pass by but when the orgasm rushes in your body you feel it’s too close. You’d probably force him down for another round if you were in any other place but you don’t feel brave enough.

“So? Disappointed?” He asks, cleaning his chin as he stands up, reaching you again. “Don’t lie, you’re still dripping down the desk, you’re even more turned on than last time.”

“I’m not,” you lie. You know you are, and Haechan knows it too.

“What is it? The thrill of being caught? My skills? Just me, or something else?”

You don’t know why you reply with what you reply, but you do. “Maybe someone else,” you tease, not even sure he’ll take the bait, but he’s too caught up in you to see the games you’re playing.

“Yeah? And who’s that?”

“See, I always believed you were perspicacious and could catch details, I can’t believe you didn’t get it. You’re so sure Professor Kim wants to fuck me, ever thought I want him too?” You bat your lashes and Haechan tries to silence a groan, but you feel his fists clench at your sides.

“Don’t play with me, I’m not falling for this.”

You shrug. “Fine, I’ll still think about him while you fuck m—” he shuts you up with a rough kiss, pushing you down the desk with a quick movement that makes your heart jump to your throat.

“He’s not even that hot,” he groans, turning you around before bending you on the desk, and pulling your skirt up around your waist. “And he’s not even that old, there’s not even the charm of the dilf.”

“He’s smart,” you talk back, not sure how much you can pull your luck.

Haechan scoffs, slapping your ass. “Not smarter than me.”

“You’re not the professor so…”

“A degree means nothing,” he says, his chest pressing against your back. “What’s that you like so much about him?”

You chuckle. You’re not sure if he’s playing into your game or is just so easy to fool, but either way, you decide to keep going. “Everything. Don’t you see him?”

Haechan groans. Out of all the people, out of all the professors, he has a very personal beef with him that started at the start of the year and the way you just praise him so much —even outside of this specific situation where he got you’re messing up with him— drives him insane.

“Because he’s the best at everything? Isn’t he?”

You nod, expecting him to talk back but the only answer you get is the sharp sound of his belt being pulled away from his pants and smacked against your ass. “Fuck,” you curse, hating the way your body buzzes with pleasure at the impact.

Haechan chuckles. “I wonder what he would think of you if he saw you like this.”

“He wouldn’t think,” you say. “He’d act, fucking me like I deserve instead of wasting time like you.”

When his cock fills you up with no warning you almost scream but his hand is quicker at reaching your mouth.

“Yeah, would he fuck you better?”

You groan in his hand, but your brain goes blank with each thrust into you, pulling his hips back before he snaps them forward, so forcefully that you slide upward on the desk and he has to pull you down so that your hips don’t hit the wood.

“Answer me,” he urges, making a makeshift ponytail with your hair to force you up. “Would he?”

“I… I don’t know,” you cry out, feeling him deep inside of you, filling you perfectly.  

“You just have to test me until I snap, don’t you?”

“He seems —fuck— fitter than you.”

Haechan snickers mockingly. “Yes? You want to be thrown around? Like you’re worth nothing? Do I have to do that to make you feel good?”

You shake your head, ass perking up, your feet on their tips as you try to keep balance.

“No? Is being fucked in a class enough for you? Does it satisfy your needs?” He hisses, eyes rolling back when he focuses them where your bodies meet, your cum dripping down his length and balls. He can’t believe how turned on you are. “Thought you were innocent but look at you.”

“Not my fault you don’t catch details,” you retort with a small bit of sanity —not really— you have in you.

“Details? Or maybe you’re just an actress. Making everyone believe you only think about grades and studies and here you are, drooling while I fuck you over a desk. Begging for my dick.”

You don’t even realize you are drooling down the desk and when you’re about to clean your chin, Haechan grabs your hands and pins them in place behind your back.

“No,” you whimper, falling flat with your chest pressing down the wooden table.  

“Yes, honey,” he mocks. “I want to see you become a mess for me. Should I take a snap of you like this? Send it to Professor Kim so he can see he will never have you like this?” He whispers against your ear. “Think I don’t know it was all a play? Not only you don’t like him, but you wouldn’t risk your reputation for a terrible fuck when you have a brain like yours.”

Your pussy clenches. It’s the way his voice sounds like velvet, it’s how deep it’s hitting you, it’s in his words, and the way it turns you on that your number one rival, the one that despises you, still knows your value.

“Still, I’m pretty sure he wishes he could see you like this,” he adds, biting your earlobe. “A shame he can’t, right?”

“Y-yes,” you mumble in a pathetic wail.   

“But maybe I could still keep it to myself,” his hips start moving with more force and you can’t hold back your moans as you clench around him. “Yeah? Want me to take a photo of you like this?”

You wish you could reply but words just don’t come out of your lips, brain emptying and eyes rolled back in your skull.

“Maybe another time,” he says, breath getting ragged as he keeps fucking into you with determination. “Don’t really want to pull away to take a pic of us.”

“There — there won’t be —fuck— another time,” you reply, forcing yourself to speak.   

Haechan snickers. “The mess between your legs tells me otherwise,” he mocks, reaching in front of you to play with your clit, making you shake. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, you deserve good things, even a good fuck from me.”

“Too much,” you cry out, feeling your eyes getting wetter as the orgasm starts choking you.

“No, you just haven’t had a decent orgasm in ages,” he retorts.

“Shut up! You know —shit— you know nothing.”

“Honey, I can only imagine you playing with yourself, but your hands or toys don’t come close to me,” he says, so smugly you can feel the smirk on his face.  And you can’t even retort because —as much as you hate it— he’s right.

“Come here,” he says, putting a hand over your shoulders to pull you closer to him. “Are you close?”

You nod, biting your lower lip until it bleeds because you’re sure the sound of your ass slamming against his hips is already a giveaway of what’s going on inside this room. You clench around him when he bites down your shoulder to muffle a louder groan as his hips start moving faster as he chases his climax.

You feel your legs give up as the second orgasm hits you and you hold against the desk again because you don’t know where else to hold on to. Haechan tries to keep his curses low, sticking his face in the crook of your neck and you feel you could come again just by his voice alone; his moans the pretties sounds you’ve ever heard.

“Oh god,” you breathe out when he gently lets go of your body and you can relax on the hard surface again, squirming in discomfort when he pulls out of you.

“I hope you didn’t tear my panties apart, too,” you say, rolling on your back, making him laugh.

“Don’t move, you’ll stain the skirt, it’s the only clean thing on the table,” he says, grabbing a napkin to prevent you from making even more of a mess.

“And who’s fault is that?” You ask, glaring at him.

“You should just thank me for the orgasm, better, two orgasms, I gave you.”

You huff, rolling your eyes, but still letting him clean you up, after all, the cum was his, so it’s his place to clean it. After you’re sure you won’t ruin the last untouched piece of clothes you have, you sit up, taking your —uncomfortably— wet panties to put them on.

“So…” he whispers as he cleans up the rest of the mess on the table and shoves your broken tights in his bag, “it was just for fun, right? You have no intentions with Mr…”

You break down laughing. “You’re so easy to fool. You seriously think I’ll ever let him see me like this?”

Haechan scoffs, finishing fixing his clothes before walking to the door. “It’s not about what you would do, is if you think of him.”

“I don’t,” you reply, following him even if you feel like your legs could give up any second. “I wonder if your jealousy was also a play,” you tease, nudging him as you two walk down the corridor to leave.

“It wasn’t jealousy, you would just have terrible taste if you truly liked him, and I have beef with him.”

You chuckle, deciding to believe him.

“Wait,” he says, stopping to search for something in his bag.

“I’ll go for the door, reach me,” you say, starting to head on, you’re not even sure you two could be there at that time. “Lee Donghyuck,” you curse when you try to push open the front door. “What did I say?”

He walks toward you nonchalantly and shrugs. “Yeah?”

“They locked us in!”

He smiles, shaking his head, and grabbing your hand. “Can you run?”

“What?” You blink a few times, trying to understand how his question fits the situation.

“After I fucked you like that, can you run?”

“Shush,” you scold, fearful someone might hear, you’re not sure who since you seem to be completely alone, but better safe than sorry. “And no, I don’t know, I… why would we run?”

“Do you trust me?” He asks, reaching out his hand for you to take.

“No,” you say resolutely.  

“Good,” he smirks before he starts running into the corridors, giving you no chance but to follow him, cursing and damming every life decision that led you here, with cum threatening to leak out of you after you finished having sex in the class of your Academy and are now running to go God knows where, locked inside the institute.

“Hyuck!” You scream when he runs up the stairs and you swear you never felt so much adrenaline rush in your blood but when he looks back for a second and shows you his big bright smile with his hair falling in his face perfectly, you swear the world stops and all your worries are lifted from your shoulders. Maybe you trust him. Maybe you need to be this carefree sometimes.

Your heart jumps in your throat when he pushes open an emergency door and the mild breeze of March runs over you. You breathe in deeply, pushing into your lungs the air and the first early spring scent, letting the wind play with your hair and your clothes while your hand never lets go of his.

And then you both start laughing. Never looking back, and terribly looking forward, watching your steps as you run down the emergency stairs. You laugh, and you’re happy and you can’t believe your fingers are still intertwined with the ones of your mortal enemy.

When you reach the ground floor, hidden in the back of the palace where the sun doesn’t shine, there are still some tears spilling out of your eyes. You two pant, trying to catch your breath, and look at each other before you have to look away or else you will start laughing again.

You can’t believe you followed him blindly.

Your hands are still intertwined.

With each passing day, Haechan is convinced he has a perfect plan. It’s all part of the original plan, but if he gets you to try out romantic things, not only will he distract you from your perfect grades but he will also make you come up with a song that will give him a perfect score.

There are some small details that Haechan didn’t even consider. Detail number 1: where this could lead you two and your relationship. Detail number 2: that while distracting you, he will inevitably distract himself. But he doesn’t get it until it’s too late.

Haechan can’t remember when you started to dress up so much every time you hang out. You always dress well, or maybe he is biased for thinking that even the most basic white turtleneck shirt and cargo pants when you are too done with life to put up your skirts, dresses, or cutely styled other types of outfits, look amazing on you. Yet, during these last few dates, you started doing more, playing more with your hairstyles, trying different make-up, and always looking perfect in whatever clothes you put on your body.

Haechan hates you. Now more than ever because this was supposed to be your silly little race to the top of your second academic year and yet here he is, feeling his heart pound in his throat as you walk toward him. With your hair in a slicked-back ponytail, a freaking heart-shaped side part, your short red dress, while the white cardigan covers your arms and shields you from the light breeze, and your red short heels tap on the asphalt and bring his attention to the white socks that reach you right below your knees, while your hand clench around a heart-shaped bag.

He hates you because he wants you too badly and he’s terrified this is crossing the lines of bland and stupid physical attraction.

You smile, calling him Hyuck and he’d love to scream because he can’t be so smart and yet so dumb at the same time. But he tries to ignore it, and smiles back at you, addressing you with your surname so he can put some distance between you. You don’t even get mad anymore, it makes you smile tenderly as you lower your face to the ground and tangle your arm with his to walk to the car. Now he hopes that the old sardine can will make you two blow up, not to kill you, but to don’t make you accept a date from him anymore.

But that old car struggles but doesn’t crash, and drives you to the restaurant safely.

“This place is so pretty,” your voice rings in his ears, bringing him out of the thought he’s struggling with since you walked out of your apartment.

“Yeah, it’s musically themed, thought it was a good idea.”

“And the dishes also have song names? That’s the best thing I’ve ever seen,” your face lightens up when you scan the menu and in reflection, he does too.

What the fuck are you doing? He curses when he catches himself lost on you, too focused giggling like a child as you catch the references between the songs and the plates. You look like a cliché embodiment of love, and he thinks you’ve done it on purpose. It’s way past Valentine’s Day, but he feels that Cupid is flying right above you, ready to play him a dirty trick.

“So? You picked?” You ask, bringing him out of his thoughts, and he shakes his head, coughing while glueing his eyes on the menu.

“Nope, I’m a bit uncertain,” he says, pretending he wasn’t just too busy staring at you a few moments ago.

You laugh, humming. “Oh, I know.”

“What did you get?” He asks, meeting your eyes above the paper in his hand.

“I wanted to get the Summer 69’ appetizer first,” you reply and he smirks.

“Are you hinting at something?”

“Oh, shut up, you perv! It just looks tasty, there are different appetizers from different parts of the world and it’s a cold start.”

“Then we can take the big one so we can share?”

“Sure,” you reply, smiling at him. “Oh, and then ‘I wanna dance with somebody’ as the main dish.”

“Do you?” He winks.

“I’m not sending you signals, I’m just starving,” you reply, rolling your eyes, but he hears the low giggle that you try to hold back.

“Fine,” he smiles. “I’ll take ‘Maneater’ in your honour.”

“I’m a maneater? Oh, thanks, the best compliment ever actually,” you say playfully.

He smiles, stopping for a second after he hands you his menu. “You look beautiful tonight, by the way.” And when your mouth parts and no sound come out of it, he thinks he screwed it up. It’s not the first time he compliments you but well, the other times didn’t sound so serious.

But then your face breaks in a smile, and your eyes light up, shily diverting the gaze as you thank him before the waitress saves you both from the embarrassment that’s tangible in the air.

“Karaoke? Are you being extremely nice, borderline perfect, tonight so you can show me the biggest twist ever?” You gasp when the karaoke downtown enters your line of view. You’ve been walking for a while now since he couldn’t find a spot nearby, but he never mentioned where your next stop would be.

“I’m always nice to you when we go out on da— like this,” Haechan replies, opening the door of the place for you to get in first. “Also, since we’ll have to record the song soon, I think it’s time to test our vocal abilities.”

You giggle, waiting for him before you start walking to the desk to book a room.

“Karaoke is for fun, never to show off you’re like Celine Dion.”

Haechan chuckles, nodding in agreement while you reach the booth that the lady at the counter assigned you.

“Right, I’m more like Ailee, actually,” he jokes, closing the door behind you.

“Prove it to me, I always hear your mouth run to talk shit but never to sing melodies, so…”

“Should we go for a duet?” He asks, starting the TV to scroll down the songs listed.

“Nope,” you say, sitting on the couch. “A solo song first.”

“Fine,” he says, humming as the titles pass in front of your vision. “Mhh, what about Dean?”

“Love him, would love him more if he came back from the death and dropped another album of the year,” you say, sitting back to fully enjoy Haechan’s performance.

He chuckles at your comment. “This one was a painful reminder,” he says before clicking on “Instagram,” making the logo of the place appear before the countdown, signalling the beat was about to start.

You never thought you would find yourself so caught up in him but when he opens his mouth, you feel like you’re being taken to another world.

His voice sounds like honey, so raw yet so lovely. And as he keeps singing, you think that he would be wasted as a producer, a voice like his deserves to be heard by everyone. But when he finishes, you don’t show any of the emotions you felt.

“Your performance was very touching,” you say while standing up to grab your mic, “but I’m a performer, so I’ll go with Queen Britney.”

“Can’t wait to see your Superbowl worth it performance,” he snickers, sitting back against the small couch in the room as he watches you getting ready.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you start, winking at him and swinging your hips to follow the rhythm of the music.

Haechan would love to find it as funny as he does at the start, but when you start singing for real, and moving around in the small boot, he gulps, feeling the air around him starting to dim. And it only gets worse when you turn around and start to perform for him. Of course, you know the song by heart, you don’t need to read the words, and you don’t need them to change colour to know when each verse, chorus and bridge starts.

“Oops, I did it again, I played with your heart,” you wink, tilting your head to the side, still moving your body to the beat. He can’t tell, not right at the moment, but he thinks you’re replicating the choreography. That’s the last worry in his mind.

I played with your heart.

And Haechan thinks you really did that. This doesn’t feel like a game anymore, and not even like sex. He looks at you, even right now, that you’re sensually singing a Britney Spears song, and he can only fucking smile like an idiot.

“Wow,” you exhale when the song ends, fanning yourself with your hand, “it’s really hot in here.”

“It definitely is,” he whispers, drifting his gaze from you.

“So? How was I?” You ask, head tilted to the side, and a big, bright smile on your face.

“Good,” Haechan mutters, catching himself staring at you for too long again, shaking his head, the red blush on his face is humiliating. “You were good.”

“Yes,” you cheer, clapping your hands. “Should we duet, now?”

He hums, grabbing the remote again and searching ‘duets’ in the search bar. “Sad, sexy or silly?”

You roll your eyes. “Really?”

“What? I’m trying to understand the vibe we want to go with.”

“I’ll let you pick,” you say just to regret it when you see the song choice on the screen. “Seriously? Anything you can do?”

“What? It’s fitting for how relationship,” he says nonchalantly.

“That’s a crazy choice.”

“Worried you can’t actually do better than me?” He winks, passing you the mic as the song loads on the screen.

“You’ll see,” you challenge with a glare.

One minute into the song you regret having agreed to that, not remembering the last time you sang like this, but the look on his face when it’s time for you to hold a long note for 15 seconds is worth it. And it keeps going until the end, as you both surprise each other with all the skills that this song requires.  

“Wow, you’re good,” you both say when the song ends and you break down laughing, a sound that grows bigger when the screen lights up to show a perfect score.

“Maybe we make a great couple together,” you say, laying back on the couch, tired from the singing.

Haechan turns to you, smirking and nodding. “I guess we do.”

You sit up, resting your chin on his arm. “Can you take another one?”

“Oh, don’t test me, baby.”

“So, ice cream is good for vocal cords?” You giggle as you walk to the side of the Han River with the ice cream in hand. It seemed like Haechan didn’t want to end the night anytime soon, but you don’t feel like complaining.

“Yeah,” he hums with conviction, licking another stripe of chocolate.  

“On which book you’ve read this scientific fact?”

“The ice cream ghost came to me one night and whispered the secret to my ear,” he jokes, making you laugh.

“Uhm, yeah, I think that ghosts are much more reliable than old men in white coats in a lab,” you joke, but then you remember something you wanted to talk about since you’ve walked out of the karaoke. “Mhh, you know what I was thinking?”

Haechan shakes his head, waiting for you to talk.

“I think we’re going down the wrong path with our song,” you voice out. “Especially me. A warmer, darker, I dare to say more sensual vibe, fits us better.”

Haechan chuckles and you glare at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he giggles, but he can’t lose against you so he goes on. “That’s the production, you know?”

You huff, rolling your eyes, and jumping on the handrail to sit. “I never said it wasn’t important.”

“Whatever,” he snickers. “So I have to scrap everything I’m working on?”

You shake your head, cleaning your hands after swallowing the last bite of the cone. “No, I was thinking about the second base you were working on, the one with the guitars and violins, remember?”

He hums, but he’s dangerously close to you, and you don’t understand why his hands wrap around your waist.

“I think we could use that and —” you gulp when he places his feet on the handrail under you and reaches your height, “and then I can change small things of my — my writing to fit more. What do you think?”

He smiles before it turns into his usual smirk. “I still think you’re worrying too much and you’re not letting it come to you,” he whispers, and the air of his breaths puffs on your lips before he erases the space between you and kisses you.

You feel your breath taken away as you feel like you’re falling behind in the river as the wind blows harder and your hands immediately leave the handrail to reach for him.

You’re not sure that wasn’t an attempted murder from him, but you can’t care when you feel your heart flutter and your legs give up as he deepens the kiss.

“Let it flow,” he whispers, kissing you again, whispering against your lips, “and the song will come at you.”

You know it’s not what he’s talking about, but you kiss him again, this time pushing him down so your feet are on the ground again. Your hands are holding tight on his sweatshirt as you pull him even closer and he does the same wrapping his arms around your frame tighter.

You find yourself in the same position in the living room of his apartment, struggling to make it to his bedroom without waking some of the others up. Not that you care much, it would be fair payback for all the chaos they make when you and Haechan are studying together.

The clothes fall on the floor as quickly as he’s on top of you on the bed.

“I hate that I have to ruin your pretty face,” he whispers, fingers deep inside your sopping wet cunt, pumping in and out painfully slowly as he stares at your face, a cute mix between ecstasy and annoyance because he’s giving you something but not enough. “The red eyeshadow looks really good on you, you know?”

You groan, rolling your head back. “It’s not time for compliments.”

“I’ve been complimenting you all night,” he says, teasing your clit with flicks of his thumb but without giving you much. “It is a shame you will look like a mess once I’m done with you.”

“We can’t be loud,” you say, hating that, for one reason or another, you two always have to keep quiet.

“Nah, Jeno has his headphones on playing games with Yangyang. Renjun has headphones on with music to don’t listen to Jeno. Mark’s not home and not even bombs wake Jaemin up.” The explanation is particularly non-sexy now that he has his fingers inside of you and it doesn’t make you relax much, but you hum nonetheless and beg him to keep going.

“Patience, honey. We’ve got all night,” he smirks.

“Yeah but —”

“Ah, ah,” he says, clicking his tongue and silencing you with a finger on your lips. “What did I tell you before? Let it flow.”

“It was different it was —ugh,” you mumble when he covers your mouth with his hand, eyes widening before they narrow to send him a deadly glare, but he only smirks. He has control now. He always does when he has you underneath him, he still has to fight with you a bit, but you both know this is the only time he can ever win against you. And tonight is special, he wants you to let go of the reins completely, he wants you brainless, because even if your brain is the sexiest thing of you —yeah, yeah, and the thing that is making his college years hell on earth— your brain is also the thing that makes you obsess over the smallest thing and doesn’t make you follow your heart so freely.

Yeah, tonight Donghyuck wants you free, but for the sake of the dirty talking later —and to fool himself he doesn’t care about you that much— he’s going to say he wants you dumb.

And he’s starting strong tonight, his beautiful, long fingers reaching deep inside you, hitting right against your sweet spot, causing so much cum to pool around them and drip down while your pussy clenches hard and your hips buck up to ride the pleasure with him. And you don’t have it in you to fight; it feels too good, especially when he starts rubbing your clit and whispers dirty talk about how well you’re taking him.

Your eyes flutter open, just in time to catch the proud smirk on his face as he stares at your body, you dare to say, in awe. It shouldn’t warm your heart, but it does. You don’t even care if he sees you like a prize he won, right now, because even if he does, you know he only fights hard to win the trophies he cares about. He wants you, he likes you, even. Between the hate and the tension, something about what attracts you two together makes this work. And it’s fine.

“Hyuck,” you breathe out, chest panting and toes curling as you feel the familiar knot in your stomach. But you don’t expect the next words that come out of your mouth. “Kiss me.” When you realize what you said, you anticipate him mocking you, your ears already hear the snicker you know, oh so well, but it never arrives. What arrives are his lips on yours as he leans down, pressing his chest against yours while his fingers keep working wonder inside you.

The kiss is passionate, but not rough like the ones you’re so used to sharing. There’s no anger in it, just need and greed, and chemistry. So much chemistry, your hands have to run in his hair and tug them, making him moan and his dick throb against your thigh.

“I want you so bad,” he slurs against your lips. “I will do some dumb shit one day for you.”

You don’t get what he means. You don’t even know what he could mean by that given the nature of your bond, but his words, mixed with the sultry tone of his voice, are enough to make you come. You barely register the orgasm, hitting you like a singular explosion of a firework, leaving you gasping, exploding as quickly as it came yet slowly running through your bones as the feeling tones down.

Haechan snickers softly. “You love it when I get in trouble for you, don’t you? Even when it’s just a promise.”

Your lips part to reply but he shuts you with a kiss. “No talking, not unless I tell you to. I know everything I need to know, your body tells me that,” he says, grinning like an idiot when he shows you his cum coated fingers, tapping them against your lips, silently ordering you to taste yourself. You would never do that, but tonight it’s like he’s commanding you like a puppet on a string, and you obey. Closing your lips around him and sucking hard.

He smirks, feeling his dick get even harder as he stares at your lips. “That’s what I do to you, pretty girl. And I’m not even started.”

Your pussy throbs in anticipation while he pulls his fingers out. You know he’s one to keep promise, and you can’t wait for what’s to come. But he’s taking too long, and you can feel his hard dick against your leg, so your hand creeps down to touch it.

“You’re not in command tonight, angel,” he says, grabbing your wrist to stop you from moving your hand on him.

“But I want you,” you whine, trying to win him with a pouty look on your face.

It doesn’t work as he pushes your hand over your head and leans in. “Patience, princess. Keep quiet, don’t be greedy and just trust me. Can you do that? Or is it too hard for you?” He groans against your ear, making your hips buck up.

“I — I can,” you whisper but he stops with a glare and your brain replays his words ‘quiet, no words from you tonight,’ and he means it. So you nod, breathing in deeply as you feel weak in the knees for the way he looks at you.

“Good girl,” he says, pushing up to stand between your legs, pushing them open.

When he slips inside you, you gasp, dragging your nails on his back. “Are you alright?”

You nod, forcing yourself to look into his eyes.

“Good, and now,” he whispers, kissing your lips, and dragging out of you, “I want you to give into me and completely turn your brain off. You have me, that’s all you need right now.”

When he starts moving in and out, your body succumbs to the pleasure. Your muscles relax as you let him take care of you. His lips trace over your sensitive skin, leaving kisses on your neck and chest. His hands run over your body, touching and squeezing every inch. And he reaches so deep inside of you that you feel you can barely breathe.

“Just like this,” Haechan whispers close to your ear, gently biting the skin on your jaw. “Don’t think about anything,” he groans, hitting you deep after pulling out of you completely. “Not a single worry in that pretty brain of yours.”

You rarely let him win, but you have to admit that the way he makes you feel, the way he can lift all the stress off your shoulders, is a talent. He knows what he’s doing, and the scary thing is that he knows how to get you. So easily wrapped around his fingers, crumbling into nothing at his tiniest touch.

You whimper loudly when his fingers press against your clit, seeing stars at the new stimulation.

“You can take it,” he groans. You’re about to talk but he traps your lips in a messy, wet kiss as he pulls you closer by your waist, hitting even deeper. “You’re a good girl, right? You can take it.”

You’re doubtful, but you do take it, over and over again. You lose track of time and stop counting your orgasms after the third. There’s no need for that. All you need is the pleasure Donghyuck gives you, fucking you until both of you can’t do it anymore.

There’s nothing left once it’s over, no strength to talk or clean up the mess, just the warmth of your bodies cuddled against each other.

“Good morning, I will kill Lee Je — what the hell,” Renjun exclaims, entering the kitchen, making you turn around as if you’ve been caught stealing, holding the mug full of coffee in your hands and giving him a shy smile. “What are you doing here?”

You gulp, pushing your hair out of your face before coming up with a lie. “We studied too late.”

Renjun steps further into the room, staring at you with a raised brow before he tilts his head and studies how you’re dressed. You’re wearing Donghyuck’s sweater and pants.

“Oh, now they call it studying? Last time I checked you’re not med students, didn’t know music had anatomy in the program,” he taunts, grinning at you as he comes to your side.  

You choke on your saliva and don’t have time to come up with a reply because he strikes again.

“Oh, no, maybe you were exercising vocalization, it’s better when it’s done together, right?” He winks and you glare at him.

“It’s not what you think,” you lie, but honestly you feel so embarrassed about everything. You didn’t think anybody else would be up this early on a Sunday, but it’s clear you don’t know Renjun well. You could’ve left, but you didn’t want to. It was slowly starting to sink in that you didn’t like the solitude of your life anymore.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody,” he says, sitting in front of you. “Come here, don’t stay up.”

You do as told, and smile when he offers you a pack of biscuits. “I would’ve cooked something usually, but Jeno kept me up all night.”

You chuckle. “It’s fine, normally I don’t even have breakfast.”

“You don’t?” He gasps, and you nod.

“Yeah, just coffee.”

He looks down at you, shaking his head in disappointment. “It’s not healthy.”

“I know, I know, I’ll try to eat more, okay? For you.” You reach out your hand and he takes it.

A fit of cough brings both of your gazes to the door and you see Haechan stand against the frame. “Once it’s Jeno, another time it’s Renjun. I bring you home to study and you flirt with my friends.”

“Drop the bullshit, Hyuck. He knows,” you say, rolling your eyes.

Haechan’s eyes widen, but he slowly fakes indifference. “Knows what? That you don’t have time for a relationship so you can’t date him?”

“That you two fuck,” Renjun answers instead, making him cough.

“That’s not true,” he defends. “I hate her,” he says, laughing, but when he meets your eyes and sees them sadden, he feels pain in his heart. “No, no, I don’t hate her, but we’re… you know our relationship, why would we fuck?”

“Who’s fucking?”

“Not you, Jeno. Not you for sure,” Renjun says, rolling his eyes.

“Hey! Why do you always gotta be so rude,” Jeno whines.

“I doubt he’s not getting laid,” you chuckle, and Jeno winks playfully.

“See, words of a wise woman,” he brags, walking to the fridge to grab something.

Renjun sighs loudly. “A woman that doesn’t know you.”

“Would you fuck him?” Haechan asks out of nowhere and you glare at him.

“I just said that he’s hot and smart, I don’t see how he can have a hard time finding somebody,”

“’Cause he’s annoying,” Renjun answers, but Haechan’s not listening.

“I didn’t ask that,” Donghyuck says instead, his attention is all on you as if there’s nobody else in the room.  

“I don’t answer stupid questions,” you reply before sipping from your cup and drifting your gaze away.

“Wait, why are you here?” Jeno asks, only now realizing you’re not supposed to be at their place, not in the morning at least… wait… “Wait! Are you two fuck—”

“No,” Haechan answers sternly, glaring at him. “We’re studying. And it got late, so since we were closer to my place, I let her stay the night.”

“I thought you left yesterday saying you had a date, though,” Jeno says confused.

You chuckle under your breath before you feel Haechan’s hand wrap around your writs to pull you out of the room, not even giving you time to finish your coffee. “A studying date, and now drop it.”

When you reach his room, he groans loudly, walking to the closet to pick something to wear. You watch him move for a while, but then you can’t keep your thoughts inside your head anymore.

“Are you ashamed of me?” You ask and he turns around with wide eyes.

“What?”

“Am I something to be ashamed of? Do I don’t fit in the standard of the people you would usually fuck?”

He sighs, shaking his head. “No, I don’t want them to get invasive, they don’t let me live once they know something. And with you, it’s more embarrassing because of our history…”

You giggle, trying not to show the relief you’re feeling because, for a moment, you thought he was one of those types of men.

“Why can’t you ever make things easy for me?” He asks, annoyance in his voice. You have so much power over him, more than he likes to admit, and he feels like he can’t even be too mad at you about it.

“Sorry, it’s just, it’s funny having a history with you,” you explain. “My mortal enemy, always ready to steal my number ones, and my good grades.”

“You’re so annoying, you’re never sleeping over ever again.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I won’t let you fuck me ever again.”

“Liar,” he says. “And now move, I’ll drop you home.”

you can find part two on my account on the story masterlist or haechan’s masterlist (i can’t link it because if i do the post won’t appear in the tags)

general taglist: @froggyforhyuck, @wingsss45, @tddyhyck, @technologyculturedneo

fic taglist: @hcluvie, @gusgus0517, @multifandomania, @413cl, @odgsuji,

@hey-hey-heybitch, @nctrawberries, @n0hyuck, @haechoshi,

@girlwholoveslpreppyattire, @viciousdarlings, @hyuckmoon,

@jaeymark, @hqech, @xntlax, @milkyway-vxm, @fullsunahceah,

@beomgyusonlywife, @toroufriteh, @yesohhsehun @shxnz

@haecastor, @hyucksaint, @sk8ermark, @midnightrained

@maiteeeeesstuff, @smwhrinthehaze, @yoursyuno

© neowinestaindress ; all rights reserved. do NOT repost, modify, or translate any work from this blog on any other platform and claim it as yours. 

[jellycatstuffies]

Personal Update

I feel it's time to explain why I have been posting much less frequently on here and my Instagram page. For over a year, and the past months especially, I've been struggling with neurological issues, mainly headaches that almost never go away and come with other symptoms, so it's been difficult to keep up my normal routine.

After lots of tests, hospital and doctor visits, I'm now waiting for the results of a brain MRI and to try a painkiller that might finally give me relief. It's been heartbreaking for me to no longer be able to post here daily. I still have the same love for Jellycats and I love this blog. I hope I can be back to normal soon. Your messages, though I cannot answer them all anymore, always put a smile on my face and so do your reactions to my posts. (I love scrolling through the comments and the random tags in the reblogs, yes I see ALL of them🤣) and I wanted to say thank you for that.

I will hopefully come back stronger soon!

(and usually don't do this but I found it too funny not to share, one person messaged me to tell me that my age makes me not a boy but a man (which is a whole different issue) BUT, since people always get my age wrong, I want to take this opportunity to invite you all to look at this photo and tell me what age you think I look like😉)

Much love,

-Victor

[dollfacefantasy]

neglect kink with older leon???!!?!? like… you’re super horny whining and begging for his attention and he’s just. completely ignoring you. maybe he eventually lets you cockwarm him but he’s still ignoring you… the only way you know he’s enjoying this is because he’s still hard… no sounds or nothing. you’re so desperate for ANYTHING a kiss, a touch, literally any words at all but he’s just focused on his work!!! maybe daddy kink because everything needs daddy kink… maybe, like, you did something bad so this is your punishment… i don’t know… maybe he gives you the attention eventually or not!!!!

pairing: leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: you've been bad, but you never seem to learn from spankings. leon has to try something new to remind you why you should be a good girl.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, cockwarming, masturbation, overstimulation, daddy kink, praise/degradation, age difference, dom/sub stuff (rules, punishment, etc.)

word count: 6.2k

a/n: you're so right, everything does need daddy kink <3 thank you for the request, love. i hope it's what you were wanting. i imagine post-DI leon for this so he's a bit older, but i just used DI for the pic. anyhow, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

tags: @sleepyluxe @kaitkatme @tosuckmyweenis @pupthepokemonenthusiast @bizzarethirst @death-paint @iron-toxinz @wildest-dreams-at-midnight @nexysworld @explorevenus @luniaxi

Your deep breaths and soft whimpers had overtaken the quiet murmur of the tv in your bedroom. An old movie played on it, one you had seen time and time again. It no longer had your attention. Instead, you’re focusing on playing with the pulsing bud between your legs. Your fingers thrum back and forth over the sensitive spot, hips pushing down against the mattress as sparks fly in your belly.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be doing this. It was one of the rules you agreed to when Leon had approached you with some things he wanted to try out for your sex life, just a small set of guidelines to play with. ‘No touching yourself without daddy’s permission' had been listed among others. He counted each one on his fingers as he did, and you nodded your head and looked up at him with your sweet set of eyes. The same set that now flutters with ecstasy as you played your forbidden game. But as long as he didn’t know, it was fine, right?

Your heels dig into the blankets beneath you while your breasts rise and sink with each inhale and exhale. You feel that hot sensation between your legs, the tightening cord, the boiling pleasure. You’re about to let it loose until you hear the front door open and shut, keys clatter on the table, and the familiar grunt Leon does when he slips his shoes off, using the tip of one on the heel of the other.

You nearly miss these little cues because of the rain clashing against your windows, but in a stroke of luck, you catch it all and tear your hand out of your shorts at light speed. Leon’s just walking into the bedroom as you drape the blanket over yourself. Shifting around a little to get comfy, you then gaze up at him, putting some tenderness into your eyes in hopes of throwing him off your scent.

As he gets closer, you take in his appearance. Little droplets of water on the shoulders of his jacket from the rain outside. Shiny hair fresh from the shower he took this morning, shaggy bangs hanging down into his face. Tired glaze over his eyes, work must not have been a walk in the park. 

Once he approaches you, he raises his eyebrows, and for a second, you’re sure you’ve been found out. But all he does is sit next to you on the edge of the bed and run a hand over your head. His eyes fixate on you as if he’s studying your features. Your heart pounds, waiting to hear the words belt, over my knee, or sore & stinging leave his lips, but they don’t.

“Been having a nice day, baby?” he asks you, petting your head a few more times.

“Mhm,” you respond. Innocent enough.

“That’s good. What have you been doing?” he asks. Oh fuck.

“Um, just watching a movie,” you answer.

“Yeah? That all?” he continues. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Pretty much. It’s all rainy out. Don’t really feel like getting out of bed,” you say with a casual shrug.

He nods. It seems like an approving gesture, but you could swear there’s a little knowing glint in his eyes. Maybe that’s just your imagination. Hopefully, that’s just your imagination.

“Alright. I gotta go finish up some work for a while, just wanted to check on you first. Keep being a good girl for me,” he tells you. He gives you a small pat on the ass before getting up and walking out of the room as quickly as he had entered.

Your body relaxes, and your pulse descends to normal levels. Maybe you did pull it off. Heist of the century in your book. You settle in to truly just pay attention to the tv for now, but it’s not as simple as it should be when you’re still so pent up. You’d just breached the threshold of release, before you were torn out and back to reality. You could feel the slick that had gathered between your legs, the ache in your clit calling out to your fingers.

The thought of continuing does cross your mind. It would be so easy. Without any suspicion on you, all you would have to do is clamp a hand over your mouth and rub slower so the bed didn't creak. Plus, when he went in his office, he usually worked until the evening anyway. You could cum and be done with it before he had the slightest idea.

No, no, no. You told him you’d be a good girl. You wouldn’t wanna break daddy’s heart by being bad, right? No, you wanted to make him proud. You resign to wait until he wants to play with you. He always did; you can’t recall a night he left you wanting. So you lay on your side, eyes focused on the blue-tinted screen across the room, and keep it together.

But hours go by. And then more hours go by. You keep yourself occupied, marathoning nearly an entire franchise of movies, eating, going on your phone. But none of it fills the Leon-shaped void inside you.

This was the longest he’d ever been in that office. He never worked in there into the night. He always told you that he tried to spend as little time in there as possible. That’s time that could be spent with his good girl, that’s what he told you. Only you hadn’t been a good girl today.

You shake your head, and tell the stupid little voice inside to zip it. He seemed tired, remember? This is probably just an extension of that. He knew he’d have to come home and be in his office all day. It was all a coincidence, this whole thing. There was literally no way he could know what you’d been doing. But daddy knows you better than you know yourself.

Oh god. This was like some form of torture, you’re sure of it. Self-inflicted, or was it really? He was the one who’d made you this way. Whatever. Enough was enough. There was no reason to be paranoid. You could literally just go ask him. Sort this out and soothe your anxiety, so you can go back to waiting patiently like the good girl that you are.

Pushing the covers to the side, you slide out of bed and head down the hall to his office as thunder crackles outside. A gentle push on one of the French doors leads you into the room you rarely entered. Despite that, you liked it in here. Leon’s desk faced away from the door, towards the window that looked out onto the street. The curtains were drawn now, brown fringe overlapping with the spare cushions on the window seat below it. Some bookshelves lined the walls perpendicular to his desk, though you never had the time to actually check their contents.

You walk a few paces into the room. Your eyes cast over to him. He doesn’t even look like he’s doing much for someone working into the night, but who are you to judge? You step over a crinkle in the rug to stand in front of his desk. Your hands rest on the hardwood as you gaze at him over the monitor of his computer.

“Hi,” you say simply.

He nods. A movement so vague that he could’ve told you his head twitched, and you’d believe him.

“Whatcha doing?” you ask.

“Work.”

You stare at him for a moment. Sure, he wasn’t normally super chatty, but he also wasn’t usually so clipped. He knows.

“How’s it going?” you say.

You’re met with a shrug. You have to up your efforts.

Circling around his desk, you position yourself behind him and wrap your arms over his shoulders. You drag your nose against his cheek like an affectionate kitten and kiss the skin a few times.

“How much longer you gonna be in here?” you ask. Your voice remains gentle and undemanding.

“A while,” he grunts. The clacking of the keyboards starts up again, and his eyes remain locked on the documents in front of him.

“But you’ve been in here for hours,” you point out and feign a pout.

“And I’ll be in here for even more if you keep bothering me,” he says with a little gesture that wasn’t fully shrugging you off but at the same time was shrugging you off.

Ouch. Your pout was no longer feigned. You stand up straight and walk back to where you stood originally. He still doesn’t spare you even the smallest of glances.

“Can I stay in here with you?” you ask hesitantly.

“If you want to,” he says. Wow. Not that he wanted you to, no. If you wanted to. Sure, people could call you sensitive for being upset about that, you don’t care. You’re tempted to leave with a huff, slamming the door behind you, but now you’re even more curious if he was aware of your illicit afternoon activities. You kinda hope he is at this point because at least that would give a reason for his icy attitude.

You walk over to the one other chair in the room. Yeah, there was the window seat, but as pretty as you’d made it for him, decorating it with little throw pillows and cute coverings, it wasn’t very comfortable. You plop down on the corduroy cushioning of the beaten-up seat in the corner. with a sigh. Bringing your legs up over the armrest, you lean back against the opposite one and scan the room out of boredom. Your feet swing back and forth absentmindedly as you puff breaths of disinterest from between your lips.

You really try to give him time to finish, but it feels like he’s taking actual eternity. Also, it sounds like he’s barely doing anything, and now you are going to judge because he’s cutting into your precious personal time with him. You stare at him for several minutes, keeping your eyes locked on his face. Unlike any normal person who’d get uncomfortable, he just continues “working.” Finally, you crack.

“How’s it going?” you ask.

No response.

“Are you almost done?” you try again.

Nothing.

Your eyes darken, your frown growing. “Leonnnnn,” you whine.

And still absolutely nothing. You have one more weapon in your arsenal. If this doesn’t work, you know you’ll just have to pack it up for the night.

“Daddy…” you whimper, using the softest voice you could manage, the one that always shot right through him. You jut your bottom lip out a bit more and put that pleading in your eyes. After this, all you have is literal tears, and you’re hoping it doesn’t go to that point.

Leon knows this, and he doesn’t want it to get that far either. He finally spins his chair in your direction. His eyes land on your face. He has to repress the smirk rising to his face over your neediness.

“Funny how that name seems to always slip out most when you want something,” he replies.

At least he wasn’t ignoring you anymore. “All I want is your attention…” you say, keeping up your sweet performance.

“Oh yeah?” he taunts, “Tell me, baby. Were you thinking of daddy today when you were home alone?”

Your eyes dart away from his face, but you force them back. You couldn’t blow this by being too obvious, so you respond with a simple nod.

“I thought so, princess. What else would have had you so riled up today when I came home? It wouldn’t be because you were breaking one of your rules, would it?” he asks. His tone was obviously leading. He knew. You were so desperate for him though that at this point you were starting to think a spanking wouldn’t be that bad. At least it was some form of physical contact to sate you.

“I wasn’t riled up earlier,” you say quietly with a little shrug.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re not lying are you? Cause that’s another rule. Two broken rules in one day. That wounds me, babydoll,” he says.

“I’m not breaking any rules. I’m being honest,” you say.

“So you being all squirmy, hot skin, heavy breathing; that wasn’t you being riled up? Is daddy imagining things now? Do I not know what my girl looks like when she’s aching for me?” he asks, “What she looks like when she’s been trying to solve her little problem herself?”

Finally, he unveils his reasoning. You freeze and stare at him, trying to think of what to say. Even though you wanted attention, there was still that innate part of you that hated being in trouble. You’d much rather be perched on his lap to be loved on like the precious thing you were.

“I don’t know what you mean,” is your weak attempt at an excuse. He laughs and leans back in his chair, the old springs creaking with his motion.

“Did you put your fingers inside or just play with that pretty little clit?” he asks, eyes boring into you as he goes for the kill.

“Just my clit…” you mumble and look down.

Shaking his head again, he turns back to his computer. You watch him, expecting him to start in on you again. To lecture you about your impatience. Tease you about your borderline pathetic need for him. Take you over his knee and crack you on the ass while making you repeat each of your rules back to him.

But none of this happens. Instead, this man just goes back to straight up ignoring you. Your jaw drops and a confused whine comes from your throat. “Daddy, c’mon. I’m sorry,” you say.

He resumes typing, fingers gliding over the keys and eyes fixed on the little words appearing in front of him. You groan in frustration and sink back against the brown ribbed fabric of your chair. You glare at him from your place, trying to telepathically will him into entertaining you again. You must be lacking in mental communication though because he doesn’t change what he’s doing at all. One of your thighs crosses over the other, unintentionally giving your pussy a little friction.

That’s what made this all the more frustrating, you were still unsatisfied from earlier. You should’ve just made yourself cum like you wanted. You’d be in trouble either way. You could only hope he’d take it easy on you now for having chosen the former.

Different scenarios run through your head for how you want to play this. A spectrum of possibilities lies in front of you. On one end, you could just leave. Keep whatever dignity you had left, cut your losses, and go to bed. On the other, you could be over the top. Hop in his lap and smother him with a flurry of kisses before he could object. Either one would probably only earn you more punishment, so you try to think of a middle ground. A way to continue the game.

As you think, your right hand lazily runs up and down your chest. Your middle finger coasts over the area spanning from the valley between your breasts to your navel. Taking your lip between your teeth, you decide to start here. Your fingers move to your tits and round your nipples. The buds harden into small peaks beneath your shirt. You pinch and pull at them gently, and your cunt flutters in response to the teasing. You shift your hips up before shimmying your shorts off and letting them drop to the ground beside your chair.

You reposition yourself next to sit properly in the chair. Your heels come to rest on the plush cushion as you spread your legs and expose your damp panties to him. Not that he bothered to look.

Now your fingers moved down there. They pet your most sensitive area over the thin, wet cloth. Your breath hitches as your fingertips brush over your clit. You press down a little harder and make a soft breathy whine. His eyes flit in your direction, but they don’t linger. Take what you can get, you guess.

You slide your digits back down and massage your dripping entrance. The fabric becomes more wet as you rub it on your slick folds. Your middle and ring finger move in tandem to stoke the flames down there and to ensure the fabric is completely soaked. Once that mission is accomplished, you lift your hips for the second time to remove this garment. Only you don’t drop it to the floor. This time you toss them in his direction, landing them on his desk, lace half covering one of his wrists, half covering a section of his keyboard.

The sound of typing halts, putting the room into silence, spare the raindrops splatting against the window. His eyes remain stern and not on you. Without even looking down, he wads the panties up and shoves them in his pocket. The sound of typing resumes.

“Daddy,” you huff, “I got ‘em all wet just for you.”

He still doesn’t acknowledge you. You let out a growl of sorts and narrow your eyes at him. Your fingers slip through your arousal coating your center. You pay more attention to your clit now that it’s exposed.

“I just missed you so much today. I couldn’t help it,” you reason.

You whimper and squirm in your chair as you start rubbing faster. Your eyes are still locked on him, watching for the slightest crack in his resolve. So far there are none. You continue toying with yourself.

“I was thinking of you the whole time,” you whimper, “That should count for something. I was imagining your hands and your eyes looking down at me. I was pretending I could hear your voice.”

He remains unaffected. Your head tilts back against the plush cushioning as your hips rock in place. You mewl softly which soon turns into a long, drawn-out whine. Finally, he shifts in his seat a little, and you know right away it’s cause he’s starting to get hard.

“I just love you so much, daddy. Can’t control myself when you’re not around,” you say, further chipping away at the little dent in his stoic facade.

Your moans increase in volume as does the slippery sounds coming from your fingers moving through your slick. That feeling from this afternoon is starting to come back. Pleasure builds in your abdomen, one piece stacking on top of the other. You’re shaking more, voice getting less even with each little cry of joy. He finally turns to look at you when you start doing that thing you do when you’re about to cum, the ultra-specific puff of your chest that rolls through your abdomen to your hips. His eyes capture yours, unamused with your antics.

“If you cum right now, a spanking is the only kind of attention you’ll be getting until you learn some self-control,” he tells you.

In an instant, your fingers sputter to a stop. Your mind bounces back and forth on what to do like a metronome. But as always, your craving for Leon’s approval wins out over every other option. You remove your hand from between your legs and even sit up, closing your thighs. Maybe now, he’ll see you’re being good and cut you some slack.

Yeah, right.

He goes back to his computer. Again. You’re about to lose your mind or explode, you aren’t sure which will come first. Standing from the chair, you start walking to his desk. He still didn’t look at you! How rude, you’d think that the touching yourself rule was his favorite or something even though you knew it wasn’t. That title belonged to the rule that let him pick your outfit whenever the two of you went out.

A few paces in his direction, and you’re back right where you started. Arms looped over his shoulders, nuzzling your face against his cheek, and kissing the side of his head. “I said I’m sorry daddy,” you say softly, “I’m really really really really sorry. I know I was a bad girl, but only for that.”

He grunts and scoots closer to his desk, away from your embrace. A noise of exasperation leaves you, and without thinking, you roll the chair back a couple inches and embrace him again, only tighter. A grin rises on your face when you see the bulge that had formed in his lap.

“Pretty please? I’ll take whatever punishment. I don’t want daddy to be mad at me anymore,” you plead and give him some more pecks on the cheek. You knew you probably looked ridiculous, pantless and visibly horny, but that wasn’t a true concern at this moment in time.

“Go to bed,” he states simply, “I’ll deal with you later.”

That wasn’t good enough. You wanted him now.

“Daddy,” you whine, stretching out the last syllable. You lower yourself to your knees and slink down in front of his chair. “C’mon, I said it like a million billion trillion times. Can’t we just kiss and make up?”

He stares down at you, not impressed with your show of submission. He was playing harder than usual. He knew that wouldn’t deter you though. You squish your cheek against his thighs as your hands creep up his legs.

“Do I have to make a special apology?” you ask, looking up at him with puppy eyes.

He pushes your hands away as they reach his thighs. “Quit it,” he growls, “Let me finish my work and maybe we can work something out.”

But you don’t quit it. You move yourself closer to one of his legs, preparing to put on a little show for him if need be. Your eyes don’t quit and neither does the pleading expression on your mouth.

“But I need my daddy now,” you huff, “I-”

And that’s it. You’re cut off by Leon reaching down and yanking you into his lap.

“Such a fuckin’ brat,” he grunts, “Ready to hump my leg like a bitch in heat cause I don’t give you attention for a couple hours.”

You squirm a bit as his hands rub up and down your sides and squeeze your hips. He stills you with a firm slap to your ass. Both of your eyes gaze into the others, the small spheres swirling with arousal, annoyance, and adoration.

“I just missed you. I would’ve left you alone if you weren’t so mean to me,” you point out.

“Who says I have to be nice to you? You don’t get to decide when you wanna listen based on that,” he says and pulls you to his chest. You lean in against the muscular expanse while his hand snakes between the two of you to get at his button and zipper. “Your job is being a good girl. Not just when you feel like it. Not only when daddy’s giving you kisses and calling you pretty. The only time you stop is when I say, and that didn’t happen today did it? Am I imagining things again?”

“No,” you agree reluctantly, “But I-”

“Cut your yapping out. I’ve heard enough. Give me some quiet or I’ll put those panties to good use,” he threatens.

As your lips fall shut, you hear the tug of his zipper and feel him shift as he takes himself out. Now you’re really quiet, more from anticipation than obedience.

“Now I’m gonna let you sit on my cock, but that’s it. No squirming, no ‘getting comfy,’ no whining, no ‘but daddy.’ You act up too much, and I’m truly sending your ass to bed for the night.”

You look up at him and nod, not even speaking because you didn’t want to cut your chances at dick off before they started.

“Good,” he says.

One of his hands helps elevate you so that he can position his length underneath you. The tip slips through your folds, already soaked from your prior escapades. He doesn’t tease too much, wasn’t interested in hearing you beg right now. He’d heard enough of that for tonight. He pushes you down onto it. His mouth twitches, and he sucks in a deep breath as he feels the warmth of your walls engulf his cock.

You slide all the way down with ease. Looking back at his face again, you feel the insatiable urge to give him a little kiss. If you did that though, would that be one of the things you aren’t supposed to be doing?

“Daddy… can I have a little kiss first?” you ask.

He merely shoots you a look that tells you don’t push it.

With a final look of defeat, you nestle yourself against his chest, head on his shoulder so you can look up at his face. He was so focused. If you didn’t know you were here, you never would suspect he’d be up to this level of multitasking.

You let out a sigh. It was nice being full, but you still yearned for more. You were really trying to be good though, so there wasn’t much for you to do. Minutes tick by as you try in earnest to think of a potential solution. To make matters worse, at a certain point, after you’d been on his dick for a while, his hand starts roaming your back. A soothing touch that made your walls flutter around him. He knew it would too, you could tell from that little smirk on his face.

Trying to focus on the positives, you mentally study every feature of his cock that you can feel. It’s so deep, he’s resting right against the spot that could drive you wild when properly battered. It pulsed rhythmically, twitching slightly when your muscles would contract or release around his shaft.

You’re actually doing better than expected, letting your mind wander. But then, he’s the one to move a bit under the guise of necessary readjustment. The whimper that falls from your lips is inevitable. He shushes you, and you mutter an apology, but that simple movement was enough to reignite the fire in your belly.

You bite your lip, the neediness in your eyes intensifying. “Daddy?” you whisper, testing the waters.

Nothing.

So he had gone back to this? Not if you could help it. You don’t bother speaking again. Instead, you move the tiniest bit, rolling your hips as you act like you’re shifting to alleviate a cramp. To your shock, he doesn’t say anything, just shifts his hips a bit in return.

You glance up hopefully. Maybe he was going to ease up, but he just didn’t want to verbally admit it. You move a little more, but this time, you’re a bit too zealous in your attempt. His hands grab your hips and dig into your flesh, keeping you in place.

You’re so pent up and frustrated. Your forehead thuds back onto his shoulder. “Ple-”

“What did I say?” he asks.

“But da-”

“What did I say?” he asks again and tightens his grip.

“I just wanna cum,” you whimper, “It hurts, been achy all day.”

“Oh it hurts, does it?” he mocks. He jerks your hips to give you some fleeting friction while maintaining his control. “What is it about today that’s making it so hard for you to listen?”

“I-” you start to defend yourself out of instinct but can’t actually come up with anything. “I don’t know.”

“That’s right you don’t. So quit acting like you do. You think with that slutty little pussy, and then act like you don’t need daddy to make the decisions. It’s a little disappointing, babydoll,” he scolds.

Your eyes flicker with every stage of grief as he says this. That’s literally the worst thing he could say. He could call you any name in the book and you’d brush it off with an eyeroll or a “hmph.” But disappointing? That was evil. That word could worm its way into your heart and weigh on you for days.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly in a desperate attempt to remedy, “I just… I’m so pent up. Can’t think with my head when my pussy keeps distracting me.”

“Oh, poor baby,” he mocks with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

“That’s why I have to cum,” you plead, “I need it. It’s not even the same when I do it. I should’ve just waited. I’m sorry.”

“You need it?” he repeats, “So fuckin’ spoiled. I give you some dick even when you don’t deserve it, and it’s still not enough. I gotta train some gratitude into you next.”

“You’re the one who spoils me,” you pout.

“Oh, so it’s all my fault? So you’re saying I shouldn’t be so easy on you, huh?” he challenges.

You shake your head as fast as humanly possible, now set on backtracking your fuck up. But it was too late. “No, I was just sayi-” you start before he cuts you off yet again.

“And just when I was about to start fucking you too? That’s a damn shame,” he says.

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head more. This had gone from a slight improvement to a downward spiral.

“I mean, why would I bother now? All you care about is getting to cum. Don’t care about all the work daddy puts in to make you feel good the entire time,” he taunts, “If that’s the case, then go ahead. Cum. Take what you want, but don’t you dare move those hips.”

Your look of anguish evolves into that of confusion. You don’t really want to question him right now, but you’re unsure of how you’re supposed to follow that command. “I can’t…” you say softly.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Not enough,” you answer.

“Then make it enough,” he growls, “You were having so much fun today with those fingers. They don’t work anymore?”

Oh. Your face feels hot as the realization dawns on you. You shyly bring your hand to your center and awkwardly fumble with your clit. You look at him, silently begging to ride him.

“You can do better than that,” he responds, “You were putting on such a show earlier, so don’t act like you need my help all the sudden.”

Shamefully, your fingers pick up some speed. You whimper as the pads of your digits rub over a sensitive spot. The whole time he’s still inside you. It felt kind of weird, but still good. You weren’t going to complain. Your upper body twitches a bit, but he holds you straight up, making sure you're looking at him while you work.

“That’s it. How’s it feeling, baby? Is it as good as when daddy does it?” he taunts.

“No…” you whimper, “It’s ok.”

“Aw, well, it’s gonna have to be good enough for now because it’s the only way you’re cumming.”

You groan and whine at the statement. It was the truth, but that didn’t mean you wanted to hear it. You start circling faster and flicking your hand with more urgency. Your head falls back at the sensations as a breathy moan floats from your lips. He squeezes your hips again as you tighten around his cock from the euphoria you brought yourself.

“Look at that. Think you’re gonna be able to cum all by yourself?” he teases.

You nod. Your hips rock involuntarily as the pleasure ramps up, but his grip keeps you stationary. Little gasps like the ones from earlier when you were in the chair escape you. Your fingers move almost like they’re automated.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Please can I finish?” you whimper, “Wanna cum so bad, daddy, please?”

“I already gave you permission, baby. Guess you really wanna show me how good you actually are,” he chuckles.

You can’t even say anything back before the switch flips inside you and release tears through you. Your back stiffens up and a strangled rope of moans come out of you. Your hips jerk harder than before, giving you brief brushes with the head of his cock. He sighs contentedly as you flutter around his cock and provide him with a muted sense of bliss.

You’re still riding it out when his hands are no longer just holding you, but rather, beginning to bounce you. You feel it in your cunt before your brain even catches up with the general motion of your body. It’s because you’re still so sensitive. The tingly stab pulling a quiet shriek from you.

“Daddy, gimme a break,” you whine.

“What? Daddy doesn’t deserve to finish too? Is that what you think? You just get to have your fun, and leave me to deal with it. That’s not how it works, princess,” he says.

“I’m not- I didn’t… I just can’t… it’s too much,” you struggle to get out between the whimpers coming from you. He keeps bouncing you, groaning as that hushed ecstasy blossoms into an encompassing euphoria. The noises of him sliding in and out are nearly louder than all the whining and moaning you’re doing.

“You can take it,” he grunts, “I’ll say when you’ve had enough.”

You cry out in a mix of pleasure and pain as his hips start to meet your hips guided by his hands. A deep groan rumbles in his chest as your cunt’s constant contracting massages his length. After a while, it feels like you’re almost numb down there. The fire still rages in your belly, but your actual pussy has been beaten into submission by your boyfriend’s cock. He watches your face as he moves you, relishing the way your eyes are getting glossy with a cocktail of tears, both of overstimulation and relief.

“So pretty for me, sweetheart. Gonna be even prettier when you cum again all over my dick and milk me dry,” he grunts.

“Uh huh,” you moan without thinking, head wildly falling back and forth in what’s supposed to be a nod.

Soon enough, his chest and belly are tightening up. He knows the end is near and pistons into your cunt extra hard for the finale. You wail and grip his biceps for support as you explode. You didn’t ask to cum this time, but being so close to his own release, he couldn’t really find it to care.

He keeps going through your orgasm, practically making you sob in pleasure. You feel impossibly tight, warm, and wet. And when he sees how your precious face is getting tight too, scrunching up as you reach the peak of the peak, he can’t hold it off.

His fingers dig into your hips so hard that you feel like the future bruises are already there. Your eyes are rolled back in advance as he fires his cum deep inside you. A goofy smile graces his features as he pumps it in, enjoying the waves of pleasure that wash over him throughout. And the whole time you’re pulsing away through your own release. 

You look even dumber than he does, silly smile not just on your lips, but visible in your eyes too. You’re whimpering, extra whiny and a higher pitch. He rubs your skin to remind you he’s right there. He can see your head coming back to reality as the whirlpool of ecstasy subsides.

“Oh that’s it, there’s my good girl,” he coos as you finally reach the end of the high. His hand rubs your back in long, even strokes. “So proud of you, sunshine.”

A dreamy, self-satisfied grin comes across your face. His words were the best drugs while you were in this state, and the tone of his voice only made them that much more addictive.

“Such a good girl,” he repeats, “Now how ‘bout you give daddy a kiss.”

Eagerly you boost yourself towards his lips to connect in a hazy smooch. You’re a bit sloppy with it, but he expected that and found it cute. Of course you were dizzy. He just fucked you stupid. Once you pull away, he strokes your hair and smiles at your blissed out face.

“Aw, cutie. Looks like it’s time for you to head to bed,” he says as his fingers move to rub your cheek.

“You too. I wanna cuddle,” you say, locking your arms around him.

“Mhm, I’ll be right behind you. I gotta finish up the last of this. Now that I don’t have you distracting me, it should only take about fifteen minutes,” he teases.

“That’s like a million years, and I already had to wait all day,” you sigh dramatically.

“Then I’m sure you can handle a few more minutes,” he says and rubs his nose against yours, “Don’t start getting mouthy with me, little love. I still have those panties I can easily turn into a gag.”

With a playful glare, you get up on wobbly legs to make your exit, dizzy smile still plastered on your face. You start to stumble to the door when he calls out to you.

“Wow princess, not even going to say good night to daddy? I expected better from my baby,” he chides teasingly.

You roll your eyes while smiling and return to him to smack one final big kiss on his lips. “Night daddy,” you say with a small giggle.

He smirks at your clear happiness. As you turn to leave, he swats your ass. “I’ll be right there. Bet you’ll already be passed out by the time I get there,” he says as his fingers start working the keyboard again.

“I’ll be dreaming of you though,” you tease before going out the doors and down the hall to your bed.

[winterzsurprise]

Peaches and Cream || Miguel O'hara

Pairing: Miguel O'hara x f!reader

Summary: There's a stark difference with how your husband and Miguel treats you, starting with how rough the latter can be.

Tags: SMUT, NOT BETA READ, unprotected sex, rough sex, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, spanking, pussy slapping (once), fluff (?), jealous!Miguel, Miguel has a big dick.

Words: 2.2k

I got distracted from writing domestic Miguel after he replaced the dad!Miguel after he got shot. This is shit, my apologies I'll do better and add more flavor next time, promiseee. Title is from the song I was listening to the whole time by Noah Davis.

I don't know how to navigate tumblr as a second blog but thank you to all your comments, reblogs and likes, it really does motivate me to write more and better stuff. Also thank you to two blogs for putting me in their recommendations! I made it guys :''DD!!

cariño - honey || mi vida - my life || mi amor - my love || hermosa - beautiful || pobrecita - poor thing (correct me on this one please) || calladita - quietly (thank you sm @eminenceplant for this)

There's a stark difference between your husband and the man hovering above you like a predator about to pounce.

Your husband's hands were soft and loving as it caressed and wandered your body as he peppered kisses down from your neck and to your inner thigh. All of his gestures are a sweet concoction of loving and adoration.

Whilst Miguel's touch was desperate, territorial as he clawed down your flesh, human nails digging into your thighs and breasts as he left a trail of purple bruises around your neck, collarbones before stopping to nip at your hip bone. Everything he does is animalistic, deprived and hungry as if he hasn't eaten for centuries.

His red eyes were clouded with dark lust, glinted with something carnal, even feral, in the dark that got your spine tingling with anticipation.

To see and feel his perpetual desperation for your skin, your scent and desire for your touch had your pride piercing the heavens. To be wanted as he does like you're the air he breathes is dizzying and you can't help but want more.

It's exhilarating, addicting even.

It hasn't been long since you found yourself in love with another version of your husband, yet you grew to crave more of him as seconds ticked by.

Miguel's muscled arms curled around your thighs, forcing them open before pulling you flush to his face with a surprising strength. A pleased sigh escaped your lips as his hot breath fans over your pubic bone, hand falling to knot onto his hair and tugging him closer.

You soon realised why he paused on top of your mound as he inhaled you in, immediately your cheeks flamed.

"You smell heavenly, baby. So wet for me as well, makes me want to taste you."

You bite your bottom lip, nodding urgently as you tug him closer and he clicks his tongue.

"Hermosa, I need your words."

"Please darling? I'll be nice I swear, eat me out please."

Miguel doesn't need to be told twice, dipping his tongue onto your dripping folds. Your back arched at the sensation, after months of no intimacy following the change in your husband, your arousal lit your nerve endings ablaze.

His left hand that was digging into your flesh then reached to splay itself onto your abdomen, pinning you to the mattress as his tongue flicked your clit with a firm pace.

With every flicker of his appendage, hot pleasure rockets into your stomach, body growing feverish as pressure builds up inside your abdomen.

As if sensing your orgasm from the hitch of your breath alone, his right arm unwinds from your thigh to trail down to your fluttering entrance, caressing the rim so sweetly it hurts.

"Miguel please."

He ignored you, focusing on suckling on your clit with a reawakened fervor. You tugged onto his hair, hard enough for it to hurt, for him to listen to your pleas yet he only grunted, sending ample vibrations to quake your bones.

"Beg for it nicely, cariño. I want to hear you beg for me."

"I want your fingers in me, please! Miguel, baby, I want to feel you in me, please."

He groaned, it rumbled in his chest before sending shockwaves down your spine. Then he shoved two of his thick fingers inside you and you jerked. The burn of being breached got your blood buzzing as it mixed with the pleasure his tongue gave you.

If your husband was gentle with his fingers, inserting them one by one with utmost care, Miguel is everything he stands against. 

His fingers immediately found a punishing pace, plunging in and out of you whilst curling up to touch the spongy spot in your walls. Encouraged by his digits, his tongue grew frantic as it sucked and flicked your clit rapidly, driving you closer and closer to your precipice. You opened your mouth to scream but it was caught short by his other hand clamping over your lips.

"Calladita, you're going to wake Gabriella up."

Miguel's gaze burns your face as he brings you pleasure atop pleasure with every thrust and lick .

To see your eyes roll back and your chest rise as you arch, the greedy monster claws at his neck, wanting for more reactions.

Bet her husband had also made her this way...

An ugly head reared out of the back of his brain, whispering taunts into his ears and reaching around with its rotten hands to blind his eyes. 

With the bitter realization, his fingers pistoned in and out of you with a punishing pace, the heel of his palm slamming into your engorged clit as a pathetic wet squelch echoed in the room. The sudden change in pace got you writhing, your mewls muffled by his hand.

"So fucking wet for me, hermosa. Tell me, do you get this turned on for your husband?"

You didn't respond and that seemed to anger him, pulling his fingers out and cutting off the intoxicating thrum of heat in your veins and you whined, displeased. Hearing this, he brought his hand down for a firm slap onto your clit.

"Fuck…"

"You don't get to react, mi amor."

He sat up, pushing down his sweatpants along with his boxers and his erection stands, slapping against his stomach. Your eyes immediately caught the dribbles of pre-cum pulsing out of his tip and your tongue grew heavy, hand reaching out to grab onto his dick.

Miguel, in more ways than one, is bigger than your husband. Your hand barely closed up around his length and dread loomed over you. He's about to ruin you, mind and body, with this dick.

Fuck, will this fit in me?

"You're so big."

He chuckled darkly, fingers pinching your chin. "No, your husband's just lacking, hermosa."

You should've been angered by his comment but you couldn't find it in yourself to reprimand him for it. Instead, you find yourself flustered at his confidence.

"On your knees."

As if hypnotized, you followed despite the disappointment rumbling inside you for not being able to pleasure him. 

You pushed yourself off of the mattress to turn but he was quicker, ever the impatient man that he is, his large hand splayed between your shoulder blades and pinned you to the cushion, forcing you to present your ass up at him.

"Darling? I really don't think it'll fit."

A resonating slap echoed in the room as he swatted your ass and you whimpered, body lurching away before strong arms dragged you back under him.

"You can and you will. I will make sure of it."

His cockhead poked your entrance and a thrill slithered down your spine. You looked down to your pussy, watching with rapt attention as he dragged himself up and down your folds.

The sight of his disheveled self with his head thrown back and mouth agape to let out groans made you shiver. How could someone look so attractive?

Miguel soon pushed in, the head of his dick immediately lodging into your small hole, stretching you wide as he slowly inserted more of his inches. The sting it brought got you gasping and grabbing tight onto the sheets, already feeling full to the brim with barely half of him in.

"Fuck, you're so tight for me. Pobrecita… your husband must've never fucked you wide open before."

Just when you thought it was done, he continued to push more of him. Your head grows light, pleasure shocking all your nerve endings awake from your legs and to the tip of your toes.

He didn't even let you rest, already pulling back and you almost shot up to grab him, scared he'd leave you hanging but Miguel left his cockhead in before thrusting all of his inches back in with one fluid motion and your mouth fell agape. 

"Fuck…! Miguel please!"

"What a greedy girl. Don't worry baby, I'll treat you well tonight."

If his slow thrust already had your mind fuzzy from the pain of the stretch and pleasure, his callous and frenzied pace got you praying as he released shockwaves after shockwaves of bliss to shatter your bones and down to your trembling legs.

You barely had the mind to bite onto the sheet to muffle your cry as he drove manically behind you. 

Seeing this, Miguel grew displeased. Despite knowing the reason for your actions, he wanted to hear how well he fucks you. It was childish trying to outdo someone he'd never encounter again but his pride is bruised.

That fucker got the chance to devour and have you pliant and panting under him for decades while he withered back in his lab trying to get rid of his unwanted addiction.

The bastard has ingrained himself into your body for years and he can't have that.

There should only be one man you should think about at night and be reminded of when you sit to feel the soreness rendering your lower body boneless.

"I'm gonna install noise suppressors in our room tomorrow then you'd be free to scream my name whenever you like, mi vida. You know how I love it when you cry for me."

You didn't say anything but instead nodded frantically. Fire licked every inch of your skin as the familiar tightness in your abdomen appeared, lightning shooting up your spine with every savage thrusts.

There was nothing else you could think of, focused on reaching your deserved nirvana and desperately shaking your hips to meet his thrust. Seeing how fucked and blissed out you were, Miguel groaned before swatting the globes of your ass, pulling a mewl from you.

"Look at you, so cock drunk for me. So beautiful… It makes me wanna tease you a little."

Feeling your orgasm being torn away as he slows, you whine and reach back to grab his hips, forcing him to piston in and out of you with a mewl. Miguel watched you with heavy lidded eyes, he has never seen such a sinful yet delicious sight until now.

If there was a scene he could ingrain into the back of his eyelids, this would be it. 

You, so desperate for a release and trying to chase it when he refused to. Eyes glazed with tears of frustration as you gave up trying to control his hips and bucked your hips like a madwoman into his dick.

There's no such thing as guilt when he got to witness you in such a vulnerable state, only gratefulness.

"Mi cielo, please! Move, I want to come so bad please…!"

He had a different plan for the evening but if you begged so sweetly like that, there's nothing he wouldn't give you.

A house, a new ring with the biggest gemstone you love, the world, the universe or something as simple as a climax becomes acquirable if you want them so badly, he'd give it all to you.

"Anything for you, cariño."

Despite the callousness of his touch driven with wanderlust and desperation to the point of passionate worshiping, Miguel differs from your husband by being love-starved and his brimming confidence in pleasing you a hundred ways before tomorrow without breaking a sweat.

A welcomed and fresh change nonetheless, the difference only led you to fall deeper in love with him.

He drove his dick back into you with a fresh yet ravenous pace, pulling back till his cockhead remains before plunging all of himself in. Miguel's nails dug deep into your flesh enough to make you fear for a permanent dent in them.

Your skin flared as the coil in your stomach reawakened, tightening further and further with every thrust. The warmth is maddening yet deliciously addictive as it lashes out, wrapping around your swelling heart.

"Let me come please? I want it please…! Ah!"

He leant down while his hand reached down to roll your clit in tight eights, decreasing his pace yet hitting deeper as he swept the hair behind your ear before tugging it hard.

"Give it to me, mi vida. I want it all, come around me."

With his proximity and whispered command, there was nothing else you could do but burst. 

Ecstasy easily drowns you as it floods your senses, white hot pleasure exploding behind your eyelids as you screamed into the sheets. Your orgasm rippled through you, shimmying under your skin and turning your limbs useless as they grew light.

There's nothing else you could call what you were feeling except 'heavenly'.

With the constant pulse of your velvet walls clamping down on him, Miguel soon followed with a deep resonating groan to his annoyance, painting your insides white with his liquid arousal.

It was a wonder he lasted this long after having only his hands to entertain him for years in the laboratory and spider hub. Nonetheless, he has his life to spend with you, years where he could discover and evoke your deepest desires. 

Placing gentle kisses on your shoulders, he grinned. "Te amo cariño."

"I love you more…" You mumbled back, exhaustion weighing your eyelids. You barely picked up his clicking tongue before he spoke up, sounding determined as if it was set in stone.

"No sleeping, mi vida. We're not done yet, I have months to make up, no?"

[starlostseungmin]

husband!chan

✰ notes: the second entry of husband!skz series!! this is just for the meantime since my brain is still not ready to write a lot. i hope you guys enjoy!! not proofread. DO NOT FORGET TO REBLOG, COMMENT AND LEAVE TAGS! thank you <33

seungmin（ chan ）lee know , jeongin , han , changbin , felix , hyunjin.

ꔛ

Husband Chan who got down on one knee and asked, “Will you marry me?” on a private beach—just the two of you—because it was his ideal proposal and you gladly said yes. 

Husband Chan who took you to (name of country) for your honeymoon. 

Husband Chan who would take you to Sydney for a vacation and meet his family. 

Husband Chan who suggested to make Berry as your child while you were still thinking about having literal kids. It doesn’t matter how long, he only needs you and Berry to make him happy.

Husband Chan who has seven children to feed and declare you as his wife. 

Husband Chan who puts you first before everything. 

Husband Chan who loves to send pictures with the caption “For your eyes only,” and giggles to himself while reading your replies saying how much he looks cute or handsomeーhe can imagine your reactions. 

Husband Chan who loves movie nights and lets you decide which one you’d be watching so you better wear the most comfortable clothes and prepare a bucket of popcorn. 

Husband Chan who cooks you a lot of food and loves spoon-feeding you because you are his precious baby. 

Husband Chan who pretends he doesn’t know about you stealing his hoodies. He doesn’t mind and gets all giddy when you wear them since they look cute on you. “I’m not giving them back,” You said. “What’s mine is yours, baby,” He smiled. 

Husband Chan who invites you out on a dinner date on a casual weekend because he knows you would enjoy it. After dinner you would stroll around the city, holding hands. 

Husband Chan who carries you to your shared bed when he finds you sleeping on the couch while waiting for him to come home from work. 

Husband Chan who writes love songs about you and gets teased by Han and Changbin. 

Husband Chan who gives you the silent treatment but can’t put up with it for hours so he just pretends nothing happened and cuddles you. 

Husband Chan who knows what exactly you want when you’re upset and would gladly take you in his arms. He never leaves your side unless you want some space but you can’t be away from him for too long. 

Husband Chan who scolds you when you are not resting enough when he’s out there overworking himself. You decided that both of you should take a few days off which he willingly agreed to so he can spend more time with you. 

Husband Chan who lets himself be vulnerable when he’s with you because you’re the only one with whom he could let it all out. 

Husband Chan who loves to spoil you with hugs whenever you need them. 

Husband Chan who listens and understands whatever situation and dilemmas you have without any judgments rather he reassures you that everything will be okay. He gives you his full support for your decisions. 

Husband Chan who knows everyone in the industry so he knows a lot of controversies. He would share them with you on a random Sunday to gossip and giggle. 

Husband Chan who loves to make dad jokes and relays pick-up lines just to make you laugh. He gets embarrassed when it’s not funny so he hides in the bathroom until you get over it.

Husband Chan whose love languages are physical touch, words of affirmation, and acts of service. 

Husband Chan who has the most precious smile and laughs adorably makes your heart leap. 

Husband Chan whom you love the most in the world and will not let anything hurt him. 

Husband Chan whom you want to spend the rest of your life with, forever and always. 

Husband Chan who will never leave, never lets you go, and never allow you to divorce him because there’s no reason to begin with. He loves you, you love him, same story. 

✰ taglist: @notastraykid , @ameliesaysshoo , @l3visbby , @reignessance , @lix-ables , @skzfelixlove , @rachabreathing , @hyunverse , @minluvly , @sleepyleeji , @starseungs , @midsoulz , @oddracha , @armystay89

©️ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍 , 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒.