#that he's being handled gently and with care for the first time in a long time

[himasgod]

HI OMG I love your writing style so much you handle the twst characters with such care

I wanted to request Leona, Floyd, and Sebek with a reader who has a lazy eye and doesn’t look people in the face because they think it’s embarrassing not being able to look straight!! Thank you ☹️❤️

LEONA, FLOYD AND SEBEK X READER

Where you have a lazy eye

Where you admit that, because of your lazy eye, you never look people in the face because it makes you insecure.

Leona had noticed long ago.

You’d always glance somewhere near his face, but never meet his eyes. He figured it was nerves—but when you finally confessed about how awkward your lazy eye made you feel, he listened in silence.

"...So yeah," you mumbled,"I just... feel gross. Or like people are always staring. I never know if I look weird. So I don’t look up."

Leona said nothing for a moment, then pulled you close, resting his chin lazily on your head.

"That’s it? That’s what’s been eatin’ at you this whole time?"

You nodded. He exhaled, warm against your hair.

"You're an idiot," he said gently. "But you're my idiot. And I think every single part of you—eyes included—is beautiful. So deal with it."

Leona never forces eye contact. Instead, he’ll stroke your cheek with one hand, holding your gaze only if you want to meet his. His voice carries all the affection his eyes don’t have to.

And if you ever apologize for looking away again? He’ll hush you with a kiss to your temple and say, “Don’t look at me if you dont want to, herbivore. Just stay beside me.”

You thought Floyd hadn’t noticed your lazy eye.

He was chaotic, always moving, and never really seemed to care about eye contact. But the moment you hesitantly brought it up— confessing that you didn’t look people in the face because of it—his reaction was not what you expected. He blinked. Then grinned.

“Awww~ that’s what’s been botherin’ you? But Shrimpy, I like that about you!”

You stared at him in disbelief. “You... do?”

He laughed, pulling you into his arms and rubbing your back.

“Mhm~ It’s cute. You’re cute. Who cares if your eye’s a little different? You still look at me like you love me, and that’s what I see.”

If you ever got quiet or insecure again, Floyd would cup your face, smile and nuzzle your forehead. “You don’t gotta be shy with me. I’ll love every version of your face—every day, every look. Even when you don’t look at me, I’m always lookin’ at you, Shrimpy.”

You never told Sebek at first about your insecurity.

But one day he caught you dodging his eyes again, and you accidentally blurted it out. That you didn’t look at people because your lazy eye made you feel broken.

Sebek was horrified. “You what?!”

You flinched, heart sinking. “I—I’m sorry—”

“No!! Do not apologize!” he said, taking both your hands. “I am... ashamed. Ashamed that you have carried such thoughts. That you would believe yourself anything less than magnificent.”

He was so serious. So distressed that you might think you were anything short of radiant.

“I do not love you despite such things,” he said, squeezing your hands. “I love all of you—your heart, your courage, and yes, your eyes. No matter how they are.”

Sebek now makes a point of always showing you how proud he is to be seen by you—no matter how you look at him. He’ll tell you he feels loved by every glance, every smile, every moment your gaze is anywhere near him.

And sometimes, when you’re curled up together, he’ll whisper:

“You look at me with such love... How could I ever care which direction your eyes point? They always find their way to make my soul fall in love.”

[fanfictionsweetheart]

“Do You Trust Me?”

Pairing: Koenig x Reader

Summary: Sleeping with her commander in a safe house is always risky. But how can she resist when he knows just how to get her off.

Trigger/Content Warning(s): smut, rough smut, dark smut, knife play, dom/sub, object insertion, dirty talk, humiliation kink

Word Count: 522

A/N: this is an old kinktober drabble from my ao3. First bit of Koenig on here. lol. This is a filthy idea I hope you enjoy.

Tags: @staley83

“Stay still, shatz, do you trust me?” Koenig asked the young woman he was kneeling over on the bare mattress of the rickety safehouse they were gonna be holed up in for a while.

Her clothes had been cut off and her body was flushed as she looked up at him. She was shivering with need. He could practically smell her arousal.

“Yes sir.” She chirped.

“Gut, very gut, you’re doing so well.” He praised.

One of his large hands was groping her breasts while the other twirled his favorite knife around after cutting her clothes and underwear off with it. She whimpered at the sight of it. She looked into his eyes after a moment of staring at the knife. All she could see was his eyes, he’d left his sniper hood-like mask on.

He’d offered to take it off but she told him not to. There was something so dangerously erotic to fucking her commander in the mask he wore when he did what he did best. His hand moved to cup her cheek, she keened into his touch.

“Spread your legs.” He ordered her.

“Yes sir!” She chirped once more and did as he said.

He trailed the knife along her body so gently it felt like a feather. Yet knowing it was a well cared for and sharpened blade that had taken numerous enemy soldiers lives caused goosebumps to prickle up on her skin.

“I’m going to fuck you with the handle of my knife, katchen, and you’re going to be a good girl and cum for me.” He instructed her, “Ja?”

He was always amazing at asking for her consent. She whimpered but verbally assured him she was okay.

Koenig grinned and grabbed his sheath and slipped the knife back into it, not wanting to hurt himself or her with the razor sharp edge. He swirled the end of the handle around her clit, being certain she was wet enough for his plans.

He slipped it inside soon after making her squeal loudly. She gasped his name and looked at him, watching how his pale eyes darkened dangerously in lust as he watched the knife slipping so easily in and out of his secret lover and subordinate.

Her moans echoed off the bare walls as he fucked her with his knife. Her eyes were glittering as she took what Koenig gave. He fucked her with the handle harder, his dirty talk in both English and German only added to her arousal.

It didn’t take long for the orgasm he had demanded of her to crash over her. She whimpered and whined his name over and over as her thighs shook.

“Good girl.” He praised.

He didn’t remove the knife handle right away. He sat back and pulled his personal phone out. He ordered her to stay still and removed the sheathe from the knife and took a picture of its blade glinting in the dim light of the room, the handle sheathed by her glistening lower lips.

Below his mask Koenig smirked at her. That would be a favorite picture of his for a long, long time.

[heesmiles]

HATE TO HAVE YOU p.js

synopsis ⤑ You were here for work. That was it. You didn’t even like hockey players. They were too raunchy, too noisy, just too much. You were a put your head down and listen to classical music through your headphones, type of girl. Your brother was a hockey player, your dad as well. All you wanted to do was help people, not fall in love with clients that were off limits. Clients who were the captain of the hockey team your dad coached. No, he was very much off limits and he would most certainly hate to have you. 

pairings ⤑ hockey player!jay x coaches daughter!reader word count ⤑ 34k

warnings ⤑ smut, oral (m. rec.), forbidden romance, mentions of hockey injuries, angst, parental angst, kinda yearning jay???

crossing the line masterlist here.

a note from rain; it's done. crossing the line is finally finished, and the last one this one is the longest. Honestly, my favorite one is Sunghoon's but this one is i will hold dear to me since it is the conclusion. Thank you to everyone who has read and loved crossing the line as much as i have. ily

The diner always smelled like old coffee and fried memories. Grease clung to the air like a second skin, settling into the cushions of red vinyl booths and the strands of your hair no matter how tightly you kept your hood drawn. Outside, Seoul had cracked open into winter’s throat, grey light pressing through the glass like fogged breath on a mirror, leaving halos around the fluorescent signage. You sat in a corner booth by the window, jacket still zipped, hands tucked into your sleeves like you could hide your disappointment in the folds of fabric. The waitress didn’t ask for your order; she knew you. You’d been here before, many times before, waiting for a man who never came. So she brought your tea without a word and left it there to steep and grow cold. You were not surprised.

No, this sort of thing had long ago stopped being shocking. You were just…tired. Tired in the way only daughters of distant fathers could be, tired in your bones, your breath, your blood. You stirred your tea absentmindedly, watching the bag swirl like a limp ghost tethered to nothing. Your phone sat face-up beside the cup, silent and useless, save for the three unanswered texts and one call that had gone straight to voicemail. You didn’t leave a message. What was the point? If Coach Bennett cared to call you back, he would. But he never did, not when you scraped your knees learning to ride a bike, not when you stood alone at your middle school science fair, not when you left home for university. Hockey always came first. Always. 

And yet, somehow, impossibly, you still wanted his help. 

You weren’t here to be his daughter today. No, you were here for something more transactional, something clinical, something you thought he might be able to handle better than love. You were studying to be a sports therapist. Four years of aching backs, anatomy charts, injury reports, textbooks that read like they’d been translated from another language. You wanted to help people. Heal them. Tape their fractures, ease their bruises, guide them gently back to the things they loved. It made sense, in some twisted, ironic way, that your professors had suggested you intern under your father’s team. He was a seasoned coach, after all. Revered. Tough. Efficient. And you were nothing if not logical, so despite the rotting ache in your chest, the cold cup of tea, the flaking vinyl under your thighs, you had agreed to meet him and ask for the position. You’d rehearsed the words. I’m not asking for favoritism. I just want experience. I can do the job. I’ll keep my head down. I promise.

But now, the booth was empty except for you and your churning disappointment. Even the jukebox refused to play, the silence punctuated only by the clink of cutlery and the occasional bell over the door. Your eyes drifted to the window again, catching your own reflection faintly superimposed over the world outside: still, with shadows under your eyes and something hollow about the mouth. Not sad. Just used to it. There’s a difference. Eventually, the weight of waiting tipped you out of the booth, and you slipped your coat back on like armor. Your headphones dangled around your neck, the edges of a Bach concerto still humming faintly from the right side, but you didn’t lift them up. Not yet. You needed clarity, not comfort.

There was only one place he ever went this time of day. The ice rink. And so, you walked. Outside, the wind curled under your scarf like fingers seeking a pulse. Streetlamps flickered overhead, their bulbs blinking like tired eyes. Seoul was a city that didn’t sleep so much as dream with its eyes open, neon blinking against concrete, traffic lights blinking in cold Morse code. You passed through it like a shadow in motion, barely noticed, anonymous. Just the way you liked it.

When you reached the rink, it loomed like a cathedral of frost and echo. You could see your breath crystallizing in the air as you stepped inside, the glass doors groaning shut behind you. The chill wrapped itself around your bones, but you welcomed it. Cold was easier to handle than hurt. Cold made you sharp. Precise. Focused. The fluorescent lights buzzed above as you made your way down the corridor, the familiar scent of rubber and sweat filling your lungs. The hum of skates on ice reverberated faintly through the walls, scrapes, stops, a dull thud against the boards. Music, in its own rough language. You passed trophy cases lined with glimmering relics, photographs of boys with helmets crooked on their heads, their eyes wild with victory. One of them was your father, decades ago; before he grew bitter and distant, before he learned how to love the game more than he could ever love a family.

You expected the rink to be quiet, still and empty as a prayer unspoken. But as you stepped through the doors, the cold air kissed your cheeks with the gentleness of a ghost, and you heard it: the unmistakable scrape of blades against ice. Not chaos, not the frenzied thunder of a team in motion. Just one. A lone figure gliding back and forth, carving perfect arcs into the surface like a calligrapher with a silver pen. You paused at the boards, the glass cool beneath your fingertips, watching him move, fluid and sure, even in solitude. He skated like someone who didn’t need an audience. Who wasn’t chasing applause, just clarity. Repetition. Discipline. He wove through imaginary obstacles with practiced grace, the sound of his skates echoing like poetry in an empty room. You could almost forget how much you disliked hockey in moments like this, when it looked like dance, when it sounded like breath, when it shimmered with something close to silence.

You lifted your hand, tapped gently on the glass. Just once. He startled. The boy spun with a sharp jerk, arms splaying briefly for balance before he caught himself, chest rising with the kind of laugh you could only hear in body language. He glided toward you, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth, strands of dark hair falling into his eyes beneath the helmet. He stopped just before the boards, breath fogging the space between you, and when he pulled his mouth guard down, his voice was warmer than you expected.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, with an apologetic nod, “but this is a closed practice.” You blinked. Not at the words, but at the way he said them, so earnestly, like a knight gently turning away a princess at the edge of a battlefield. His voice didn’t have the bite most hockey players used with girls near the boards. No teasing arrogance, no swagger. Just simple, practiced courtesy.

You smiled without thinking, soft and shy and almost surprised by your own reaction. “I’m too young to be called ma’am,” you murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. He blinked, then fumbled for a response, cheeks blooming with something faint and pink, even in the cold. “Oh—God, I—sorry. I just—my mom raised me that way. To be respectful. To women. Not that you’re old—I didn’t mean—I wasn’t saying that—” He trailed off, face contorting with the kind of mortified sincerity you rarely got to see outside of romantic comedies.

You let yourself laugh. Quiet, melodic. Just enough to lighten the air. “It’s okay,” you said gently, your voice muffled just slightly by your scarf. 

He blinked again, eyes flicking briefly down, then back up, as though recalibrating everything he assumed about the world and his place in it. His hands fidgeted with the edges of his gloves, and he glanced over his shoulder, as if remembering that he was the only one on the ice. “Still, I’m sorry, really. The rink’s closed to non-personnel. I — I can’t really let anyone just come in. Even if you’re not a… ma’am.” His smile was a little crooked now, tilted with humor at his own expense, and you couldn’t help it, you liked the way it softened his face. You liked the way he stood there, unsure, waiting, instead of telling you to leave outright. You lowered your hood, let your voice rise just enough to reach him clearly.

“I’m looking for Coach Bennett,” you said. “He’s my father.” The effect was immediate. He straightened like he’d been struck by lightning, helmet tilting back slightly as he stared at you with wide, stunned eyes.

“Wait—Coach Bennett’s daughter?” he echoed, like the words didn’t quite fit in his mouth. Then again, more flustered: “You’re—oh my God, I—I didn’t know—I mean I would’ve—God, I’m sorry.” He scrambled to unclip his helmet, fingers tangling in the strap before he finally pulled it off, revealing a mop of dark hair and a face flushed with either embarrassment or exertion, or both. He was handsome in a way that didn’t feel intentional. His features were sharp, yes, and he had the jawline of a boy who could ruin hearts without meaning to. But there was something open about him, something too human to be threatening.

“Really sorry again,” he said, standing straighter now, as though trying to look more official. “Coach is in his office—I can show you where it is. If you want. I mean, of course you want. You’re here to see him. So yeah. Come with me.” You bit your lip to hide another smile and nodded, falling into step behind him as he pushed open the side gate and stepped off the ice with surprising grace. The blades of his skates clinked against the rubber matting as he led you down the corridor. He didn’t speak at first, and neither did you. It was comfortable, the silence. Not the awkward kind. Just… quiet. Reverent. As though something soft and strange had entered the air and neither of you wanted to scare it off.

When he stopped outside your father’s office, he turned to you again. His eyes were warmer now. Curious. Kind. “I’m Jay, by the  way,” he said. “Captain of the team.” Of course he was.

You nodded once. “Nice to meet you, Captain.” And then you knocked. But for a heartbeat before your father’s voice called you in, you could feel Jay still looking at you, like he was trying to solve a riddle written in your eyes. And in that fleeting moment, you didn’t feel like a coach’s daughter. You felt like a secret worth keeping.

Coach Bennett’s office smelled like old sweat and ambition. The kind that settled into the corners, into the folds of jackets slung over chairs, into the woodgrain of the desk itself, soaked in over years of lost games and close calls. The room wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. It felt clinical, hollow, like it didn’t belong to a person so much as to the idea of one. Hockey posters curled slightly at the edges, clinging to cinder block walls. The light overhead flickered with a low hum, casting everything in a tired, blue-toned glaze. He was there, hunched over a chaos of papers like a priest at his altar, eyes scanning injury reports and scouting notes as if he could rearrange fate with a red pen. You didn’t knock. Not this time. 

The door creaked open like a protest, and your footsteps broke the hush as you stepped inside. He didn’t look up at first, so absorbed in his paperwork that he didn’t hear the threshold of silence cracking like ice beneath your presence. But when he finally did, when your shadow crossed into his peripheral and your scent, faintly like jasmine and old books, stirred the air, he looked up, and his whole body stilled. His eyes widened with something between guilt and surprise, the pen in his hand faltering mid-sentence. The creases in his brow deepened like riverbeds. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, pushing the papers aside like they were something shameful. “I forgot. I—I’m sorry, I—” 

“Don’t,” you cut in, quiet but sharp. Not angry, just done. The kind of tone that grows in the lungs of girls who have been left at too many diners. “It’s whatever.” You stepped closer, not to bridge the gap, but to exist plainly in the room; as yourself, not a child in need of anything emotional. Just a student now. A professional. Someone with a clipboard of her own, even if metaphorical. You kept your coat on. Your scarf still looped tight at your throat. You weren’t here to unpack old things. You were here to ask for a favor. He sat back in his chair, watching you warily now, like you might say something he wasn’t prepared to hear. “What’s going on?” he asked, voice carefully neutral. 

“I need a team,” you said simply. “For my internship.” He blinked, clearly caught off-guard. You inhaled slowly, pressing your hands into your coat pockets so he wouldn’t see how tightly they curled. “For the school. I’m in the sports medicine track. Therapy. I need a team to tour with. Help the players after games. Manage muscle strain. Recovery. Things like that.” 

You watched his face shift as he absorbed the words. Something almost like pride flitted behind his eyes for a moment, brief, cautious, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he was allowed to feel it. “Of course,” he said without hesitation. “You can work with us.” That fast. No negotiation. No warnings. No conditions. Just an open door.

You didn’t smile. Not really. But a breath left you; just one. Like the first note in a song you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in your chest. “Thank you,” you said, not out of gratitude, but necessity. The way you might thank a stranger who held a door open. Polite. Distant. You turned to leave. But of course, he had to say it. Had to reach across the gulf between now and then. “I really am sorry,” he murmured, just as your fingers grazed the handle. You paused. Not long. Just long enough for him to hope.

Then you shook your head once, gently, like you were brushing a snowflake off your shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” Because you’d learned long ago how to build yourself from all the words he didn’t say. You didn’t need apologies. You didn’t need explanations. You needed a future. And you’d just stepped into it.

Outside, the sound of skates had stopped. Silence had settled again like fresh snowfall. And somewhere in the belly of the building, Jay was probably unlacing his boots, running his hands through his hair, wondering about the girl who tapped on the glass like she belonged on the outside looking in. And maybe she still did. But not for much longer. Because from here on out, you would walk through every door like it owed you something. And whether they liked it or not, you were on the team now. 

The rink always had a certain silence before practice, like a church before mass, where the faithful trickled in one by one, lacing up their skates like ritual, shrugging on jerseys like armor. The air was sharp, biting, clean in the way winter mornings were clean, unforgiving but pure. Jay had always liked that about hockey: the brutal grace of it. How something so violent could also be so precise. How blades could slice through frozen water like poetry written too fast. He stood at center ice, tapping the butt of his stick against the boards while the rest of the team gathered, jerseys fluttering slightly in the wake of their motion. There was a quiet hum of voices, low laughter, murmured complaints about the early hour, the chill, the drills surely to come. Jay felt the same pre-practice electricity that always curled under his skin, warm and charged and constant, but there was something else today. Something different. A shift in the air.

Sunghoon slid up beside him, eyes narrowed. His movements were slower than usual, still cautious after weeks of physical therapy. But there was that familiar smirk, like mischief lived permanently in his mouth. “Any idea why Coach called us early?” he asked, stretching one leg experimentally behind him. 

Jay shook his head, brows furrowing. “No clue. This wasn’t on the schedule. Even I just got the text.” 

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “And the great Captain Jay doesn’t know? Guess it’s serious.” Jay didn’t answer, but his mind turned. Coach Bennett didn’t do things last minute, not unless something was off, or something was about to change. And Jay had learned, over the years, to pay attention to change. To study its rhythm. To anticipate the way it could shatter routine like glass beneath a puck. Coach appeared then, stepping out from the tunnel with that familiar commanding presence, clipboard in hand like a sword, whistle bouncing lightly against his chest. His expression was unreadable. It always was. But today there was a glint in his eye, a sharpness, like he was bracing for something no one else could yet see. The team quieted instantly. Skates stilled. Conversations stopped.

“Listen up,” Coach said, voice firm but even. “I’ve got an announcement.” Jay felt his spine straighten out of instinct. He always did when Bennett spoke like that; like something important was about to be carved into stone.

“My daughter,” the coach began, pausing just a second too long, “will be joining the team.” A beat of silence. Then confusion cracked through the ice like a jagged fault line. Heads turned. Eyebrows raised. A few muttered responses, some curious, some amused.

Sunghoon leaned in again, voice low. “Wait — coach has a daughter?” Jay didn’t respond. He was too busy sorting through the flicker of memory from the night before: the knock on the glass, the girl with the music still folded around her like armor, the soft voice that said I’m too young to be called ma’am. The gentle dismissal, I’m here to see Coach Bennett. 

Coach cleared his throat. “To clarify, she’s not playing.” A few guys chuckled awkwardly, one of the rookies whispering something under his breath about whether Coach’s daughter could skate. He was promptly elbowed. “She’s a student in sports medicine,” Bennett continued, eyes scanning them like a general addressing soldiers. “She needs an internship. She’ll be traveling with us, working with you all post-practice, post-game — helping your muscles recover, monitoring fatigue, treating strain. You’ll see her on the bench. In the locker room. On the road.” 

Jay watched as the team absorbed this. Some looked impressed, some still confused. A few clearly still processing the idea of a girl, the coach’s daughter, no less being part of their inner circle. Coach’s gaze fell to Sunghoon. “You’ll be working with her the most at first.” 

Sunghoon blinked. “Me?” 

“You’re still coming off that leg injury. She’ll be helping your mobility and monitoring your recovery. You miss any check-ins, I’ll know.” Sunghoon nodded slowly, the surprise quickly replaced by professionalism. Jay knew he hated being treated like glass, but he’d also never refuse a chance to speed up healing. Not when playoffs were on the horizon.

Coach looked back at the group as a whole then, jaw set like he was preparing to say something final. “She’ll be here tomorrow. Watching your style. Observing how you move. How you break down. How you come back.” He paused again, the silence stretching like a taut wire. “She’ll be with us every day. Every game. Every trip.” Then his voice dropped just slightly, softer, but more dangerous. Like frost underfoot you didn’t notice until you were falling.

“And she’s off limits.” That silenced even the whispers. “No dating. No flirting. No ‘accidental’ drinks after practice. She’s not here to be your distraction. She’s not here for you to impress. She is a part of this team now. And that means she’s under my protection.” Jay felt something tighten in his chest, an invisible thread pulling taut. Because the words made perfect sense. They were rational. They were fair. Still, he couldn’t shake the image of her from the night before. The way she stood with snow melting on her coat, headphones tucked like secrets around her neck. The way she didn’t smile with her mouth, but with the corner of her eyes. The way she said thank you like it wasn’t a gift, but a necessity. Polite. Distant. And now she would be here, every day. A ghost walking among them. Not haunting; but changing the temperature of every room.

“Understood?” Coach asked, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. The team nodded. In uneven unison. A few shared glances. One or two looked like they’d already started mourning the idea of flirtation. Jay just said nothing. He wasn’t planning on breaking any rules. He never had. But something in his gut told him that this particular rule wouldn’t break loudly. It would break quietly. Like a blade slicing through ice. And the sound wouldn’t be heard until it was too late.

The locker room after practice was its own kind of cathedral, sacred, exhausted, and a little broken. The air still hummed with the echoes of movement: the scrape of blades off concrete, the thud of pads being stripped away, the muffled laughter of boys who were half-wolves when they played and half-children when the ice was gone. It always smelled like the aftermath of effort, sweat, steel, cold leather, and adrenaline fading into silence. Jay moved like a ritualist through it, toweling off damp hair, peeling away his jersey, hanging it neatly in his locker like a soldier laying down his colors. The room had grown quiet now, most of the team already gone, off to late dinners, to laugh about drills over ramen and muscle aches. Jay remained behind, as he often did, not because he had to but because some part of him needed the stillness. 

He liked to stay until the air was empty. Until it was just him and the hum of fluorescent lights above, buzzing like tired thoughts. He didn’t hear Coach Bennett at first. Not until he felt the weight of a presence at his back, and then the familiar sound of heavy boots on tile. Jay turned, towel slung around his neck, hair dripping dark at his temples. The man stood there, shoulders squared, arms folded across his chest. He didn’t speak immediately. He never did. He was the kind of man who let the silence do the talking until the words felt necessary. 

“Coach,” Jay said softly, straightening a little, though the comfort between them ran bone-deep. “Everything alright?” Coach’s eyes flicked over him, assessing, calculating, not as a player, but as a person. He gave a small nod, stepping forward. “Got a favor to ask you.”

Jay nodded instantly, without thought. “Anything.” And he meant it. Because if Jay had a compass in this world, it pointed north toward Bennett. Always had. He didn’t come from much, not stability, not praise, not the kind of family who cheered at games. But Coach saw him. Had plucked him out of obscurity like a diamond mistaken for coal, shaped him, believed in him when no one else even bothered to learn his name. Made him captain. Made him better. Taught him that strength wasn’t loudness, but consistency. That leadership wasn’t glory, but showing up, day after day, even when no one clapped.

Coach laid a hand on his shoulder, heavy and solid like a benediction. “It’s about my daughter.” Jay stilled, just slightly. The name unspoken but implied, hanging in the air like frost, delicate and dangerous. He swallowed once, slowly.

“She’s new to all this,” Coach went on, voice quieter now, like the edges of him softened when he spoke of her. “And I know this team. Hell, I built this team. I know how boys act when there’s someone soft in the room. And she’s not here for that. She’s here to work. To learn.” 

Jay’s jaw tensed faintly, but he kept his voice even. “Of course, Coach.” 

“I need someone to make sure the guys don’t get any ideas. That they remember she’s not a conquest, or a game, or something to write about in a group chat. And she doesn’t need to know I asked. She’d hate that. She’s got my pride.” He gave a small, humorless chuckle then, rubbing the back of his neck like the confession cost him something. “She already thinks I don’t see her. If she finds out I’m watching her through other people’s eyes, it’ll just make it worse.” 

Jay nodded again, slower this time. The weight of the request sank into his skin like bruises not yet visible. He could feel it, the invisible line being drawn, taut and fine and humming with tension. The line between loyalty and temptation. Between what was right and what had already started to stir quietly in the marrow of him. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” Jay said, and his voice didn’t falter, not even once. “I’ll make sure the guys don’t bother her. She’ll be safe. I promise.”

Coach’s eyes lingered on him, long and searching. For a moment Jay wondered if he saw it, whatever it was that had flickered in Jay’s chest when she knocked on the glass, when her eyes met his with that quiet, disarming clarity. But if he did, he didn’t speak of it. He just gave one firm nod, and a clap on the back that thudded like approval, or gratitude, or maybe a little bit of both. “Good man,” he said simply. “I knew I could count on you.” Jay smiled faintly. It was small. Hollowed. 

And when Coach walked away, leaving the door to his office open behind him, Jay sat back down on the bench. The metal was cold beneath him. The silence returned, thick and echoing. Only now, it felt different. Because promises, he’d learned, were like the game itself. 

They seemed simple from the outside, pass, skate, score, but beneath the surface, they were brutal. They cracked bones. Split skin. Cost you more than you realized when the puck first dropped. And now he’d made one. To the man who had given him everything. About the girl who didn’t know he existed yesterday. And something about that equation already felt like a game he wouldn’t win. Not cleanly. Not without bleeding a little. 

The next day you walk into the rink with your headphones on like armor, like a barrier of strings and sonatas against the roar of blades slicing across frozen ground. The music didn’t have words; just aching violins and mournful piano keys, the kind that curled around your ribs like ivy and whispered things no one else could hear. You liked it that way. Preferred it, in fact. A world where no one expected anything from you but observation. Where you could move quietly, head bowed, tucked into yourself like a letter never meant to be opened. The rink was alive with noise, the kind of chaotic, youthful clamor that echoed endlessly in the domed cavern of the arena. Hockey boys were everywhere. Loud, brash, laughing with the type of ease you had never possessed. They moved like wild creatures in a frozen jungle, owning the space with the kind of confidence that repelled you. You wanted none of it. You were here for school. For requirement. For the credits that would get you closer to your degree, to a future far away from this cold-blooded sport that had always taken more than it gave.

You didn’t want to be here because it meant being near him, Coach Bennett. Your father. The man whose love always came in second to a scoreboard. You hadn’t even told anyone he was your dad until college forced your hand. Until the paperwork made you declare your internship, and your professor raised a brow when you mentioned the team he coached. "Isn’t that your father’s team?" they'd asked. And you had smiled, thin and bitter, the kind of smile that knew it was a confession more than a truth. Now, standing at the edge of the rink, you felt the cold creeping through the soles of your boots, settling into your spine. You scanned the ice, eyes drifting lazily across the players in warm-ups; men with sticks and padded shoulders, like warriors readying for a war made of bruises and bloodied lips. You didn't know most of their names. Didn’t care to. But one face stood out, again.

Jay. The captain. He was skating like it meant something, like each stride was a prayer, a promise. His eyes were focused, intense, not like the others who grinned and jostled and cracked jokes. He skated like he was carrying something, like the weight of the team sat across his back and he had no choice but to bear it. When he saw you, just for a second; only a second, his eyes met yours. The glance was sharp and immediate, but then he looked away, just as quickly, like the connection had burned too hot, too fast. You didn’t think much of it. You barely knew him. And besides, you weren’t here for moments. You were here for muscle strain and injury reports. 

You made your way to the benches, setting your things down with clinical precision. Notepad. Pen. Clipboard. You moved like a doctor in a morgue, dispassionately pulling back the veil. You were already scribbling notes about posture, alignment, joint tension, before the first whistle blew. And then it did. Your father stepped out of his office and blew the whistle with the kind of command that could stop time. It pierced through the air, slicing straight through conversations and momentum alike. In a heartbeat, every player stopped. The way they lined up felt orchestrated, almost like choreography, the kind of order that came from months, maybe years, of discipline drilled into bone. They formed ranks, shoulder to shoulder, breathing hard, eyes alert. Soldiers in helmets. Artists in blood and bruises.

Coach Bennett tilted his head toward you. It was subtle, but it might as well have been a spotlight. You straightened awkwardly, your headphones still dangling around your neck like a noose of quiet rebellion. Your legs moved toward him before your heart caught up, and soon you stood beside him, exposed and scrutinized, every eye on you like you were some strange new species being introduced to a pack. “This is my daughter,” he said. No warmth in it. Just the words, dropped like a coin into a vending machine. Clink. Fact delivered. Move on. 

There was a flicker of confusion in the air, brief and bewildered, but your father cut through it before it could grow. “She’s not here to play. We already discussed this yesterday. She’s here as part of her medical program. She’s going to be working closely with Sunghoon—” he nodded toward the boy in question, who shifted his weight onto one leg with a lopsided smile, “—but she’ll be observing all of you. Watching how you move. Learning how to help you recover.” He paused, and then added, with a finality that could crack glass, “She’s officially part of this team now. That means she’s under my protection. Act accordingly.” And then, just like that, practice began.

You faded back to the bench, taking refuge in your notebook like it was the only world that made sense. Scribbling notes as the players moved, trying to catch the little things, the slant of a shoulder, the twist of a knee, the strain in a calf that hinted at fatigue or overuse. You wrote like you were solving equations, like the body was a riddle you could unravel with enough observation. But part of you was still listening. Watching. You paid attention to Sunghoon especially. His recovery was evident, he moved smoothly, mostly, but every so often you’d catch a limp, a shift in balance that told a different story. You jotted it down: Left leg bears less weight on turns. Compensation in hip angle. Follow up post-practice. His injury had been bad. You remembered reading about it. The kind of injury that ended careers. But he was back. They always came back, stitched together with willpower and tape and the kind of stubbornness only athletes seemed to possess.

Your eyes flickered once more to Jay.  He moved with that same elegance, only sharper. Cleaner. Like he was made for the ice. Like the rink recognized him as its own. You wanted to look away. But something about him made you linger a little longer. 

The whistle blew like a sudden gust, sharp and liberating. It sliced through the rhythm of skate blades and sent a collective exhale through the room, a pause carved into the body of practice like a rest note in a long and relentless symphony. Coach’s voice echoed through the chilled air "Ten minutes" and the boys broke off in various directions, some slouching against the boards, others throwing their helmets onto the bench with a satisfying clunk, already gulping down water like it could cure every bruise they've ever earned. 

You sat at the edge of the bench, body still and stiff, the kind of ache blooming at the nape of your neck that only comes from too much focus, from staring at bodies in motion, at joint tension and gait compensation and every angle of athletic wear and tear. The muscles of your own body felt coiled from stillness, from quiet endurance. You pulled your headphones down around your neck and exhaled, shaking out your head like a bird flicking off water from its feathers. Your eyes burned slightly, not from emotion but from overexertion, your thoughts running laps, your pen still ink-stained from the first hour of meticulous note-taking. And then, instinctively, you looked up. And he was looking at you. Jay. 

It wasn’t a curious glance. It wasn’t fleeting or accidental. It was… deliberate. His gaze held weight, anchored like a stone skipping across still water, disrupting something in you that you’d carefully kept dormant. For a heartbeat, time stalled. Not in a romantic way; no, you didn’t believe in that kind of thing. But in the way a deer pauses when it senses it's been seen, body still, breath caught. And then he looked away. Too quickly. Like he’d been caught committing some small crime. Like your eyes had burned him and he hadn’t expected the flame. You tilted your head, puzzled but unwilling to overthink it. Not your business. Not your problem. You were here for work, not curiosity. You weren’t a girl who chased after glances. You weren’t here to peel back the layers of hockey boys with brooding eyes and sharp cheekbones. You were here to help, to heal. Not to unravel. 

Still, the interaction clung to your ribs as you stood, notebook in hand, purpose hardening your spine like steel beneath silk. If your father wasn’t going to introduce you properly, then you’d do it yourself. You’d show them that you weren’t just the coach’s daughter, you were the intern, the analyst, the healer. You walked with quiet authority across the ice-chilled floor, each footstep sure, your notes pressed tight against your chest like scripture. First, Lee Heeseung. Tall, almost too tall to be real, with a kind of radiance that caught light like polished glass. He moved like he was made for attention, but your trained eyes saw what others didn’t; the slight forward hunch, the overextension in his reach, the way his shoulders bore weight wrong, unevenly, like a house built on a tilted foundation. You stepped toward him, gentle but firm. 

“Do your shoulders ache?” you asked, voice calm but clear. 

He blinked at you, eyebrows pulling upward in bemusement. “Uh… yeah, actually. Constantly.” 

You nodded. “Because your form’s too open. You reach too far with your stick and overcompensate with your back muscles. You’re burning out your deltoids before you even get to the second period.” He stared, dumbfounded, as if you had read it off a hidden manuscript folded inside his bones.

“If you rotate more from your hips instead of your upper back, you’ll take pressure off the joint. I’ll show you how to fix it after.” He said nothing, only nodded with an almost reverent curiosity, as though he were seeing you for the first time. You moved on.

Next, Sunghoon. He was lounging against the wall, sweat dampening his dark hair like ink spilled across paper. You studied the subtle shift in his stance, the way he favored one leg. It wasn’t overt, but to you it was a glaring neon sign. He didn’t wince, but his left side moved slower, more cautiously. “You’re compensating,” you said, making him look up. 

He grinned. Not a cocky grin, but the kind that folded warmly around the edges. “Can’t help it.” 

“You’re doing well, considering. You land softly, roll through your hips, you don’t put too much pressure on the joint; but I can still see it.” 

He shrugged. “My girl’s a figure skater. Taught me how to fall pretty.” That made you smile. A real one. One that cracked the ice around your ribs a little. You nodded in approval. “She taught you well.” 

And then, Jay. You approached him last. His expression was unreadable, but something in the air around him shifted as you neared, like the temperature dropped a few degrees. He sat on the bench, helmet resting beside him, forearms braced on his thighs. Up close, he looked even more cut from marble, angular and quiet, a monument to restraint. He didn’t look up at first, not until your shadow settled over his lap like a silent challenge. “Does your knee hurt?” you asked, flipping a page in your notebook. 

His head rose slowly, his gaze flickering over your face like he was trying to piece something together. There was no trace of the sheepish boy you’d startled in the rink a few nights ago. This Jay was guarded, mouth tight, voice low. “I’m fine.”

Your eyes didn’t waver. “You favor your left side. Every time you cut left, you hesitate. You don’t fully extend through the glide.” 

He scowled faintly. “It’s nothing. I know how to stretch.” 

You raised a brow, the edge of your mouth tugging upward; not in amusement, but something sharper. “Obviously you don’t. Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

His jaw ticked. “I don’t need help.”

“This isn’t up for debate,” you said, your voice steady as a blade sheathed in silk. “You’re not exempt just because you’re the captain. If you want to avoid tearing something before playoffs, meet me after practice. I’ll show you the stretch.” And with that, you turned on your heel and walked away, leaving the weight of your words lingering in the air like smoke after a firework. 

Practice ended not with a bang, but a slow unraveling, a sigh across the rink, the hiss of skate blades leaving ice, gear clattering into duffels like thunder softened into memory. The tension of the game dissolved into the scent of sweat and the chill of melting frost on players' necks. You lingered by the boards with your notepad, pen scribbling observations in swift, decisive loops. Notes about posture and movement, pain disguised as endurance, tight shoulders masked by bravado. Each boy became a puzzle, a map of injuries and habits and patterns, bodies writing stories in the snow, and you were trying to read them in a language only you understood. You made your rounds with professionalism sewn into your spine like armor. Softened your voice for Sunghoon, smiled gently at Heeseung, offered a shoulder tap and quiet praise where it was earned. But your eyes kept slipping, to the back corner of the locker room, where the Captain sat like a storm gathering in silence. Jay, half-shadowed, alone.

He was stretching. Technically. But he was doing it all wrong. The angle of his knee, the twist of his ankle, the way his weight was distributed, off, completely off. It wasn’t just inefficient; it was dangerous. You watched him for a minute too long, notebook momentarily forgotten. Something about the way he moved, so precise and careless at once, frustrated you. Like watching someone trying to read with their eyes closed, convinced they didn’t need light. You sighed, a breath curling like frost against your throat, and tucked your notepad under your arm.

Your footsteps echoed lightly across the tiles as you approached him, the hum of the fluorescent lights above buzzing like the wings of an insect trapped in amber. “You’re doing it all wrong,” you said simply, voice even but firm. Not mocking. Just true. Jay didn’t look at you at first. He exhaled hard through his nose, like your presence was an ache he didn’t know how to stretch out. Then, he rolled his eyes with all the weariness of a boy who’d spent his life hearing people tell him what to do. 

“I told you already,” he muttered. “I don’t need help.” You laughed. Not a bright laugh, not one made of bells or sunlight. It was dry and sharp, like the snap of a twig underfoot, unexpected, dismissive, real. “Yeah, well,” you said, stepping a little closer, “I’m here whether you like it or not.” 

He didn’t respond. He stayed seated, hands braced behind him on the bench, jaw tight. You knelt beside him carefully, knees folding like paper cranes, your movements deliberate. You reached for his leg, intending to guide it gently, to correct the twist in his stretch; But he flinched back, gaze snapping to yours, guarded and immediate. “Why are you touching me?” he asked, low, almost startled. As if your hand were a flame and he hadn’t expected to get burned. 

You froze, hand hovering midair, your breath catching in your throat like a note not quite played. “Sorry,” you murmured, retreating an inch. “But I kind of need to touch you to show you how to bend your knee properly. That is… if you want to stop tearing ligaments before you’re twenty-five.” He looked at you for a long moment. His eyes weren’t angry, just… unreadable. The color of storm-drenched bark, of something old and rooted and worn by wind. Then, finally, a single slow nod. Permission granted.

You inched forward again, carefully, the space between you electric and small. Your fingers found his knee, warm through the thin fabric of his compression pants, and turned it just so, guiding his leg into a safer, smoother line. You spoke softly, explaining the movement, the angle, the way the muscles needed to engage. Clinical, composed, but your voice wavered just slightly beneath it all, like a violin string drawn too tight. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. But his eyes never left your face. You felt the weight of them, like moonlight poured too heavy, like winter sun through an old windowpane, quiet but inescapable. You tried not to notice. You focused on your task. You were a professional. You were your father’s daughter. You had no room to blush under scrutiny. 

But still, his gaze burned. Not cruel, not invasive, just… watching. Like he was trying to solve something about you. Like he didn’t expect you to exist the way you did. Like you were a song in a genre he’d never listened to before and suddenly couldn’t stop playing. Your hands paused, still resting on his leg. You looked up, the air between you catching on your ribs. “You’re holding your breath,” you said quietly.

Jay blinked, startled. Then slowly exhaled, a sound so faint it could’ve been mistaken for silence. “I didn’t realize,” he said. You nodded, pulling your hands away, letting the warmth of his skin fade from your fingertips. You stood slowly, brushing off invisible dust, the ghost of contact lingering like the smell of smoke on fabric. 

“Well… now you do,” you replied. You didn’t look back as you walked away, not even when you felt his eyes follow you. You didn’t need to. You knew. Something had shifted. Not broken. Not begun. Just shifted. And shifts, small as they seem, have been known to start avalanches. 

The ice rink hums behind you, echoing with the aftertaste of exertion; shouted jokes, distant thuds of sticks dropped to concrete, the hiss of showers roaring to life. You’re gathering your things slowly, as if the weight of your bag is heavier now, as if the moment you shared with Jay, fleeting as a spark, has thickened the air around you. Your fingers fumble with the zipper of your notebook pouch, and the stretch in your chest still lingers, not quite tension, not quite ache. Your pulse is a quiet metronome, steady and unhurried, but a part of you wonders, why did it feel like he was looking at more than just the position of your hands? You shake the thought loose, like snow from your shoulders. You’ve always been good at untangling what doesn’t belong. 

You slip your headphones over your ears out of habit, though the music hasn’t started yet, and turn to go, ready to leave behind the clattering cold, the conversations you’re not a part of, the ache behind your eyes that only fluorescent lights and long-held disappointment seem to bring. But just as the door brushes open, his voice stops you. “Hey—wait.” It’s your father.

Coach Bennett. To them, just Coach. To you… a name wrapped in thorns and fatherhood, a man who taught you to ride a bike and then promptly missed every school play after. You turn, slowly, shoulders still braced with the tension of too many unsaid things. He’s leaning by the locker room threshold, towel looped around his neck, clipboard in hand, a man caught between work and worry. There’s something weathered about him, eyes rimmed in fatigue, mouth tight as if every word is weighted with the pressure of needing to win. Always needing to win.

“You headed out?” he asks, trying for casual, like he didn’t leave you waiting in that diner with a glass of tea  sweating between your fingers and a heart already resigned to being forgotten.

You nod. “Yeah. I’ve got notes to type up.”

He clears his throat and glances down, as if suddenly remembering something that’s been burning a hole in his clipboard. “Right, well, your mother and I… we were hoping you’d come to a dinner at our place.” You blink. The sentence feels foreign. Bent out of shape.

“Dinner?” you echo, like it’s a language you haven’t spoken in years.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s cooking. We’re having the Yang family over. You remember them? They used to come to your birthday parties when you were little.” You remember. Vaguely. A woman with kind eyes and a son with sticky fingers who pulled your hair when he thought you weren’t looking. You remember the way your mother always smiled too hard when she hosted, like she was trying to win some unseen game. 

“I don’t know,” you say slowly. “I have stuff to do. I was gonna —”

“Your mother would really like you there.” The words land gently. But they wrap around your ribs like guilt. You stare at him, this man who knows how to rally a team, who can read the trajectory of a puck midair but never quite learned how to read you. Still, something in his voice is softer than usual. Maybe it’s the way he says her name. Maybe it’s the fact that he said we. You sigh. Your fingers tighten around your strap. You tell yourself you’re doing it for her, not for him. That there’s a difference. That the knot in your stomach isn’t because he asked you like he meant it.

“Fine,” you mutter, eyes dropping to the floor. “I’ll go.”

He nods, relief flickering in his features for just a breath. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t have to. You both know that this is just another quiet truce in a long line of unspoken compromises. And just like that, you step out of the locker room, into the sharp wind curling through the corridor, your footsteps echoing down a hallway that always felt too wide for love. The evening air slips beneath your jacket, and you slip your headphones back on, press play. A cello fills your ear, slow and mournful, dragging its bow across your bones. You walk alone, music in your blood, but the memory of Jay’s eyes watching you refuses to fade. Like a handprint pressed to glass. Like a ripple after the stone is gone. 

Your dorm smells like lavender detergent and pencil shavings, the remnants of college life settled like dust in corners you’ll never quite reach. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, you let the weight you’ve been holding all day slide off your bones. Your bag slumps to the floor with a thud that echoes like a memory, and your limbs follow suit, dragging you toward the bed like gravity’s favorite child, like weariness itself lives beneath your skin. You plop down with all the drama of a sigh swallowed whole, limbs sprawled like you’ve been dropped by life itself. The mattress dips beneath you, cradling your exhaustion like it knows every ache by name. You stare at the ceiling. That blank, indifferent canvas.

The plaster above you doesn’t blink when you ask it silent questions. It doesn’t flinch when your heart tugs in that old, familiar way; a tender throb behind your ribs that speaks not of heartbreak but of something older. Something more foundational. A longing not for romance, but for recognition. You think about the way your father spoke to Jay earlier today. The firm hand on his shoulder. The way he called him “son”  with that gravelly voice full of trust and something perilously close to affection. You picture Jay, upright, respectful, attentive. A good soldier. A son made in the image of the game your father worships. And somehow, it makes sense. Of course he sees Jay like that. Like someone to be proud of. Like someone worth asking anything of.

You turn over, your cheek pressing into the cool cotton of your pillow, and let your eyes flutter closed. But sleep does not come. Instead, there’s that image again: your father, standing tall and certain beside Jay. There’s something about the way they fit together, coach and captain, like two sides of the same coin. A partnership born on the ice, forged by whistles and drills and the quiet understanding of shared purpose. And you? You were always just orbiting that world. A speck caught in the gravity of pucks and sweat and chalk-drawn strategies on whiteboards you weren’t supposed to read. You learned early on how to be quiet in a room full of roars. How to braid your silence into usefulness. How to stitch your dreams into shadows.

You swallow hard, turning again, burying your face deeper into the pillow as if it could erase the bitterness clinging to the edges of your thoughts. There is no use in comparing. You tell yourself that. You chant it in your mind like a prayer you almost believe. But it doesn’t stop the twinge. That sting of jealousy, quick and sharp like the slap of cold air when you step out of the rink. You hate it. You hate feeling this way. It makes you feel small, like a child standing in the doorway of a room where they were forgotten. You were never enough to pull him away from the ice. Not really. Not when it mattered. 

Your thoughts spiral, curling tighter and tighter, like leaves drying in the sun, until they crack and crumble into a quiet resentment you’ll never say out loud. It isn’t rage. It isn’t even hurt. It’s that soft, bruised ache of a girl who stopped asking a long time ago. Your fingers clutch the edge of your comforter. You inhale deeply, try to ground yourself in the scent of fabric softener and the faint trace of your shampoo clinging to your sheets. This is your life now. Your space. Your silence. You’re here to work, to help, to heal. You are not here to unravel. You are not here to bleed. You exhale slowly, trying to empty yourself of all the noise you never say aloud. 

And yet, as your body finally begins to still, mind untethering from the day’s demands, you can’t help but remember the way Jay had looked at you. Eyes tracking your every move like you were a constellation he didn’t expect to find. As if he didn’t understand you, but wanted to. And worse still… the part of you that didn’t mind it. You clench your jaw and squeeze your eyes shut harder. No. You’re here to observe. To support. To become what you’ve always wanted: a healer. Someone who listens to pain and knows what to do with it. Someone who helps others move forward, even when she’s stuck in place. You are not here to fall. Not for the captain. Not for the boy with tired eyes and a voice that turned cold when you got too close. Not for the one your father already loves.

You curl beneath your blanket, trying to block out the sound of the skating rink still echoing in your head, like ghosts tracing figure-eights across the floor of your memory. But they linger. All of them. Every step, every look, every word not spoken. And outside your window, the moon begins to rise like a watchful eye, silver and silent, bearing witness to your quiet war.

The frat house buzzed with the soft murmur of voices and the low thump of bass-heavy music, vibrating faintly through the wooden floors like a second, impatient heartbeat. The air was warm, too warm, thick with the scent of beer-soaked upholstery, half-eaten takeout, and a kind of restless boyhood energy that lingered like smoke. The overhead light flickered with a kind of tired stutter, casting shadows that leaned against the walls, distorted and lanky, as if even they were eavesdropping on the night. Jay sat perched at the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, fingers absently turning his water bottle in slow circles. It squeaked quietly against the condensation pooling beneath it, an accidental metronome keeping time with his drifting thoughts. Around him, the world blurred into soft focus. Heeseung lay sprawled like a cat on the floor, his hair a mess, flipping a bottle cap into the air with lazy grace. Sunghoon was halfway into the armchair, legs dangling, his voice doused in mischief as he picked apart the drama of someone else’s heartbreak with all the casual cruelty of young men who’d never had their own hearts split open properly. They were all happily in love anyway. 

“Swear to God,” Sunghoon was saying, “the second Yunjin started that book club she didn’t invite him to? I knew she was checking out.”

Heeseung scoffed, his laugh low and sharp. “Nah, it was when she posted that solo beach trip pic. The one with the mysterious shadows and cropped-out shoulders? Amateur breakup announcement.”

Jay should have laughed. Should’ve said something clever and mean. But the words got lost somewhere between the memory of your hands on his knee and the way you’d looked at him, not like he was special, but like he was stubborn and wrong and in desperate need of correction. He didn’t know why it stuck with him. There’d been dozens of people who’d corrected him before, coaches, trainers, even professors. But you... you’d done it with a tilt of your head, a certainty in your voice that was almost tender and almost cruel. As if you weren’t trying to prove a point, but trying to protect him from himself. And that smile you gave afterward. Small. Smug. So real he could taste it on the back of his tongue.

“You good, Jay?” Jake’s voice slid in, calm and grounding, like a stone skipping across water.

Jay blinked, head snapping toward him as though waking from a fever dream. “What?” 

Jake gave him a look, familiar and knowing. “You’ve been staring at the coffee table like it offended your ancestors.”

Jay exhaled, trying for a laugh. It came out more like a sigh. “Just tired.”

Jake grinned, leaning back, fingers running through his messy hair. “Join the club. Sera’s been doing these 3 a.m. concerts lately. I think she’s rehearsing for some kind of sleep-deprivation competition.” At that, Jay smiled. It was easier now, hearing Jake talk about his daughter, his eyes softening in the way only a father’s eyes do, even a young, exhausted one. It reminded Jay that not all responsibility weighed the same. Some burdens were chosen. Some were gifts disguised as sleepless nights.

“How is she?” Jay asked, voice quieter than before. At once, Jake lights up. It’s the kind of brightness that’s hard to fake, pure, paternal, cracked wide open with joy. “She’s perfect,” he says. “I mean, I don’t sleep anymore, and I’ve memorized the words to like six lullabies I didn’t know existed, but... when she grabs my finger with her whole hand? Man.” He grins, shaking his head. “I get it now. That stupid thing people say about how it changes everything. It does.” Jay listens. Really listens this time. There’s something grounding about Jake’s voice, the softness of it, the awe. It steadies the storm in his chest for a moment, like wind pressed flat under a gentle palm. “We are...figuring it out. But yeah. She’s everything.” 

Jay nodded slowly, absorbing it. He tried to picture it, being someone’s anchor, someone’s whole world before they even knew what a world was. He wasn’t sure he could. His own childhood was too quiet, too cold. His father’s hands had never lingered in his hair, never tucked in his jersey, never taught him how to be soft. But Coach Bennett had. In his own gruff way. He’d shown Jay how to lace up ambition like skates, how to hold his chin up even when the game turned against him. He’d made Jay captain when everyone else had told him he was too intense, too focused, too rough around the edges. Coach had believed in him, and Jay never forgot that kind of loyalty. It was the kind that carved itself into your bones. 

Which is why it was maddening, this new pull, this flickering tension every time your eyes met his. You were Coach’s daughter. A line drawn bold and black across the ice. He couldn’t even skate near it. But still. He kept remembering the way your brows furrowed while watching the team, the soft movements of your pen against paper like some orchestral conductor writing a silent symphony of muscle and breath and pain. The way you didn’t flinch under the weight of so many eyes. The way you didn’t once search the crowd for your father’s approval. That part, especially, had lodged itself in his throat. Because it wasn’t just that you were off-limits.

It was that you were untouchable in ways that had nothing to do with rules and everything to do with the ache he’d spent years learning to ignore. Jay shifted on the couch, elbows tightening against his knees. “She’s different,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

Jake raised a brow. “Who?” Jay looked up, startled, caught.

“No one,” he lied. But his thoughts were already spiraling, your hand on his knee, your voice in his ear, that laugh, dry and sarcastic, like a dagger wrapped in silk. He didn’t know what game this was, but it wasn’t one he knew the rules to. And worse still, he wasn’t sure he wanted to play fair.

It was the kind of night that felt like a sigh, long and low and inevitable. The sun had dipped behind the hills hours ago, leaving behind a sky bruised in soft purples and melancholic blue, like the hush before a confession. And still, here you were, standing at the edge of your parents’ driveway, dread curling around your ribs like ivy. You would’ve given anything to turn around, to walk back into the familiar solitude of your dorm room where silence hummed in soft harmonies and your music knew how to hold you without asking for anything in return. But no, the pull of obligation was a cruel thing, thick and choking, and tonight, it dragged you home. The house was lit up like a stage set, warm lights glowing from the windows, casting golden halos against the glass. You inhaled once, twice, steeling yourself, then stepped inside. 

“Sweetheart!” your mother’s voice lifted into the air like a melody composed of saccharine niceties and desperate hope. She wrapped her arms around you before you could brace for it, her perfume, something powdery and expensive, sinking into your coat like memory. “I’m so glad you made it,” she whispered into your shoulder, though it felt less like a welcome and more like a plea. You nodded, lips pressed into a polite smile that didn’t quite touch your eyes. The scent of roasted garlic and marinated meat drifted in from the kitchen, thick and inviting, almost enough to distract you; almost. But then you heard your name called, and when you turned, you were met with the carefully curated smiles of two strangers standing too close to the polished mahogany of the entryway table. People you’ve seen before but don’t really know. 

“This is Mr. and Mrs. Yang,” your mother said, her voice bright with a rehearsed kind of joy. “And their son, Jungwon.” Jungwon. His name hit the air like a pebble in still water, creating gentle, rippling waves of expectation. You gave them a nod, soft, distant, the same way one acknowledges clouds passing in the sky. He was handsome in the clean, quiet way some boys are, shirt tucked in too neatly, posture molded by years of piano lessons or polite dinners just like this one. He smiled at you, polite and kind. But your heart remained unmoved. There was no stirring, no ache, no static hum beneath your skin. He was fine. But you wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

Without a word, you slipped past them and made your way into the kitchen, the sound of your boots echoing against the tiled floor like the punctuation to a sentence no one had the nerve to say. “Hey,” you murmured, your voice low but warm, as you stepped behind your brother, who was busy laying out silverware with an absent frown. Jaehyun didn’t look up at first, just kept folding napkins like it was some kind of test. 

“You made it,” he said flatly, glancing over his shoulder.

You bumped his arm with your knuckles, a small sibling gesture of truce. “Unfortunately.”

He snorted. “Tell me about it. They made me help prep. Felt like I was in culinary boot camp.”

“How’s hockey?”

At that, he shook his head, tousled brown hair falling into his eyes. “Brutal,” he muttered, the word pulled like a string from his throat. “We lost by five. My shoulder’s still sore from that last check.”

You laughed, though it was more of a breath than a sound. “You’ll live.” He rolled his eyes, but you could see the ghost of a smile playing on his lips before your mother’s voice called again, floating in from the hallway like a chime in a storm.

“Dinner’s ready!” Just like that, the spell broke. Jaehyun gathered the last of the glasses and followed behind you into the dining room where the long table waited like an altar, gilded with candlesticks, lace runners, and plates of food that looked too pristine to eat. You took your place near the end, far enough from the guests but close enough for civility, your back straight, your hands folded in your lap like the good daughter they always hoped you'd remember how to be. The Yangs spoke in soft, lulling tones, words that barely scratched at the surface of anything real. Their son sat across from you, occasionally meeting your gaze like he wanted to say something, something clever, or thoughtful, or maybe just nice, but you weren’t in the mood for pleasantries. Not tonight. Your smile was a veil, your laugh a curtain. You were not here. Not really.

Your father sat at the head of the table, his expression stoic, eyes moving from plate to plate, from person to person, as though dinner was just another meeting he had to manage. He asked about hockey like it was the weather, predictable and detached. He spoke more to Jaehyun than he had to you all week. And as the meal wore on, you found yourself chewing more on thoughts than on food. You thought about how he called Jay “son” sometimes in passing. How his voice softened when he talked to his players, how he clapped them on the backs with the kind of praise you used to dream about. You thought about the way Jay had looked at you today, the way his eyes followed your fingers, the heat of his skin beneath your hands, the tension of muscle and meaning that neither of you dared acknowledge. 

You closed your eyes for a moment, pushing your fork through a piece of untouched chicken. You were tired of feeling second. Tired of the way your family only saw you when they wanted to show you off, when your presence meant something shiny and packaged. You thought about how Jay had rolled his eyes at you earlier, and how, weirdly, that had made you feel more seen than this whole table full of curated smiles and forgotten birthdays.

Dinner dragged on like a clock with too many hours, and you responded when spoken to, nodded at the right moments, said thank you when dishes were passed. But your mind wandered, to the rink, to the feeling of being useful, of having something to offer, even if the captain of the team found you irritating. At least that irritation was honest. And honesty, you were learning, was a rare delicacy in this house.

The clink of forks against porcelain had become a steady rhythm, a kind of soft percussion to a dinner that already felt twice its length. Small talk meandered between sips of wine and half-hearted compliments, your mother commenting on Mrs. Yang’s earrings, your father asking about Mr. Yang’s latest business venture with the polite detachment of a man doing what he was told. Across the table, Jungwon answered when spoken to, his voice low and kind, a boy raised to be gentle, to make eye contact, to smile when he felt uncertain. You didn’t mind him, not really. He seemed sweet. But sweetness, you were beginning to learn, rarely held weight when placed against the fire of ambition or the ache of unmet need. You chewed on a piece of bread, nodding along to a joke your brother made, when your father cleared his throat. The kind of clearing that meant a shift, a tone, a pivot into purpose.

“So,” he began, looking down the table as though he weren’t already directing the spotlight right at you. “Jungwon will be joining the team this semester. Equipment assistant.” Your eyes flicked to the boy across from you, his cheeks pinkened slightly, bashful beneath the weight of your father’s pride. You gave him a polite smile, one that said, Good for you, but not I care.

“He’ll be on the sidelines with you,” your father added casually, as if mentioning the weather again, but there was something careful in the way he said it, something staged. You caught it immediately, the way his gaze slipped from Jungwon to you and then lingered just a moment too long. You stiffened slightly in your chair, already sensing the script he had in his mind.

“That’s great,” you said lightly, reaching for your glass. “We’ll be co-spectators then.” But your father wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

“You two should spend more time together,” he said, letting the suggestion unfurl itself with the soft force of velvet gloves. “Jungwon’s a good kid. Focused. Thoughtful. Comes from a good family.” His smile flickered toward the Yangs like a candle catching draft, then returned to you, heavy with intention. And there it was, the curtain lifted, the illusion gone. You blinked slowly, letting the silence settle just a beat too long before speaking.

“I’m not dating right now,” you said plainly, though your voice was calm, even lyrical. A stone skipping across still water. “Not planning to until after I graduate next year. Boys are a distraction.” You said it like fact, not defense. Like gospel truth carved into stone tablets handed down by a wiser version of yourself. And maybe it was. After all, how many years had you sacrificed for perfect scores, for internships, for the dreams that danced just beyond reach like distant galaxies? You had no room for curated love stories or staged introductions masked as fate.

Your mother chuckled softly, a little forced. “Darling, no one’s saying you need to rush anything.”

But your father leaned forward ever so slightly, elbows on the table like this was suddenly a negotiation. “It wouldn’t hurt to keep an open mind.” You met his eyes then, really looked. Not through him, not past him, but at him. The man who gave his softness to the boys on his team, who wore fatherhood like a jacket he could take off when it became too warm. You didn’t glare, didn’t raise your voice. But your gaze was steel behind a glass window. Clear. Unyielding.

“I know what you’re doing,” you said, barely above a whisper. “And I’m not interested.” The room went still for a moment, the way a violin string quivers just after it’s been plucked. Jaehyun looked down at his plate, chewing slowly. Jungwon rubbed the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed to have been made a piece on someone else’s chessboard. 

Your mother, ever the conductor of delicate recoveries, let out a laugh that sounded like it belonged to someone else. “Well! Why don’t we pass the salad around again? There’s more in the kitchen.” But you’d already pushed your plate aside, appetite gone, your chest tight with the strange ache of not quite belonging anywhere, not even here, not even with the people whose house you were raised in. You weren’t angry, not really. Just tired of the orchestration, the planning of your life as though it were a charity auction item passed between polished hands.

You didn’t want curated affection. You wanted to be chosen for who you were, not for who you were supposed to be. And outside, behind the thick curtains, the wind picked up in a hush, as though it, too, was trying to say something no one else could quite hear.

After dinner the table sat stripped of its former warmth, plates cleared, wineglasses emptied, napkins folded in the hush of a meal that had long since soured in your mouth. The laughter had faded like perfume lingering on a dress after the wearer has gone, and the only sounds now were the distant humming of the dishwasher and the shifting of chairs against hardwood as the front door shut behind the last of the guests. The air was still, thick with the kind of silence that waits to be broken, and you could feel it crawling up your spine like a storm on the edge of breath.

You stood there for a moment in the half-light of the dining room, your arms crossed against your chest like armor, your lips pursed in a line that threatened to break. Your mother moved quietly through the kitchen, her hands busy with cleaning, like always, her fingers always searching for distraction. Jaehyun yawned and leaned against the doorframe, phone in hand, already halfway out of the scene. But your eyes were fixed on the figures seated at the kitchen island: your parents, still playing their parts, still pretending that everything had been done out of love and not control. You stepped forward then, your voice calm but edged with the kind of cold that burned. “I didn’t appreciate what you tried to do tonight.”

Your mother looked up from the sink, the sponge pausing mid-scrub. Your father set his glass down, the click of it against granite too loud in the stillness. “We were just trying to help,” your mother said, gentle and practiced, the way someone might approach a wild animal, afraid of startling it.

You shook your head, swallowing down the heat that rose in your throat. “No. You weren’t helping. You were arranging. You were deciding for me.” Your father’s brow furrowed, his voice firm, that coaching tone slipping through like oil under a door. “We just thought you could use someone stable. Jungwon’s a good kid.”

“I don’t care,” you said. “That’s not your choice to make.”

There was a beat of silence before your father leaned back, his arms crossing, his jaw tightening like the locking of a gate. “Well, I already told the boys not to even think about you. I made it very clear; you’re off-limits to that team.” And there it was. The line drawn in blood. The decision inked into law without your consent. Your chest rose, breath shallow and burning, and for a moment all you could hear was the rush of your own heartbeat in your ears, like the distant roar of a tide pulling away from the shore.

“You what?” you asked, though you had heard him perfectly. You just needed to hear it again, to confirm the absurdity.

“I told them you’re off-limits,” he repeated. “I won’t have distractions on my team. You’re not there for that.” Something inside you cracked, quietly, the way a branch bends too far before it finally breaks. It wasn’t about boys. It wasn’t about Jungwon or Jay or anyone else on that ice. It was about you, your choices, your agency, your life being treated like a project in his playbook, another thing to coach into submission. 

“You don’t get to decide that,” you said, your voice trembling, not with fear, but with the sheer weight of everything you’d carried. “You don’t get to police my life just because you missed out on being a part of it before.” Your mother gasped softly, the words hitting her like a gust of wind through an open door. Jaehyun had long gone silent, his eyes darting from you to your father like a spectator at a match he didn’t want to see. Your father looked stunned, as if he hadn’t expected the defiance, as if the girl he’d always seen; dutiful, distant, quiet, had finally stood up and lit the room on fire.

“You don’t get to be their father and mine only when it’s convenient,” you whispered. “You don’t get to show up now and act like you’ve earned the right to guard my future.” There was nothing left to say. Not really. You turned on your heel, grabbed your bag with trembling hands, and stormed toward the door, your footsteps loud against the wood like drumbeats announcing a war. No one stopped you. No one dared. The air behind you folded in on itself like paper, creased, tense, ready to tear.

Outside, the night was cold, the stars bleached white against a velvet sky. You walked fast, like maybe the wind could carry your fury away or the moon could catch the tears you refused to let fall. You didn’t cry, though. You were done crying. You had your own life to live.

The rink was a cathedral of stillness when you arrived, the kind of sacred hush that only exists before the world wakes up fully, before blades scratch across ice, before whistles pierce the air, before voices rise like a storm. The overhead lights cast long shadows across the rink’s frozen surface, a pale, dreamy silver that shimmered like moonlight trapped beneath glass. You moved quietly, your footsteps muffled against the concrete, setting your things on the bench with the kind of careful intention that comes from routine born out of necessity. The cold curled around your ankles and fingers like a ghost; familiar, but not quite welcome. You slipped your headphones on, the music like a balm against the clutter of your mind. It dulled the noise from last night, dimmed the echo of your father's voice, the barbed twist of his authority. You had buried your anger beneath a layer of icy professionalism, telling yourself that this was work, just work. This was about anatomy and muscle tension, about tape and breath and recovery, not about fathers who try to cage you or boys with dark eyes and heavy gazes who can make your pulse falter with a look. 

You sat with your notebook open, sketching out plans, rotations for dynamic stretches, observations from the last practice, notes about posture, fatigue, habits of the body you were learning to read like language. You were deep inside your own head, scribbling something about joint stabilization and impact absorption, when a gentle tap on your shoulder sent a shock through your bones. You turned fast, heart stuttering as you tugged your headphones down, blinking up to find Jungwon standing just behind you. His hands were up in mock surrender, a soft smile pulling at his lips like sunshine trying to break through a curtain of clouds.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low, a little sheepish. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You let out a breath and gave a small shake of your head, smiling despite yourself. “No, it’s okay. I was just… somewhere else.” 

He nodded, eyes flicking to your notebook, then back to you. “I just, uh, I wanted to apologize. About dinner. I had no idea our parents were planning that.” His voice was genuine, and something about the tilt of his head and the nervous shuffle of his feet told you he meant it. You relaxed, the tension in your shoulders loosening like laces unthreading.

“It’s not your fault,” you said, voice softening. “I could tell you were just as surprised as I was.”

He smiled at that, a little embarrassed, and glanced toward the cooler by the far wall. “I’m here early to fill water cups. I like getting everything done before the chaos starts.”

You glanced at the rows of plastic Gatorade cups lined up like soldiers waiting for orders and raised your brows, amused. “You take your job seriously.”

“I try,” he replied with a small shrug. “I’m not on the ice, but it still matters.”

You nodded, watching him for a moment, then turned back to your notebook. “I come early for the quiet,” you said after a pause, almost without thinking. “It’s like…the silence here has texture. It feels like something you can fold yourself into, like a blanket that doesn’t expect anything from you.” He looked at you then, really looked, like he was trying to memorize the way the words left your mouth, the way your eyes stayed downcast even though the thought you’d just spoken hung shimmering in the air like frost on windowpane. There was a flicker in his gaze, surprise, understanding, maybe a touch of admiration. Something tender bloomed between you, unspoken and strange, the way dawn makes you pause even when you’ve seen it a thousand times before.

You talked after that, quietly at first, about nothing and everything. The weather, school, how strange it was to be pulled into something bigger than you without consent. You learned that Jungwon liked history podcasts, that he hated the taste of mint and that he had a younger sister who adored figure skating. You told him about your internship, about your coursework, about the way you sometimes felt like no matter how hard you tried, your father would never see you as someone separate from his plans. And Jungwon listened, nodding, offering soft words that didn’t feel like pity but presence. You didn’t notice when the first skates hit the ice. Didn’t hear the buzz of the locker room doors or the scuffle of blades being adjusted. Time warped, folded into something tender and slow, and it wasn’t until a burst of laughter echoed from the tunnel and the boys began to file in like birds in flight, loud, messy, full of life, that you realized how long you’d been talking.

Your eyes flicked up instinctively, scanning the incoming flood of players, and there, in the midst of them, Jay. He looked good with the morning light painting silver into the dark of his hair, but his gaze was unreadable, distant. For a moment, just a flicker, your eyes met. He didn’t look away this time. But he didn’t smile either. And then the moment was gone, swallowed whole by the whistle of your father calling for warm-ups, the clash of skates against ice, and the ache in your chest that you didn’t want to admit had settled in for good. 

Jay pushed open the doors of the rink with purpose, his duffel slung over one shoulder, skates clinking softly against the strap. The air hit him like a second skin, cold and sharp, the kind of cold that woke you up and carved clarity into your bones. It smelled like ice and effort, like old sweat and tape and victory dreams long since frozen in the boards. The kind of air that said this is where we fight, even if the war is only against the self, against time, against the nagging voice in your head that says you’ll never be enough. The week had been long, coiled tightly around the pressure of expectation. Their first game loomed on Saturday, close enough to taste, close enough that even his sleep had taken on the rhythm of the game, his dreams broken by phantom goals and aching limbs and the roar of a crowd that may or may not come. He was ready. Or at least, he was supposed to be. 

He was lacing himself with determination as he stepped into the rink, threading it into every muscle. His footsteps echoed in the early hour, crisp and measured. He knew his role. Captain. Enforcer of grit and order. No time for softness, no space for distractions. Today was about execution. Focus. Edge. But then he saw you. You were perched on the lower bleachers, a notebook open on your knee, a pen in your hand like a wand drawing invisible maps through the air. You weren’t wearing your headphones this time. You were smiling. That soft, crooked kind of smile that looked rare on you, like something tucked away for safekeeping, only pulled out when no one was supposed to be watching. And you weren’t alone.

There was a boy beside you, shorter than him, younger-looking, with kind eyes and easy laughter, his body angled toward you like a sunflower turning toward the light. Jay hadn’t seen him before, which made something in his chest curl tight and sour. He felt it at once, sharp and unexpected: that gnawing sense of displacement, of not being in on something, of something already being taken. It was ridiculous. He barely knew you. You had spoken what, three times? You’d argued, mostly. Clashed like fire meeting stone. And yet… And yet.

Something about the sight of you sitting there with this stranger stirred up a noise inside him he couldn’t quiet. He told himself it was irritation, annoyance at having his morning disrupted by something irrelevant. That it was just the weight of practice and captaincy and pressure twisting his mood. But he knew the truth. Or at least, he feared it. He was jealous.

Not in the loud, possessive way of boys who’d already claimed something. But in that terrible quiet way that sneaks in when you weren’t even aware you’d begun to care. It crept in through the cracks, through the way you had corrected his stretch without blinking, through the way your fingers had pressed against his knee like a dare, through the way your voice held thunder even when you whispered. He hadn’t meant to remember the shape of your mouth or the way your eyes flared when you were angry. He hadn’t meant to notice the way your laugh sounded reluctant, like it had to fight its way past pain. But he had. And now here you were, smiling at someone else. Someone who made it look so effortless. And Jay, who lived his whole life wrapped in performance and grit and silence, felt, for a moment, like he was drowning in something he couldn’t name.

He tore his gaze away, jaw tight, back straight. He said nothing. Walked past you like you were a ghost and he was a man haunted. But even as the coach called the team to warm up, even as blades began to scratch their war-song into the ice, Jay couldn't help but glance back once more; just once, like a secret. And you were still laughing. God, he hated how beautiful you looked when you weren’t looking at him.

Practice begins like it always does, cold and unrelenting, the sound of skates slashing against ice like knives against glass, every player carving their hunger into the rink, hungry for speed, precision, and that brutal dance of dominance. You sit at the edge of it all, notebook in hand, eyes trained like a lighthouse beam over the curling mist of motion. The air bites, numbing fingers through your gloves, but your mind is sharp, cutting through every stride and swing with the precision of a scalpel. Your gaze is calculating, watching the way Sunghoon adjusts for his healing leg, the way Heeseung still hunches slightly too much on his left shoulder, compensating with poor posture. But today, something feels… off. Unsettled, like the silence before a storm when the trees go still and the birds forget to sing. 

And it doesn’t take long for you to realize that the eye of that storm is Jay. Jay, whose presence on the ice is usually a poem in motion, a wolf weaving through wind, disciplined and razor-focused. Jay, who has always worn his title of captain like a stitched-on second skin, no room for error, no time for weakness. But now, he’s fraying at the edges. There’s something in the way he’s skating that makes your breath catch, a subtle stutter in his turns, a tension in his shoulders, like he’s being chased by something no one else can see. His movements are all wrong, off by mere seconds, fractions of angles, but wrong nonetheless. You notice his hesitation, how he favors the leg he’s always guarded like a secret. His eyes aren’t focused, not really. They’re vacant, elsewhere, like his mind is pacing in some far-off room, and his body is merely a ghost skating through the motions. 

You frown, gripping your pen tighter, every instinct in you whispering a quiet warning. And then it happens. It’s not theatrical, no loud snap of bone, no scream echoing through the rink, but it is enough to silence the room. Jay goes down, a crack of imbalance catching in the middle of a play. His skate catches on the edge of a turn, his body unable to compensate in time, and suddenly he’s hitting the ice hard, elbow first, knee twisted beneath him in a tangle of velocity and weight. The sound he makes is more frustration than pain, but it’s guttural, and it sinks into your bones like cold water. He stays down for a heartbeat too long. Long enough for every eye to turn toward him. Long enough for your own lungs to forget how to breathe. 

And when he finally rises, it’s with a sharp grimace and a tight jaw. He limps, not dramatically, but noticeably, dragging pride along with that wounded leg as he makes his way to the bench. You’re already up before your mind can catch up, your body drawn to him by something magnetic, something wordless and inevitable. You clutch your notebook to your chest, knuckles white, as you cross the ice’s edge with quick strides. By the time you reach him, Jay has torn his helmet off and flung it against the bench with a metallic clatter, the sound echoing like a gunshot. His gloves are off next, thrown down in a storm of self-loathing. He mutters curses under his breath, short and sharp, like they’re meant to punish the very air he breathes. His hair is a mess of sweat-damp strands, stuck to his forehead, and his eyes are wild, filled with that raw, reckless anger that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with pride.

You don’t say anything at first. You simply sit down beside him, close but not too close, letting the silence stretch thin and humming between you. Letting him cool like a blade just pulled from fire. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the way his chest heaves, the clench of his fists, the storm tightening and loosening behind his gaze. And finally, when the heat of the moment has dulled to a quiet ache, you speak. “I’ll need to look at that knee after practice.”

Your voice is soft. Not gentle, not coddling, just calm. Firm in that way that says you’re not asking for permission, but not picking a fight either. You expect the pushback, the snide remark, the roll of his eyes, the stubborn “I’m fine” that he usually keeps locked and loaded. But it doesn’t come. Jay doesn’t argue. He just nods, curt and silent, like something inside him has cracked open a little too wide to bother trying to hold it all in. Like he’s tired of fighting everything, including himself. 

You don’t press him further. You don’t say what you’re thinking, that he’s been off since the moment he walked in, that you saw him watching you earlier with that dark, unreadable look. That you can feel the jealousy clinging to him like smoke. You don’t say that maybe you understand a little too well what it means to be someone who feels everything too much and yet can’t say a word of it aloud. You just sit with him, watching the other players file back onto the ice like nothing happened, like the world didn’t just tilt slightly off its axis. And in that quiet, in that fragile space between heat and healing, something unspoken passes between you.

You glance down at his knee, at the way he’s holding it like he’s not sure if he can trust it anymore. And your hands itch to help. To touch. To fix. Not just the bruises in his body but the ones buried in places far deeper, places that you, too, have learned to protect like sacred, broken things. Practice continues without him, Coach barking out instructions, pucks ricocheting off the boards, skates slicing like silver across the white. But the two of you remain seated, tucked just slightly out of reach from the rest of the world, bound together not by words but by silence and circumstance and a tangle of emotions too complex to name. You jot down a few notes in your book, pen gliding mindlessly now, thoughts half-drowned in the electricity that hums quietly between your shoulder and his. 

Jay leans back, rubbing his hands over his face like he’s trying to scrub something out of his thoughts. And you don’t look at him, not directly. But you feel him there, beside you, in the weight of his breathing and the simmer of his presence. You wonder if he feels it too, the way the space between your knees barely touches, the way your shoulders almost brush, the way every breath you take feels just slightly heavier because of him. 

After practice, the rink is quieter now, emptied of the thunderous rhythm of blades on ice, the thudding pulse of pucks striking boards, the boyish laughter and the barking drills. The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, a tired orchestra of static and hum that fills the cavernous space with a ghostly kind of stillness. You sit cross-legged on the bench, notebook splayed open like a journal of war wounds, a ledger of flaws you’re determined to help fix. Jay is beside you, not quite close, not quite distant, but sitting with the kind of posture that speaks of restlessness buried deep in muscle and bone. The kind that no stretch can ease. You glance sideways, pencil poised above the page, waiting for the conversation to start, for him to meet you halfway. But he doesn’t. He’s there in body only, shoulders drawn taut beneath his hoodie, jaw clenched, eyes fixed somewhere out past the rink walls like he's seeing something far, far away. Something he won’t share.

You clear your throat softly, trying not to let the irritation creep into your tone. “Are you even listening?” you ask, voice light, teasing almost, but there’s an edge there, a sharpness hidden behind the casual. “Because if you don’t care about getting better before the game, then we’re wasting our time.” Still, no answer. Just the faint sound of him shifting his weight, his knee probably still throbbing beneath his clothes, though he refuses to complain. Jay has always worn pain like a badge, never seeking sympathy, only challenge. But this, this silence, it isn’t stubbornness. It’s something else. Something quieter, more personal. It feels like a wall rising up between you again after you’d both spent so long trying to tear it down with quiet gestures and silent understanding. You set your notebook down slowly, turning to look at him fully now. And that’s when he speaks.

“Who was that boy you were talking to in the beginning of practice?” His voice isn’t biting, not sharp or mocking like you expected. It’s careful, too careful, like he’s trying to sound casual but failing entirely. It lands in the space between you like a stone in still water, sending ripples that reach far deeper than he’ll admit. And for a moment, you just stare at him, lips parting slightly in confusion, the question catching you so off guard you almost forget to breathe. 

You blink. “Jungwon?”

There’s a pause. A beat that stretches too long. Then: “Yeah. Him.”

You furrow your brow, unsure whether to laugh or scold him. “What does that matter?” Jay shrugs with the lazy grace of someone pretending not to care, but you see the way his fingers twitch against his knee, the way his jaw ticks slightly. He’s too composed for someone who's supposedly just ‘curious.’ His eyes don’t meet yours now. Instead, he busies himself with examining the tape on his wrist, like it holds answers he’s too afraid to find in your face. 

You narrow your gaze. “That’s not really any of your business, you know.” And there it is, the truth unsaid, the fragile line you both keep walking. The tension coiling beneath every word you speak to each other, a dance of proximity and avoidance. His eyes finally lift to meet yours, something unreadable in them. A spark of something you can’t name. Not yet.

He shrugs again, but this time it feels like armor. “Didn’t say it was. Just… wondered.” You exhale, the sound heavy with frustration, but not just at him. At yourself. At how quickly your chest tightened when he asked. At how easily you could read between the lines of his too-casual tone. You pick up your notebook again with shaking fingers, trying to will the heat from your face, trying to shove the moment back into something clinical, something safe.

“Well,” you say after a pause, voice clipped as you flip a page, “I’d like to get back to your stretches now, if you don’t mind.” Jay doesn’t respond immediately. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, head tilted slightly toward you. He watches the side of your face like he’s trying to memorize it, trying to see something in your profile that you won’t say out loud. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask again. Just lets the silence stretch between you like a fraying thread. And still, even in the stillness, you feel the weight of him beside you like a gravity pulling at the edges of your restraint.

You begin to talk again, reciting what needs to be done, which muscles he needs to target, what angles he needs to avoid to stop aggravating the joint. But your voice sounds strange to you now, too tight, too careful, like it’s been dressed in armor. You glance up briefly and catch him staring again, not at your hands, not at your notes, but at you. Always at you. 

Time stretches, slow and sticky like sap from a wounded tree, as you move through the remainder of your notes, explaining each stretch again in patient, measured tones. Your voice is soft but firm, the kind of gentle insistence that comes from knowing what you’re talking about and caring too much to be dismissed. Jay listens this time, even if his expression is unreadable, more shadows than light. He sits with his back curved, eyes lowered, brow furrowed in a quiet storm of frustration and focus. You ask him if he’s been doing the stretches you assigned and his reply is a low grumble, almost a growl, as if admitting defeat to the air rather than to you. 

“Tried,” he mutters, voice roughened by pride and something he can’t quite name, “but they hurt more than they helped.” 

You sigh, the sound carrying a weight that doesn’t belong solely to this moment. You kneel before him, brushing your hair behind your ears like a soldier tying back their banner before battle. “Then you were doing them wrong,” you reply, the words not scolding but certain, like the slow unfolding of spring after a bitter winter. You rise and move toward him, slipping into the space beside his seated form on the bench, your fingers brushing over his wrist gently as you coax him to stand. He obeys, but not without reluctance, the kind of resistance that doesn’t come from distrust, but from something deeper, something tangled in his own ribs, knotted in the cords of his heart. You demonstrate the posture again, turning slightly to show how your knee aligns with your hip, how the stretch should feel like a pull and not a tear. But as you step back to make room for him to try it, your foot catches on the edge of your own bag, traitorous and silent, and suddenly the world tilts. You flail forward with a gasp, arms reaching for something solid, and Jay catches you before your body can meet the cold, uncaring floor.

His arms come around you swiftly, instinctually, like muscle memory, like he’s caught you a thousand times before in dreams he doesn’t remember. His breath escapes him in a hiss as the movement jars his knee, and you gasp in tandem, both of you locked in a suspended, breathless moment of mutual alarm. You straighten in his hold, hands resting lightly against his chest now, your palms splayed over the steady drumbeat of his heart. It’s only then that you realize he’s still holding you. And you’re still letting him. For a heartbeat; no, for a whole symphony of heartbeats, you don't move.

His arms, warm and trembling ever so slightly, are wrapped securely around your waist. His eyes, dark and lit with something you can’t quite decipher, stare down into yours with an intensity that steals the air right out of your lungs. The fluorescent lights above seem to fade, casting the moment in a softer glow, as though time itself has folded inward and left only this suspended pocket where nothing exists but you and him. And then, without even thinking, without fully realizing what your body has decided, you begin to lean in.

Your breath catches. His lashes lower. The world narrows to the mere inches of space between your mouths. You can feel the heat of him, his breath, the soft rustle of the fabric at his collar, the barely-there tremble in his hold. You’re close enough now to see the faint freckle at the corner of his jaw, the smudge of tiredness beneath his eyes, the scar just above his brow. You are close enough to kiss him. And you want to. God, you want to. But just as your lips begin to close the distance, just as the air tilts toward something irrevocable, Jay turns his head sharply to the side. You freeze. Mid-motion. Mid-breath.

He clears his throat awkwardly, a hand coming up to grip your arm, not harsh, but firm enough to guide you back to earth. “Sorry,” he mutters, almost too quiet to hear. “I — my knee, I shouldn’t be holding you like that.” And then, carefully, gently, like you’re made of spun glass or secrets too delicate to break, he sets you down on your own two feet again.

The warmth leaves you immediately, as though someone has opened a window to let in the cold. You step back, confused and suddenly small, the edges of your confidence curling in on themselves like burning paper. You blink down at your shoes, cheeks heating, pulse racing as if your body hasn’t quite caught up to the rejection your heart just received. “Is there anything else you want me to do?” he asks, his voice quieter now, strained and formal. He doesn’t look at you.

You hesitate, your throat tight, your pride frayed. You shake your head, a whisper caught in your chest. “No. That’s… that’s all for now.”

Jay nods, expression unreadable once more, a mask of cool indifference pulled over the face of a boy who just looked at you like you were made of starlight. “I better get going then.” You say nothing. You can’t. You watch as he limps slowly away, each step echoing like a closing door, like a heartbeat fading in the dark. And then he’s gone.

You sit down slowly, notebook still open in your lap, pages fluttering in the draft he left behind. The silence that fills the rink is different now, thicker somehow, as if it holds echoes of things unsaid. And you’re left there alone, heart stinging, face warm with humiliation, and a bitter taste blooming at the back of your tongue. You want to scream, or laugh, or cry, or maybe all three. But instead, you sit there with your hands still trembling slightly, wondering what exactly just happened. Wondering if it meant something. Wondering why it couldn’t.

The days pass like breath caught in your throat, never quite exhaled, never quite released. You keep your head down, hands busy, heart shelved like an old book collecting dust behind your ribs. You move through practice with the cold efficiency of someone who knows what they’re doing and refuses to be shaken by sentiment; at least not anymore. If Jay notices the way you don’t linger by the benches anymore, or how your gaze drifts anywhere but in his direction, he doesn’t say anything. Or maybe he does notice, maybe he notices everything and simply doesn’t know what to do with it, with you, with the heavy silence left in your wake. You’ve found a temporary anchor in Sunghoon, who’s been limping slightly on his left leg for a few practices now. He’s easier to work with, smiling, receptive, appreciative without crossing invisible lines. You offer him techniques, adjustments, reminders to ice and rest. He listens. He thanks you. And though your mind drifts back to Jay more times than you’d like to admit, flashing in those brief seconds between movements, appearing like a shadow every time you blink, you push those thoughts down, burying them like seeds in winter soil. 

But you notice.

Of course you notice.

Jay’s limp, though masked well beneath his stubborn pride and athletic grace, returns the day before the first game. Subtle to the untrained eye, just the slightest falter in his stride, the tiniest hesitation when he pivots too hard on his left side. It cuts through your self-imposed indifference like a blade, sharp, inevitable. You clench your jaw, fists tightening around your clipboard, war playing out behind your eyes. You don’t want to care. You don’t want to still care. But here you are, caring anyway. Coach calls for a ten-minute break, his voice echoing through the rink like a church bell, and you take that sound as your cue. You move toward Jay without thinking, clipboard held like a shield, resolve coiled tight in your chest. You tell yourself you’re here to be professional, that this is part of your job, that your heart is nothing but a quiet organ beating behind your ribs, it has no business interfering with tendons and joints and routines. Jay sits on the edge of the bench, pulling at the tape around his wrists, and your shadow falls over him before your voice does.

“I noticed your limp’s back,” you say, even and clinical, like you’re reading out symptoms from a chart instead of acknowledging the ache that’s been burning a hole in your chest for days. You don’t look at him. You can’t. He straightens slightly, wiping sweat from his temple with the back of his glove. “I’ve been doing the stretches.”

You nod once, still focused on your clipboard, though the words blur and bleed together on the page. “Before tomorrow’s game, stretch early and ice immediately after,” you say. “Don’t skip it.” He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s waiting for something more, like he’s holding something in his mouth, something fragile that might shatter if he breathes too hard. Then, carefully, his voice cracks the air between you like a pebble on glass.

“About the other day in the locker room—” Your spine stiffens. Your pulse stumbles. But you don’t let your mask falter. Instead, you cut in, your voice brisk and precise.

“I was thinking we could try a different form of therapy,” you say. “Something that focuses more on low-impact stretches and deep tissue. It might help more long-term.”

He exhales, and it’s not frustration or anger; it’s confusion, maybe even hurt. “That’s not what I was going to—” 

“It’s fine,” you say, and this time your voice does falter, just slightly, like a violin string pulled too tight. “You don’t have to explain. It was clear.” His mouth opens. You keep going. “You don’t feel the same way,” you say, and now your eyes lift, finally meeting his. And it’s a terrible thing, because he’s looking at you like he doesn’t understand the words coming out of your mouth, like he’s never been more stunned in his life. But you don’t let yourself get swept up in it. You keep your voice level, sharp with embarrassment, honed by the weeks of silence and avoidance and pretending. “I’d appreciate it,” you say, and your voice is soft now, almost breaking, “if you wouldn’t bring it up again. Just… spare me the humiliation, okay?”

And then, before he can speak, before he can call out your name or reach for you or cast another look that might make your knees weak, you turn and walk away. The sound of your boots on the ice-polished floor is the only thing you hear. Not the beat of your heart, not the breath caught in your throat, not the echo of your name behind you, only the silence that follows you like a shroud, thick and unyielding. You walk until the cold air bites at your cheeks and the rink fades behind you. You walk until you are just a girl again, alone in the echoing hallway, heart bleeding quietly inside your chest. 

Finally, It’s game day. 

The air feels heavy with electricity, like something important is about to break. The rink is abuzz with the quiet war-drum of preparation, sticks clacking against the ground, skates carving soft grooves into rubber, the rustle of jerseys being pulled on like armor before a battle. You stand in the back corner of the locker room, tucked away from the fray but still inside its rhythm, your clipboard abandoned for now, your laughter light and warm as it floats into the stale air. Jungwon is beside you, easy company with a boyish grin and a kind sort of curiosity that doesn’t ask for anything more than what you’re willing to give. His presence is uncomplicated, a balm to the storm that’s been churning in your chest for the past week. He’s cracking jokes, a little sharp but clever, and you laugh freely for once, like the sound doesn’t cost you anything. There’s something about today that feels strange though, like you’re standing at the edge of something. A precipice. A cliff with no railing.

Jungwon nudges your shoulder with his, eyes twinkling with mischief as he leans in to whisper something only you can hear, something stupid about the way Heeseung tapes his socks too tight or how Jake brought his baby’s pacifier instead of his water bottle. You giggle into your hand, shoulders shaking, just in time for a voice, deep, commanding, like thunder cracked through a glass sky, to slice through the locker room. “Huddle up.” Everyone moves instantly.

Jay’s voice is unrecognizable from the one you’ve grown accustomed to, the one laced with sarcasm or irritation or those low, quiet murmurs you’ve only ever heard in the in-between moments when it was just the two of you. No, this voice is a war cry. It’s sharp and magnetic, dragging the eyes and ears of every player to him like he’s the only sun in the room and they’re just desperate, orbiting things. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you exhale. Jay stands in the center of the locker room, tall and broad, chin tipped up, one fist closed around his helmet and the other gesturing with subtle but unshakable control. His dark hair is damp and pushed back, beads of sweat just beginning to prick along his brow from the warm-up, and his eyes are twin daggers, focused, deadly. You realize, then, that this is Jay as captain, Jay in his final form, Jay as the version of himself that eats pressure for breakfast and spits out excellence. You’ve never really seen him like this. And it hits you square in the chest. 

God, he’s beautiful like this. Beautiful and terrifying. Like lightning dancing across a frozen lake. Like something wild that could burn you alive if you got too close. You stand frozen, wide-eyed, caught in a kind of reverent silence that only deepens when Jungwon leans close again, voice low and teasing: “You’re staring.” You laugh — too loud, too quick, startled out of your daze, and that’s when it happens. Jay stumbles. Not on his feet, no, his posture stays rigid, his stance the same, but the words in his mouth, once flowing like riverwater, trip over themselves. A stutter, subtle but jarring, breaks the air like a skipped heartbeat. You blink, confused at first, and then you follow the line of his gaze; his eyes locked directly, unflinchingly, on you. Your laughter dies in your throat.

Jay looks away fast, like your face was too bright, too blinding. He shakes his head once, hard, trying to dislodge whatever momentary ghost took hold of him, and when he speaks again, his voice is firm and clean. No cracks. No hesitation. But the pause, the falter, it lingers in the air like perfume. And everyone felt it. Maybe they don’t know what it means, but you do. Oh, you do. You stand a little straighter, Jungwon now just a shadow beside you as your focus returns wholly, helplessly, to Jay. He commands the huddle with renewed authority, drawing the team in like stars around a sun. And still, beneath all that composure, you know it, you can feel it, the tension that thrums in the silence between his words. The weight of what was left unsaid in that locker room. The awkwardness of that almost-kiss, that half-second eternity where your heart had leapt and his had pulled back. You wonder if he feels it too.

When he finishes the pep talk, the team breaks with a unified roar, sticks thudding against the benches, skates scraping as they rise to storm the ice, but Jay doesn’t look your way again. Not once. He keeps his gaze forward, unyielding, captain-steady. And yet, for that one fractured breath, he’d looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. Like maybe the words he couldn’t say had filled his mouth all at once and rendered him speechless. And it lingers. Like smoke after fire.

The arena is alive. Electric. It thrums with the kind of energy that only belongs to game night, shouts and whistles, sneakers scraping against concrete, the distant reverberation of blades cutting across frozen ice like poetry etched in glass. The crowd swells and hollers and surges in waves like a storm kept just barely at bay, but you, you are still. Poised at the edge of the chaos, pen between your fingers and a notebook cradled in your lap like it holds the whole universe. You’re supposed to be calm. Collected. Clinical. But beneath the soft tap of your pen against paper, your pulse is racing like something wild caged beneath your skin. They’re doing it. They’re actually doing it.

Every note you wrote, every correction you whispered beneath fluorescent locker room lights, every careful observation you tucked into the quiet margins of your planner, it’s breathing now. It’s real. The team is moving like a single beast, every shift on the ice more seamless than the last. Their passes are tight, clean, threaded like silver through the seams of the opposing defense. Their positioning is sharp, adjusted just as you suggested, and Jay, God, Jay is a storm in motion, skating with such relentless precision it nearly makes you dizzy to watch. There’s a moment when he pivots on a dime, receives a pass from Jake, and nails a slap shot that rockets straight past the goalie’s glove with a sound like thunder, echoing, undeniable, final. The whole crowd erupts. And your chest swells with pride so fierce you forget to breathe for a second. You don’t cheer. You don’t scream. You don’t jump up and throw your arms around like the rest of the spectators who are all giddy limbs and painted cheeks. But your smile; quiet, soft, almost secret, could light the whole rink. 

There’s a strange ache in the joy. Because it’s not just about the win. It’s the knowledge that they trusted you enough to listen. That the time you’ve spent, invisible and tireless, is finally seen in the way they skate, in the way they communicate on the ice like a language you helped translate. And maybe, just maybe, you matter here, something more than a daughter, something more than a placeholder. You’re part of the architecture. The bones beneath the flesh. Jungwon darts past you in a blur, a clipboard under one arm and a trainer’s bag in the other, his cheeks pink from exertion. You call out something teasing, and he shoots back a reply that makes you snort into your scarf, the two of you slipping into that easy rhythm that’s started to settle between you, like an echo, like something familiar that never needed to be explained. He’s good at what he does, even if he’s still learning. And there’s something charming in his eagerness, his instinct to over-prepare, to over-perform. You can’t help but admire it. He’s not trying to impress you, and maybe that’s why it’s so refreshing to be around him. He doesn’t want anything from you that you aren’t willing to give. 

You glance to your left where Heeseung and Sunghoon’s girlfriends are perched on the edge of their seats, wrapped in puffy coats and scarves and radiant with adrenaline. They’re shouting their boys’ names at full volume, jumping and gasping and squealing at every near miss and every stolen goal. Normally, the noise would drive you crazy, but there’s something endearing about the way their voices crack when they cheer. You watch one of them grab the other’s arm and shake her when Sunghoon skates too close to the boards, laughing like she’s afraid and thrilled all at once. There’s love in it. Raw and sweet and loud. You wonder, absently, what it must be like to feel that kind of closeness, to wear your heart on your sleeve without fear of how hard it might be broken.

And still, your eyes find him. Jay.

Every time you think you’ve pulled yourself out of the orbit of his gravity, your gaze is drawn back like a tide to the moon. He skates with his teeth gritted and his shoulders tight, every movement packed with intensity. He’s not reckless, but he’s ferocious, like something is burning behind his eyes and this is the only way he knows how to put out the fire. You see the slight limp in his stride, the subtle favoring of his left leg, but he masks it well, well enough that your father hasn’t caught on, but you notice. Of course you do. You know him too well now, even if you pretend you don’t. Your fingers tighten on your pen. There’s a moment when he looks toward the bench during a shift change, breath fogging up in the cold, jaw clenched. His eyes sweep the stands, and for a breathless second, you swear they land on you. You sit frozen. His gaze holds, unreadable. And then, he’s gone again, swallowed up by the game. You pretend not to notice the flutter in your chest.

The scoreboard blinks and buzzes, a mechanical hymn to their success, and the crowd surges forward in delight. The game marches on, and you try to return to your notes, to professionalism, to detachment. But it’s hard when your hands are trembling, not from cold, but from something far more dangerous. From hope. From confusion. From want.

The air is electric in the aftermath of victory. The walls of the locker room hum with the echoes of triumph, whoops ricocheting off metal lockers, the sharp clatter of skates being kicked off, towels slapping wet skin, voices riding high on adrenaline and pride. It smells like sweat and ice and something more sacred, like the echo of glory, like the start of something golden. The boys move through the space like kings returning from battle, bumping shoulders and laughing with that rare kind of joy that only comes from shared struggle turned into triumph. Heeseung’s lopsided grin is as bright as the scoreboard, his arm slung over Jake’s shoulder as he recounts a moment on the ice with exaggerated flair. Jay gets the loudest praise, backs patted, hands clapped, helmets nudged against his in celebration. He stands at the center of it all, looking like something carved out of fire and iron, stoic and silent, but there’s a glimmer in his eye that betrays the satisfaction he won’t speak aloud. You keep your distance.

It’s become your safe place, that edge-of-the-room observation. You smile when spoken to, you nod when needed, you laugh when the jokes make their way to you, but your heart is folded up tightly, tucked beneath the quiet task in front of you. You’re kneeling by the therapy corner, setting up Jay’s post-game ice bath, something you insisted on weeks ago when the limp first returned, something he never complained about, not even after the... moment between you. The container is half full already, the ice bucket humming beside you as cubes tumble in with mechanical rhythm. Your fingers are cold from testing the water, your breath fogs lightly in the sterile air, but your mind is far, far away, adrift on memories of locker room silence, almost-kisses, and the sound of his voice when it turned soft for you and only you. Most of the team is gone now, filing out with damp hair and open jackets, loud voices echoing down the hall. Even Jungwon gives you a wave goodbye before disappearing with your father to inventory the equipment one last time. You murmur your farewell, gaze flickering, pulse steady. Or at least it was, until the warmth of a hand wraps suddenly around your elbow. 

You startle, spinning halfway as a gasp lifts in your chest, but it’s Jay. His hand is firm but not rough, callused fingers pressing into the crook of your arm as if trying to tether you to the moment. The look on his face is unreadable, carved from stormclouds and moonlight. You straighten, trying to compose yourself, your lips parting for a question you never get the chance to voice. He cuts you off before it can form. “Are you dating Jungwon?”

The words are sharp and blunt at once, like being struck with something soft but heavy. You blink up at him, confusion furrowing your brows, heart stuttering in your chest. “What?” you manage, voice more breath than word, but he interrupts again, more urgent this time. 

“Just, please. Are you dating Yang Jungwon or not?” There’s something vulnerable hidden behind the edge of his voice, something frayed and fierce. He looks at you like the answer might shatter him, like he’s already halfway broken by the not knowing. 

You shake your head. “No,” you whisper. “Not that it’s any of your business.” But he doesn’t seem to hear that last part. Or maybe he does, and chooses to ignore it entirely. His eyes are still locked on yours, black as night and brimming with something you don’t yet have the language to name. Something heavy. Something real. He leans in. Not fast, not abrupt, no. Jay moves like he’s afraid to break the air between you. Like every inch is sacred. Like he’s measuring the distance to your mouth with centuries of longing compressed in his chest. And when his face is so close that his breath brushes yours, he murmurs, “Say the word, and I’ll stop.” It’s the gentlest threat you’ve ever heard. The sweetest cliff you’ve ever been asked to jump from. But you don’t stop him.

And when his lips finally meet yours, soft and uncertain and tender in a way that rips the breath from your lungs, it’s not fireworks that you feel. It’s silence. That same kind of silence you chase in the early mornings. That rare, impossible peace that only exists when the world forgets to spin. His kiss is reverent, hesitant, but aching beneath its restraint. It tastes like all the things he’s been trying not to feel, all the things he thought he wasn’t allowed to want. You make a sound, small and startled and aching, and then you're leaning into him, reaching up, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. He kisses you again, deeper this time, and everything unravels. His hand finds your waist, the other rising to cradle your jaw like something precious, something fragile. You feel your back press against the wall as he walks you backward, the air around you thick with want. He kisses like a man who’s been waiting too long, like he’s trying to memorize you, like he wants to carve the shape of your mouth into the backs of his eyelids. And then it gets deeper, hotter.

His body presses into yours, anchoring you to the wall with a force that makes your breath catch, that makes your knees feel untrustworthy. His lips trail down to the edge of your jaw, your throat, breath warm and desperate. You arch into him, eyes fluttering shut, drowning in the scent of him, sweat, cedarwood soap, something uniquely him that drives you mad with the simplicity of it. But then, he pulls back. He lets go with a gentleness that makes the moment worse, like the kiss had been holy and ending it was sacrilege. He exhales slowly, still so close his breath dances across your skin.

“Is there anything else you want me to do?” he says quietly, his voice low, almost pained.

“Keep going.” You breathe, the air shot from your lungs as his mouth found yours once again, soft but urgent. Like he was giving himself to you slowly and deeply, like his heart was a locked box with the key now in your hands. 

The kiss deepens, not in haste but in gravity, as if time itself has bent its laws to accommodate the want simmering between you. Jay’s hands are a prayer pressed against your waist, the curve of your jaw, the span of your back as if committing you to memory beneath his palms. He kisses you like you’re not just a girl but a revelation, like he's been wandering ice-covered roads for years and you’re the first warmth he's felt. His body shields yours from the cold tile of the locker room wall, and you can feel every inch of him, tense and trembling with the weight of restraint, of something that borders on reverence. You’re gasping softly into him, losing all sense of place, of direction, of anything that isn’t the taste of his mouth and the staccato rhythm of your pulse thundering between your ribs.

There is nothing polite about this desire, it is vast and raw and aching, a tether pulled taut between you, stretched across every stolen glance and unsaid word since the first time he looked at you and didn’t speak. Every second of tension in the past weeks has culminated in this: the electricity when your bodies align, the reverberation of heat low in your belly, the way his lips move against yours like he’s not just kissing you; he’s trying to say something in a language only the two of you can understand. And then, The sharp groan of a door creaking open cleaves the moment like a blade through silk.

You both jolt as if shocked by lightning, Jay stepping back just enough to break the kiss, though his hands linger at your sides, still warm, still trembling. Your breath catches in your throat as you both snap toward the sound, and there, standing frozen in the doorway, is Soobin. Tall, sweet-faced Soobin, with wide eyes and a half-twist of a smirk he’s trying (and failing) to suppress. “I was just coming to get my water bottle…” he says, his voice pitched high with embarrassment, words slow and uncertain like they’re skating across black ice. He gestures vaguely toward the benches, where his half-drained bottle sits beside a crumpled towel.

Jay doesn’t move. Neither do you. You’re still pressed up against the wall, lips flushed, heart a living drumbeat in your throat. The silence stretches out, taut and teetering on awkwardness. Finally, Jay gives a tight nod, measured, unreadable. Soobin grabs his bottle in the silence that follows. “I’m gonna go… good game,” he mumbles, already halfway out the door before the sentence finishes falling from his mouth. And then he’s gone, leaving nothing but the click of the door echoing in his wake and a sudden rush of cold air that feels like the world snapping back into its natural order. And for a second, the tension remains suspended, like a note left hanging at the end of a song.

Laughter. 

It bubbles up inside you so quickly you can’t hold it back. It starts as a breathy exhale, then spills out of you in waves, warm and full and uncontrolled. You lean forward slightly, your head falling against Jay’s chest, laughter shaking through your ribs. It's the kind of laugh that comes only after a release of something heavy, something long held in, the absurdity of the moment, the sweetness of it, the fact that you were just caught making out with Jay in the locker room like a scene pulled from the pages of some high school drama. You can’t stop. Jay watches you for a beat, stunned and dazed, and then a smile slowly curves across his lips. His own laugh escapes like a sigh of relief, low and rich, a sound like melting snow in spring. His arms circle your waist again, tugging you close, and he tucks his face into the crook of your neck for a moment like he’s trying to hide from how much he’s smiling. You feel the sound of his joy vibrate against your collarbone and it feels so impossibly intimate you almost tear up. When the laughter fades, you look up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

Jay reaches out, tender and slow, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing the shell of it like a secret. His touch is feather-light, reverent, and it stills something wild in you. You swear the whole room stills with it. He leans in again, but this time it’s gentle, slow. No rush. No chaos. Just him, kissing you like you’re the calm in his storm. His lips move over yours with a softness that makes your eyes flutter shut, with a quiet longing that tastes of something deeper; something that might become love if left to bloom.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. His breath is soft, his voice even softer. “Good night,” he murmurs, a whisper sealed against your skin, a kiss wrapped in syllables. And then he steps back. Not far. Just enough. His eyes hold yours for a moment longer, and then he turns and walks toward the exit, leaving you still leaning against the locker room wall, your lips tingling, your heart dancing somewhere halfway to the moon.

You don’t move right away. You just stand there, smiling like a girl who has a secret no one else knows, eyes dazed and warm and so full of something sweet it could carry you away. You’re on cloud nine, weightless, golden, floating. And maybe, just maybe, starting to fall.

The night air wraps around them like a loose scarf, warm enough to leave their jackets slung lazily over their shoulders as they leave the arena, the scent of ice and sweat still clinging to their skin like ghosts from the game. Their footsteps echo on the pavement, scuffed sneakers and boots dragging over gravel and cracks, their voices a low current of triumph and teasing that rides on the heels of victory. Jay walks with Jake on his left, Heeseung and Sunghoon trailing a step behind, their laughter low and lazy, the kind of carefree sound that always blooms after a win. There’s a looseness to them, shoulders unknotted, mouths grinning wide, and Jay finds himself smiling too, just enough, just the corners of his mouth, but there’s a subtle difference in the curve of his lips. Because while they talk about the game, about Sunghoon’s near goal, about the idiot who almost got benched for not backchecking, Jay’s thoughts are stuck in the locker room, with your lips against his, your laughter blooming like a secret in the hollow of his chest.

Jake throws an arm over Jay’s shoulders, leaning into him as they walk. “So,” he says, voice drawn out and heavy with mischief, “we thinking post-game celebration at the house? Open invite? You know… keep the momentum alive.” 

“Yeah, sounds good,” Jay murmurs, brushing a hand through his hair, still damp from his quick rinse after the game. “Maybe we invite… her,” he adds, not daring to say your name but letting it hover like perfume in the air, thick and noticeable. Heeseung, ever the perceptive one, arches a brow, lips quirking into a half-smile that says he’s already ten steps ahead. “Her, huh?” he echoes with a lilt of curiosity and amusement, shooting a look over Jay’s shoulder. “You mean Coach’s daughter?”

Jay just smirks, the kind of smirk meant to deflect without answering, one corner of his mouth curling while his eyes give away nothing. “I don’t kiss and tell,” he says casually, like it’s a motto, a rule etched into his spine. Jake lets out a low laugh, nudging Jay in the ribs, his grin all teeth. “Guess Coach’s orders don’t apply to the golden boy, huh?” And that’s when it hits. The truth of it. 

Jay’s smile falters, not dramatically, not so much that anyone watching would think he’d been struck, but inwardly, he feels the fault line open just beneath his ribs. For a brief moment, he’d forgotten. Forgotten that you weren’t just you. That you were Coach’s daughter. That there was a silent border etched in the ice between what was allowed and what wasn’t. That all this, the kiss, the way his heart had lunged forward at the sound of your laughter, the heat that had stirred when you leaned into him, wasn’t just a risk. It was forbidden. He’d let himself feel weightless with you, floating in the space of almost, and now gravity pulls him back down with a vengeance.

Sunghoon sees the shift, quick as a cut. His eyes sharpen, his joking tone dropped like a stone. “Oh no,” he says, not unkindly, but with an edge of understanding that slices clean. “Coach doesn’t know, does he?” 

Jay shakes his head, once, the movement short and stiff. His jaw flexes. “There’s nothing to know,” he says, too quickly. Then again, slower. “It means nothing.” A beat passes. It’s the kind of sentence meant to close a door, but it doesn’t quite shut. It hangs there in the air between them, fragile and unconvincing, like a paper shield against a rising tide. Jake looks over at him, not buying it. Heeseung doesn’t say anything, but the raise of his brow deepens, a silent accusation or maybe just concern. And Sunghoon, ever observant, watches Jay like someone looking at a puzzle with one corner piece missing.

Jay stares straight ahead, jaw clenched, heart dragging behind his ribcage like an anchor. The truth echoes loud in his head, though he won’t speak it: it didn’t mean nothing. It meant everything. The way your lips trembled against his, the way your laughter cracked something open in him, the way he felt more like himself, more like someone he didn’t have to guard, when you looked at him with those eyes that didn’t expect him to be the captain, or the golden boy, or anything but just… Jay. But he says nothing. Because what can he say? That he kissed the one girl he’s been told to stay away from? That in the span of a few moments, he’s already losing the fight against the feelings he wasn’t supposed to have?

So instead, he settles for silence. The kind that tastes like regret and fear all at once. The guys let it go, at least on the surface. They start talking again, lighter topics, shallow water. The conversation shifts toward what drinks to bring, who to invite, how late to stay up. But Jay barely registers it. He’s lost inside himself now, knee-deep in thoughts he can't outrun. The stars overhead glimmer faintly, veiled by the streetlamps and campus haze. He thinks of you again, of how soft your lips were, of the gentle way you laughed like you had the sun inside you, of how your hands felt when they pressed against his chest like a heartbeat, unsure and wanting. And beneath all of it, like the faint growl of distant thunder, he hears your father’s voice. The warning. The rule. And wonders just how far he’s willing to fall to keep touching the one thing he was never supposed to have.

Still, he picks up his phone and sends you a text. Even if it was wrong, it felt right.

You step through the threshold of the frat house like a swimmer entering the ocean at dusk, hesitant, but pulled in by the current of something irresistible. The air is thick with warmth, buzzing with music that pounds like a second heartbeat beneath your ribs. The lights are dim, golden and hazy like candle flames through whiskey-stained glass. Laughter echoes against the walls, tangled with the clatter of red plastic cups and the stutter of music that skips every so often when someone leans too hard against the stereo. Bodies move around you like a tide, fluid and flushed, the scent of beer and cologne clinging to everything. You feel a bit out of place, dressed more nicely than most, a little too alert to be fully one with the crowd. But there’s something thrilling about it too, about being here, in this noise and light and heat, as though stepping into a life just slightly tilted off your usual axis. You belong to the world your father tried to keep you from, and even though you’re standing still, your heartbeat is already racing.

Your gaze sweeps across the room, through knots of people, couples kissing in dark corners, teammates whoop-laughing over some inside joke you can’t hear. You spot Heeseung near the window, kissing his girlfriend like it’s the last night on Earth, hands tangled in her hair, their bodies pressed together in a way that makes you look away with a soft laugh caught in your throat. You weave your way further in, bumping shoulders with strangers, eyes searching. And then, just as you pause near the base of the staircase, two arms wrap around your waist, strong and familiar, pulling you backward into warmth that makes every nerve in your spine flare. You whirl around with a sharp breath, only to find Jay grinning down at you like the world just tilted in his favor. His smile is boyish, easy, but his eyes, they hold that steady fire that always seems to look right through your defenses. “You came!” he says, surprised but pleased, voice barely audible over the hum of music and laughter. You nod, letting a smile curl slowly over your lips. “Of course I did,” you murmur, and you don’t say it, but it’s the truth, you would’ve followed him anywhere tonight. 

Jay’s hand finds yours and it’s instinctual, the way your fingers fit together like puzzle pieces. He tugs gently, leading you across the crowded room toward the far couch where Jake, Sunghoon, and Heeseung are half-lounging, half-sitting, deep in a conversation about the game that had them all riding high with adrenaline. Heeseung’s girlfriend is curled up next to him, glowing with affection and soft laughter, and you’re pulled into the circle like a ripple in still water. The jokes start almost instantly, teasing remarks flung like soft snowballs, warm and harmless, and you laugh in return, each giggle shaking loose the tension that had clung to your shoulders since you stepped through the door. For a few moments, you forget about boundaries. About who you are and who Jay is. You forget about your father’s rules and the ache of rejection that had lived in your chest not so long ago. Here, among Jay’s friends, among your friends, maybe, you feel light. Like you’ve found something that belongs to you, something you’ve been missing. That is, until Soobin stumbles in like a storm no one saw coming.

He’s already glassy-eyed and red-faced, his gait loose and uncoordinated, that unmistakable sway of someone who’s a few drinks past his limit. He barrels into the living room like a wrecking ball, slinging an arm around Jay’s neck with the kind of heavy-handed affection only drunkenness can excuse. “Chill out on the drinks, man…” Jake says, reaching for Soobin’s cup, which is dangerously tilted and threatening to soak Jay’s shirt. His voice is careful but not unkind. “I’m good,” Soobin slurs, blinking as he tries to focus. His voice is too loud, too relaxed, carrying a reckless kind of weight. “Anyone know any single girls around here?”

Sunghoon chuckles, tossing a comment over his shoulder about Soobin’s breakup with Yunjin. There’s a teasing edge to his words, but Soobin doesn’t flinch. He just shrugs like the loss of someone he loved is an old wound he’s decided to stop tending. Then his gaze shifts, and lands on you. Recognition hits his face like a lightning strike. “Hey—” he slurs, pointing at you with a crooked smile. “Did coach lift the ban on dating his daughter—?”

The question hangs in the air like a guillotine. But Jay is quick. “Shut up, Soobin,” he snaps, voice low and sharp enough to cut. His arm tightens slightly at your waist. Soobin blinks, confused for a beat, then throws up his hands in surrender. “Damn. My bad.” Jake grabs him gently by the arm, steering him away toward the kitchen, his voice hushed but firm. “Come on, man. Let’s get you some water.” 

The group’s laughter doesn’t return. The bubble pops. The easy lightness vanishes. And suddenly, all you feel is every pair of eyes that had glanced your way during that too-loud moment. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until Jay’s hand gently slides into yours again. “You wanna go upstairs for a bit?” he asks, voice soft this time, quieter, like he’s asking if you want to escape. You don’t hesitate. You nod.

Jay’s room is quieter than the rest of the house, sealed off like a snow globe from the riotous storm downstairs. When you step inside, you pause for a moment just beyond the threshold, unsure of what to expect but immediately hit by a surprising stillness. The air is tinged with something faintly woodsy and familiar, maybe his cologne or the way his jacket always smells when he leans too close. You drift further in and lower yourself slowly onto the edge of his bed, fingertips brushing the neatly tucked comforter, as your eyes sweep over his space with a subtle curiosity. Everything is tidier than you imagined it would be, books lined up like soldiers on his desk, sneakers in a straight row near the foot of the bed, a single jacket hanging from the back of his chair. It’s lived-in, but purposeful. A room that carries him in every corner. It doesn’t scream for attention. It doesn’t try to impress. It’s just... him. And maybe, for some reason, you aren’t surprised by that. Jay is a boy of precision, quiet control, even when the world around him spins out of balance. He closes the door with a soft click, leans his back against it for a moment like he’s collecting himself, and then lets out a breath. “Sorry about Soobin,” he murmurs, not quite meeting your eyes.

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice soft. It’s not the first thing on your mind, not even close. But it’s easier than diving straight into the waves crashing inside your chest. The silence stretches, heavy with everything you aren’t saying. Jay crosses the room slowly, but not to sit beside you. He hovers near the desk for a second, hand drifting across a stray pen, eyes lost in thought. You know he feels the tension, same as you. And maybe, for once, silence isn’t the answer. So you break it.

“I don’t care what my dad says,” you tell him, your voice low but steady, slicing through the quiet like a blade. “He can’t dictate my life.” That catches him. Jay turns to look at you fully now, the weight of your words visibly landing in the set of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow. But he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets out a rough sigh, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to clear the thoughts clouding his mind.

“Your father’s been like… a father to me,” he finally says, voice strained and quiet. “I don’t think I’d still be playing if it wasn’t for him. He’s given me so much. And now—” He exhales sharply. “Now I feel like I’m betraying him.” You swallow hard. Not because you’re angry, but because you understand. You know what your father has meant to Jay, how he took him under his wing, coached him, mentored him, praised him in ways you only ever watched from a distance. But it still hurts, because the man Jay reveres has always kept you at arm’s length.

“At least he acted like a father to someone,” you say, and there’s something quiet and broken in your voice you hadn’t meant to let slip. Jay straightens, confusion flickering in his gaze.

“What do you mean?” You look down at your hands, fingers laced tight in your lap. “I mean… he was never really there for me. Not in the way that matters. He was always on the ice, always yelling plays, chasing glory. And when he wasn’t focused on the team, he was focused on Jaehyun. Because Jaehyun played hockey. Because Jaehyun was his golden boy. And me?” You shrug, bitter laughter bubbling in your throat. “I was background noise. Just a complication he had to keep out of the way.”

Jay doesn’t speak, but he moves, slowly, cautiously, sitting beside you now, close enough that your knees brush. His eyes are on you, unreadable but soft, like he’s seeing pieces of you he hadn’t known to look for before. “He doesn’t get to tell me who I can care about,” you say, voice firmer now. “Not when he didn’t care enough to be a father to me when it mattered.”

Jay swallows hard, his throat bobbing with the weight of everything he’s holding back. And then, almost cautiously, he reaches for your hand. When your fingers touch, it’s like the air shifts again, warmer, charged, trembling with something unspoken. “Then we should tell him,” Jay says quietly. “We shouldn’t hide it. If this is real, if you’re willing, then we should tell him. Together.” 

You stare at him, heart thudding, and slowly you nod. “Okay. Together.”

And something shifts in his expression, relief, maybe, or quiet awe. But you don’t have time to name it, because he leans in. The kiss is gentle at first, slow and uncertain like he’s afraid to break you. His lips press to yours with the care of someone tasting something they never thought they’d get to have, a wish whispered into reality. Your hand lifts instinctively to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat under your palm, and he deepens the kiss, his fingers finding your waist like they’ve always belonged there. The air around you grows softer, heavier, your breaths mingling in the small space between your bodies. And when the kiss turns into something more — when it becomes less about proving something and more about being seen, there’s no fear. Only trust.

He touches you like he’s memorizing you. Like every moment might be his last. You guide him just as much as he guides you, hands and lips and hearts speaking in the language only the two of you understand. There’s nothing rushed or reckless about it, only an aching tenderness that bleeds into every motion. You hold him like a promise, and he holds you like a prayer. He moves inside of you with practice poise and heavy breathing. “You feel so good.” He breathes onto your shoulder, his forehead stuck to the skin, leaving feather-like kisses along the column of your neck. You arched into his touch with gasp leaving your mouth like wind. 

“Jay” You whined, nails scratching at the skin of his back. No doubt leaving marks in their track. “Jay Jay Jay” His name became a chant, a prayer. Your heat in tandem with his movements, your bodies so close it leaves little room to be desired. You loved him, in this moment you loved him. You don’t know how real it was, or if the euphoric feeling of being so close to him was clouding your mind but you didn’t care. This is where you wanted to be. And when it’s over, when the hush settles around you once again, Jay wraps his arm around your waist and draws you against his chest, your legs tangled under the sheets, your head on his shoulder.

Neither of you says anything for a long while. There’s nothing that needs to be said. His fingertips trace idle patterns along your spine, and you close your eyes, letting the rhythm of his breathing lull you into something peaceful. Something safe. You know the world won’t make this easy. You know the storm is still waiting just outside the door. But here, in this small, stolen moment, it’s just you and Jay. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like that’s enough.

Morning clings to your skin like sunlight through gauze, gentle, golden, slow to wake. Jay’s room is dim, the blinds cracked just enough to allow the earliest threads of dawn to filter in and cast warm slants across his bare shoulder, across the soft rise and fall of his chest where your cheek had rested not long ago. You’re still tangled in his sheets when you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, his skin tasting like sleep and dreams and something sweeter still. He hums, barely conscious, but his arm curls around you reflexively, keeping you close for a second longer, like even in sleep he can’t quite bear to let you go. “I’ll see you at practice,” you whisper, brushing your fingers across the mess of his hair. And Jay, with eyes still heavy and lips curled into the faintest smile, murmurs, “Yeah. You will.” It’s not a promise, exactly, but it feels like one. A truth passed quietly between two people who’ve crossed a line they can’t uncross. A line they don’t want to.

You leave his room feeling like you’ve been rewritten. Every step down the stairs, out the door, into the crisp morning air is wrapped in the strange, shining veil of newness. The sky above is still pale and sleepy, the trees rustling with the hush of an early wind, and the world, for once, seems like it’s moving in rhythm with your heartbeat. It’s all the small things you notice now. The way the clouds stretch like long strokes of white across soft blue. The way your lips still buzz with the echo of his. The way your heart tugs you back toward him even as you walk away. 

You don’t want to leave this bubble. You don’t want to break the illusion, the sweet, delicate dream you and Jay carved for yourselves in the safety of his room. But the real world waits, loud and sharp and unavoidable. And as you climb into your car, as the engine hums to life and your fingers grip the steering wheel, a new weight settles in the space behind your ribs, the knowledge of what’s coming. Because sooner or later, this secret won’t stay wrapped in soft cotton and whispered kisses. It’ll be exposed. Confronted. And though Jay hadn’t said it with urgency or fear, you could tell in the way he looked at you last night, bare and serious, that it mattered to him. That this thing between you wasn’t something he wanted to hide in shadows, even if it meant facing the hardest part of all: your father. You sigh as you pull into your neighborhood, the sun climbing higher behind you like a slow, burning truth. You’ve gone over it a dozen times already in your head — what you’ll say, how you’ll say it, how your father will react. But the words never quite line up. Not in a way that doesn’t twist your stomach into uneasy knots. Because you know your father. You know his pride, his protectiveness, the fire behind his eyes when someone breaks the rules he’s set in stone. And this? You and Jay? You’ve broken more than just a rule. You’ve stepped directly into the one place he made clear no one was allowed to go. But how can you explain that Jay is worth the fallout?

That behind the hard shell of his quiet and his discipline is a boy who holds you like you matter. Who listens when your voice wavers, who catches you when your steps falter, who kissed you like he was both terrified and thrilled to finally get to do it. Jay isn’t just a boy on your dad’s team. He isn’t just another name on a roster. He’s the reason your heart races when you walk into a room. The reason practice feels like more than just routine. He’s the one who’s made you feel, truly feel, after years of being tucked into the corners of someone else’s life. But will your father care about any of that?

You pull into the driveway and sit there for a moment, your hands trembling faintly over the wheel. The house is quiet. The world is quiet. But inside you, a thousand questions scream to be answered. You wish it could be easy. You wish you could walk through the door, look your father in the eye, and tell him that for once, you chose something for yourself, and that you’re not sorry for it. Instead, you think about how to crack the surface. How to ease into the truth without igniting it like a fuse. Maybe over dinner. Maybe after the game next week, if the mood is good. Maybe if he sees that Jay respects you, if he knows this wasn’t reckless or flippant. Maybe then, Your phone buzzes softly in your bag, drawing you out of the spiral. A message from Jay. “Made it out of bed. Barely. Miss you already.”

And just like that, a smile tugs at your lips. Even in the shadow of what’s to come, he finds a way to make the light reach you. And maybe that’s enough to keep going. To brave the hard conversations. To start telling the truth, piece by piece. You text him back.

“See you at practice, golden boy. ❤️” Then you take a deep breath, open the car door, and step out, each footfall soft and deliberate, like walking a tightrope strung between the memory of last night and the weight of the day ahead.

Practice is a familiar rhythm now, a melody you’ve memorized without meaning to, clipboards and crisp notetaking, laced-up skates echoing against the boards, the low bark of your father’s voice commanding drills like a general at war. You drift through it in your usual way, purposeful and observant, always keeping one eye on movement, posture, the subtle twitches of discomfort or strain in the players’ bodies. You jot things down. You offer suggestions to Jungwon, who takes your advice with a grateful grin and a chuckle. He’s become a good friend, easy to talk to, funny without trying too hard, unbothered by your silences when you’re deep in thought. And today, like most days, he’s helping your father by handing out gear and managing water bottles, moving with that natural rhythm he has, an ease like he was born for this, even if he doesn’t have the bruises or battle scars of the guys on the ice.

But today is different. Not for any visible reason, not for any change in the air, but because Jay is here, and he’s looking at you like you hung the stars he’s been skating under. And you? You’re trying your best not to look back. You fail, of course. Miserably. You catch yourself glancing at him over the rim of your clipboard, pretending to check a stat when in truth you're watching the way his jaw clenches when he’s focused, the way his brows furrow as he lines up a shot. There’s a softness to him now that you know what his kisses feel like. A gravity in the way he moves that you notice only because you’ve seen him at his most unguarded, tangled in sheets and moonlight. Every time your eyes meet, his mouth pulls into a lopsided grin, and once, when your father is turned and barking instructions at Heeseung, Jay has the audacity to wink at you. You nearly drop your pen.

It becomes a game. A subtle, delicious one. Eyes across the rink. Smirks hidden behind hands. He bumps shoulders with Jake and Sunghoon like normal, but every time he skates past your side of the rink, he finds an excuse to glance your way. And though you keep your expression mostly neutral, dutiful, professional, you feel like a teenager sneaking glances at a crush across a crowded cafeteria. There’s something electric in the secrecy of it, something young and stupid and wonderful. Then break is called. Water bottles pop open, helmets are tugged off, and the room settles into temporary chatter. Jay meets your gaze again, this time not playful, not teasing, but something more. A tilt of his head. A quick nod toward the hallway. You blink, then lower your clipboard and move, careful, subtle. You duck past the bench, past Sunghoon and Jungwon chatting near the entrance, and slip into the hallway like you were meant to be there all along.

The moment you round the corner, he’s there, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting hours instead of seconds. He straightens when he sees you, that familiar smile blooming across his face, and before you can say a word, he steps forward and kisses you. It’s fast and warm and a little clumsy from urgency. You make a surprised squeak against his mouth, but the sound dissolves into laughter as you push playfully at his chest. He chuckles, pulling back just enough to look at you, and there’s mischief in his eyes. “I’ve been wanting to do that all practice,” he murmurs, still close enough that you can feel the breath of the words on your lips. You shake your head, heart racing, but your grin is impossible to hide. “I’ve been wanting you to do that all practice.”

He kisses you again, slower this time, like he wants to memorize it, the way you taste like mint gum and something undeniably you. His hands settle at your waist and for a moment it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. There’s no ice, no drills, no clipboard or game or coach waiting to shout your name. There’s just this hallway, and the silence between your joined mouths, and the pulse of something bright and blooming in both your chests. When he finally leans back, brushing his thumb across your cheek, his tone softens. “Did you think more about what we talked about? Telling your dad?”

The smile slips a little from your lips. Not completely; but enough to show the weight of it. You nod, slowly. “Yeah. I think we just need to do it. Rip the bandaid off. Clean, quick, no waiting around for the perfect moment.”

Jay lets out a breath, half-laugh, half-nerves. He leans back against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck. “God. You’re braver than me.”

“You’re the one who said we should tell him.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually agree.” You laugh, but there’s truth nestled in the heart of it. “He’ll get over it,” you say, but the words taste like hope more than certainty. “Eventually.”

He nods. The silence is longer this time, but not uncomfortable. It’s thick with unspoken things, what-ifs and maybes and fears that neither of you are ready to voice yet. Then, from the far end of the rink, your father’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. “Hey! Where’d you go?”

Jay straightens like he’s been electrocuted. You stifle a laugh as he leans in quickly, kisses your temple with exaggerated tenderness, and says, “Guess that’s my cue.” You roll your eyes, turning to follow him back into the rink, but then, like he can’t help himself, he smacks your butt lightly with one hand. You yelp in surprise, twisting back to glare at him, but he’s already walking away, grin stretching wide across his face. He tosses a wink over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

The weight of practice has barely settled into Jay’s muscles before he hears it, his name, sharp and unmistakable, barked across the rink like a slap. “Park!” Coach Bennett’s voice booms above the low hum of skates and post-practice chatter, and it lands like a stone in the pit of Jay’s stomach. He straightens instinctively, spine stiffening, turning his head toward the source. The coach is standing at the threshold of his office, arms crossed, brows low with that permanent scowl etched into his weathered face. It’s impossible to tell if he’s furious or just...being himself. But Jay knows that tone. Knows it too well. It’s the tone that means come here. Now. 

He nods once, respectful, as if he isn’t panicking inside. As if his hands aren’t suddenly clammy and his heart isn’t hammering against his ribs like it wants out. He gives a fleeting glance back toward the ice, where you’re still collecting equipment with Jungwon, your eyes catching his for a moment, just a flicker. He doesn't smile this time. Just turns and walks. The office door clicks shut behind him, sealing out the familiar chaos of the rink. In here, it’s quiet. Sterile. A single desk lamp casts a dim, amber light over the papers scattered on Coach Bennett’s desk. Framed photos of past seasons hang on the walls, championships won, trophies hoisted high, a dozen versions of the same proud scowl that the coach wears now, as he motions silently for Jay to sit.

Jay obeys, lowering himself into the chair like he’s done a hundred times before. But today, the air feels thicker, like it’s pressing down on his chest. He keeps his expression neutral, hands clasped tightly between his knees. Captain’s posture. Soldier’s stance. Coach Bennett doesn’t beat around the bush. “Jay, I’m going to be honest,” he begins, his voice rough as gravel, fingers laced tightly together as he leans forward on the desk. “I’ve heard some rumors.”

Jay’s mouth goes dry. The coach continues, eyes boring into him like a spotlight. “Rumors that someone on this team has been fooling around with my daughter. Even after I forbade it.” Jay blinks, once. The seconds stretch and bend like rubber bands. His throat tightens.

“Do you know anything about this?” He wants to lie. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he wants to rip the words from his chest and lay them out plain. He swallows hard. “No, Coach, I–” But Coach Bennett doesn’t let him finish. He leans back, cutting him off with a raised hand.

“I trust you,” he says, voice suddenly softer. And for a flicker of a moment, a single heartbeat, Jay feels relief. His breath catches on the cusp of hope. Maybe this is his way of saying it’s okay. Maybe he knows, and he’s offering a backdoor blessing. Maybe, just maybe — 

“I trust you,” the coach repeats, voice firm now, “to nip these rumors in the bud.” Jay’s heart stops. “You’re the captain. That means handling this, loudly and clearly. In front of the whole team. If someone is messing around with my daughter, I want to know who. And I want them dealt with.” Jay opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Coach Bennett isn’t finished.

“Whoever it is, if I find out, they’re suspended indefinitely. Until I decide if they ever come back.” He folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t care how good they are. Rules are rules. And I don’t break them for anyone.” Jay’s stomach churns. Then the killing blow. 

“You’re like a son to me, Jay. That’s why I made you captain. I trust you.” Jay tries to swallow the guilt rising like bile in his throat, tries to keep his features smooth and unreadable. But it’s like a knot has formed in his chest, thick and tangled and impossible to ignore. Like a brand seared into his ribs. The kind of pain that doesn’t scream, it smolders.

He nods once. “Yes, Coach. I’ll take care of it.”

The coach leans back in his chair, apparently satisfied. “Good. You’re dismissed.”

Jay stands, body on autopilot, legs heavy as stone. He walks out of the office slowly, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. The air out here feels colder. Sharper. Like the truth is a knife pressed against his neck. He should feel proud. He said the right thing. Wore the right mask. But he doesn’t feel proud. He feels hollow. There’s no ice bath waiting for him now. Only the silent weight of guilt, trailing him like a shadow as he heads for the locker room. And for the first time in years, Jay isn’t sure if he deserves the “C” stitched to his jersey, or the way you look at him like he’s someone worth trusting. Because he’s lying to the only two people who’ve ever mattered. And that lie is starting to rot in his chest.

Practice ends beneath the low hum of fluorescent lights and the faint echo of skate blades scraping against ice, but Jay’s world has long since tilted off its axis. He doesn’t even register the ache in his body anymore, not the dull throb in his knee nor the stiffness in his arms. He’s moving on instinct, eyes only searching for one thing, you. You’re by the bench with Jungwon, laughing at something he said, your hair falling in a way that makes his heart clench. For a moment, Jay forgets the weight in his chest, the pressure behind his eyes. You look so soft in the cold of the rink, a calm tucked away in chaos. He doesn’t have time.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words falling from his lips like lead. You turn to him, confused, eyebrows furrowing, lips parting to ask what he means, but he’s already walking away, like a man marching toward his own execution. And maybe that’s what this is.

He doesn’t glance back as he calls for the team to gather. “Line up,” he shouts, his voice sharp and firm, echoing off the walls. The players shuffle toward him in loose lines, shoving each other, still high off adrenaline from drills. You’re watching now from the sidelines, your clipboard held tightly in your hand, curiosity pinching your expression. Jay forces himself not to look at you. If he does, he’ll lose the will to speak. “I have an announcement,” he begins, loud enough to silence the chatter, his voice ringing out into the stillness. And then the words leave him, like poison.

“There are rumors floating around that someone on this team has disobeyed Coach Bennett’s orders regarding his daughter.” The moment your name hangs in the air, not spoken, but pointed at, like a dagger, everything stops. You freeze, blinking at Jay, disbelief warping across your face like a crack in glass. Your breath catches in your throat. It doesn’t make sense. Is he —?

“She is off limits,” Jay continues, his jaw clenched, every word a betrayal. “If you’re caught with her, you will be suspended pending review by the coach. If he decides you’re no longer necessary to the team, you’ll be removed entirely.” The silence is deafening.

You step forward like your bones are no longer willing to sit back and let this happen. Your face is a map of fury and heartbreak, eyes blazing, jaw trembling. “What the fuck, Jay?” you shout, voice rising like a wave crashing against the shore. “What the hell is this? What are you doing?” He can’t look at you.

You shove past the stunned players and stomp into the center of the rink, your voice climbing in volume, sharp and sure. “I’m not a fucking piece of meat. I’m not something you can pass rules about like I’m property.” Your voice wavers with rage, with disbelief, with the sudden sting of being betrayed not only by your father, but by the boy who kissed you like you were everything. “I’m my own person. You don’t get to control me.”

Coach Bennett’s voice cracks like a whip across the silence. “Rules are rules.”

You spin on him now, eyes flashing, years of buried resentment erupting like magma. “Your rules are bullshit! They’ve always been bullshit. You think you can control everything with a whistle and a clipboard, but you can’t. You were never there for me. You were there for Jaehyun. For hockey. But not for me.” The entire team is frozen. Nobody dares to breathe.

Coach Bennett’s face darkens. “I can’t dictate your life,” he says lowly, “but I can dictate theirs.”

That’s when it snaps. You feel it inside your chest, the last strand of restraint snapping like a violin string under pressure. You look at him, then at Jay, and the pain in your eyes could shatter the ice beneath you. “Go to hell,” you spit, your voice like fire. “All of you.” You throw the clipboard. It hits the ground with a clatter that echoes like a gunshot. And then you turn, storming out of the rink, each footfall hard and fast, your breath shallow, your fists clenched at your sides. No one calls after you. Not even Jay.

He just stands there, alone at the center of the storm he helped create, watching the person he loves disappear through a door he may never be able to open again. And the silence you leave behind is heavier than any punishment Coach Bennett could ever give.

The hallway smelled like stale sweat and antiseptic soap, like frozen water thawing too fast, and your breath came in jagged pieces, lungs aching against your ribcage as you tried to contain everything you felt, humiliation, betrayal, rage. They were blooming in you like rot, black and furious, and you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe. Your fingers were trembling as you pushed open the locker room door, letting the chill of the empty room swallow you whole. It was quieter in here, almost sacred in a way, the clatter and chaos of practice replaced by the muffled hum of old air vents and the distant drip of melting ice. You moved robotically, grabbing your notes, your clipboard, your stupid pens that you didn’t even like, stuffing them into your bag like they’d wronged you personally.

If this internship wasn’t so damn important, if you weren’t so close to the future you’d been clawing toward for years, you’d quit right now. Walk out of this rink, toss your badge in your father’s face, and never look back. But you couldn’t, not yet. How dare he try to dictate your life. And how dare Jay let him? You blinked hard, the sting of unshed tears biting at the corners of your vision. The boy who kissed you like he meant it, who whispered against your skin like you were precious, who looked at you like he was seeing something holy, that boy stood in front of an entire team and threw you under the bus like you were just some distraction. Just some problem to be managed. After everything you’d shared. After what you gave him. The door creaked open.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. The room felt different with him in it, weighted and warm in that way that used to make you feel safe, but now made you want to scream. Jay stood there in silence for a moment, his mouth parted, like the words were caught behind his teeth. His eyes searched your face like he could still find a trace of forgiveness there. Like maybe if he looked long enough, the damage he did might disappear. “I’m sorry—” he started, voice soft, pleading.

You spun around fast, eyes wild, your voice sharp like a blade. “You humiliated me.” He flinched like the word was a slap, but you didn’t stop. “You took his side. After everything we said. After what we did. How could you?” Jay opened his mouth, but nothing came out. No excuses. No explanations. Just silence.

You shook your head, bitterly, lips tight with disbelief as you slung your bag over your shoulder. “Forget it,” you muttered, walking toward the door like you could outrun the hurt. “I should’ve known. I should’ve known better than to think I mattered more than him.”

“Please—” he called out, voice cracking. “Just… let me explain. Please.” You turned to him, hollow laughter spilling from you like a broken song. “Why should I? What I say doesn’t matter, Jay. You’ll just do whatever my dad says anyway.”

He groaned, running a hand down his face like he could pull the guilt off himself. “He’s like a father to me—”

“And he’s my father,” you snapped, your voice rising with the full weight of all the years you’d held this in, “Mine. And he treats me like I’m a fucking ghost. Like I’m not even there unless I’m making his coffee or holding his clipboard. You think it feels good to watch someone who isn’t even his blood get treated like a golden child, while his real child gets nothing? Not praise. Not love. Nothing.” Jay’s face softened with something that looked like heartbreak, his mouth trembling with words he didn’t know how to say. “He cornered me in the office today,” he said, his voice rough. “He demanded I make a statement in front of the team, to put the rumors to rest, and if I didn’t — he made it sound like I’d be finished. What was I supposed to do?” 

“Tell the truth,” you breathed. “You should’ve told the damn truth.” He sighed, defeated, and sat down on one of the benches like the weight of it all had finally caught up to him. His shoulders curled forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging limp.

Then, quietly; so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “I love you.” The air left your lungs. He looked up at you now, and his eyes were nothing like the confident boy you first met on the ice. They were soft, and tired, and afraid. “I know it’s soon,” he said. “I know everything’s a mess. But I do. I love you.” 

Your heart clenched. You hadn’t expected it, not here, not like this, not in the middle of a locker room still echoing with betrayal. But even now, even bleeding, you knew your feelings hadn’t changed. So you sat beside him, your thigh pressed to his, and reached for his hand. “And I hate that he wasn’t a good dad to you,” Jay whispered, his voice cracking. “I hate it. But I can’t lie to him, not after everything. I owe him.”

You nodded slowly. “I agree, Jay. I’m not asking you to lie.” You turned to him, your voice quiet, but firm. “But I won’t be with you if we keep this a secret. I won’t be your dirty little secret. We tell him. Or this ends.”

Jay nodded, gripping your hand tighter. “Okay. Let’s—” A voice cut through the air like a gunshot.

“Too late.” You froze. 

Your head whipped toward the door, and there, standing in the frame like the ghost of a thousand disappointments, was your father. Coach Bennett. Face hard. Shoulders squared. His eyes were sharp and unreadable, but the fire beneath them was unmistakable. Every nerve in your body screamed. Jay stood up slowly, but you didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. It was too late. You didn’t need to tell him. He already knew. The moment felt frozen in amber, suspended between one breath and the next. You stood beside Jay like you were both statues cast in shame and defiance, the silence between the three of you straining at the seams.

His eyes bore into Jay with something colder than ice, sharper than skates on glass. His voice came low and level, but the weight of it dropped like an axe. “I trusted you.” 

Jay didn’t flinch, but you saw the way his eyes dropped, the way his shoulders curled inward slightly like he’d taken the hit straight to the chest. You wanted to speak, to say something, but you felt your pulse in your throat, thick and rising. Jay looked at his shoes, then at your father, then finally at you, his eyes steady, jaw tight. And then, slowly, deliberately, he reached down and took your hand in his. “I love her,” he said. No embellishment, no excuses. Just truth. Laid bare like a wound. “I’m sorry.” For a heartbeat, it almost felt like that might matter. Like maybe love could be enough to change something here.

But your father’s eyes darkened, his lips pulling into a grim, tired line. He didn’t even blink. “You’re suspended.” The air in the room imploded. The silence that followed was so deep it rang in your ears. You felt the earth tilt under your feet, the ripple of that sentence echoing in your bones. You didn’t move. Neither did Jay.

“Dad—” you started, your voice raw.

“No.” The word came fast and sharp, slicing through your protest before it could fully form. He didn’t even look at you. His eyes were still locked on Jay like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You’re suspended,” he repeated, voice like splintering wood. “Until I’m ready to let you back. Heeseung will be acting captain. Now get out of my rink.”

Jay inhaled sharply, something like heartbreak flashing behind his eyes. He opened his mouth, voice trembling with the weight of everything he hadn’t gotten the chance to say. “Coach—”

“Get out.” There was finality in those words. No room for argument. No crack to slip a plea through. Jay stood still for a moment, eyes flicking to you one last time, and there was something in his gaze, something that said I’m sorry. He picked up his bag without a word and walked out, the door shutting softly behind him, the sound so gentle it felt cruel. And then it was just you and your father, the air still vibrating from all that had just broken apart.

You turned toward him slowly, your heart pounding, your face flushed with fury. There was no more space left inside you for restraint, for tiptoeing around his silence or swallowing your feelings like they didn’t matter. “How dare you?” you breathed, your voice a whisper and a scream at once. 

His eyes narrowed, arms crossed over his chest like a fortress. “Rules are rules.” But you weren’t having it. Not now. Not anymore.

“No.” You stepped closer, heat radiating off you like a wildfire. “What is your problem? Why the sudden urge to act like a father now? What, because it finally gives you control over something? Someone?” He didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, his stare hardened, and you could see it, that wall he always kept between the two of you, the one made of pride and coldness and hockey schedules and missed birthdays. 

“This isn’t up for discussion,” he said, like he was reading from a goddamn script.

You scoffed, bitter laughter escaping before you could stop it. “Of course it isn’t. It never is with you. It’s always do this, don’t do that, be quiet, be useful, don’t embarrass me. You never listen to me. You never see me.” He didn’t say anything. Didn’t blink. Just turned back to his desk like he could will you out of the room by ignoring you.

So you did what you always wanted to do. You left. You turned on your heel, your throat burning, your heart thundering, and walked out without another word. Not because you were giving up, but because there was nothing left to say to someone who never heard you in the first place. The door clicked shut behind you with a sound too small for how big this moment felt. And still; through the rage, through the betrayal, through the cracks, you carried one thing with you as you walked: Jay's words echoing soft as snowfall. I love you. That, at least, was still yours.

Jay’s house is quieter than you’ve ever known it to be. The kind of quiet that sinks into your skin, that makes you wonder how long he’s been alone with his thoughts, how long he’s sat in this silence with the weight of your father’s words pressing into his chest like stones. Sunghoon answers the door after only a few knocks, and his face softens when he sees you standing there. There’s something in his gaze that reads like understanding, like he knows exactly where you’re headed and what you need to say. He steps aside without a word and gestures upstairs. “He’s in his room,” he murmurs, voice gentle, as if not to disturb something sacred.

You nod your thanks, offering him a small, grateful smile, and begin to climb the steps. As you approach the top, a sound reaches you, soft, melodic, aching in its simplicity. Not loud or showy. Just… honest. It takes you a second to realize what you’re hearing: music. Guitar strings plucked with care, each note falling like a raindrop into still water. The sound is fragile and deeply personal, like a secret you’re not sure you’re meant to hear. You pause just outside his room, heart slowing to match the rhythm of the melody, and close your eyes for a moment. You let it wash over you, the way it trembles, the way it yearns. It speaks of sadness and of hope, of loss and love all braided into the same fragile thread. You push the door open gently and there he is, Jay, sitting on the edge of his bed, guitar nestled in his lap, his fingers dancing across the frets with a kind of quiet reverence. His brow is furrowed in focus, his lips slightly parted as he hums along, completely unaware that the world is watching. That you are watching. And something in you splinters, because how can someone look so heartbreakingly beautiful in their stillness?

He looks up and startles slightly when he sees you, his cheeks flushing the softest shade of pink like you’ve caught him baring something intimate. He moves to set the guitar down quickly, a sheepish laugh escaping his throat. “I didn’t think anyone was home,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting away.

You step into the room, closing the door behind you. “It was beautiful,” you say softly, like speaking too loudly might break the magic still lingering in the air. He lets out a small breath, almost relieved, but shrugs modestly. “I only play sometimes,” he murmurs. “When it’s quiet. When I need to think.”

You walk closer, until you’re in front of him, your gaze soft but steady. “I’d love for you to play for me sometime,” you say, and you mean it. There’s something deeply vulnerable in the way he held that guitar, something that speaks more truth than words ever could. Jay looks at you then, really looks, and you see the shadows behind his eyes, the questions, the uncertainty, the pain he’s been hiding under that quiet exterior. “Are you okay?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, as if asking it too loudly might cause him to retreat into himself again.

He exhales, his shoulders sinking as he leans back slightly, resting his arms on his knees. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know who I am without hockey.” You nod, understanding that ache all too well, the feeling of being untethered, of having the one thing that defined you ripped away before you were ready to let go. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

But Jay reaches for your hand and shakes his head, his fingers curling around yours with surprising tenderness. “Don’t apologize,” he says firmly. “You didn’t do this. I made the choice. I just… wish it didn’t feel like losing everything.” 

Your heart aches for him, for the boy who’s spent his whole life trying to be good enough for a man who only saw his potential on the ice. You lift his hand to your lips and press a kiss into his knuckles. “I see you,” you say softly. “Even without the jersey. Even without the captain’s C.”

Something flickers in his expression, gratitude, adoration, a flicker of something deeper. He leans in slowly, brushing his lips against yours, tentative at first like he’s afraid you might still be angry, still slipping through his fingers. But you lean into him just as hungrily, and the kiss deepens, your hands finding their way to his hair, his neck, pulling him closer like you never want to be apart again. The guitar is long forgotten, resting gently on the bed as your bodies lean into one another. The heat builds slowly, quietly, in the soft sighs between kisses, in the way his fingers trace along your spine, in the way you fit together so naturally. There’s no rush, no desperation, only the steady, quiet need to be known. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, and you respond with forgiveness, with fire.

The room fills with the sound of breath, of whispered names, of two people trying to love each other through the wreckage. And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, with your heart pounding in tandem, you realize that even in the ashes, something new can grow. That maybe love is the one thing strong enough to stand after everything else falls. 

You lean back only slightly, your lips leaving his. “I have something that might make you feel better.” Your voice carried a heavy lit to it, sultry and sweet. Jay’s eyebrows rose, a playful smirk on his lips. 

“Yeah?” He asks his tongue darting out to lick his lips, his hands finding your waist to pull you impossibly close. “How, so?” 

You fall to your knees in front of him, your hair hanging around you like a veil waiting to be pushed aside. Jay let out a low groan, one that stems deep within his belly — deep and guttarl. He wore grey sweatpants, your nimble hands finding the jaw string to pull at. His eyes drank in every movement. The way you lowered his pants to his ankle, the way you pulled him out of his boxers with a hiss, a small knowing smile on your face. 

“Fuck.” He choked out his hands finding your hair. Your mouth found his tip, sucking slightly. Jay’s eyes fluttered a shaky breath leaving his lips as he gathered your hair into a tight ponytail, tugging just lightly. “Agh fuck.” 

His groans were only encouragement for your movements, a rhythm settling in as you bobbed your head up and down on his shaft. The hand that wasn’t holding your hair, settled on your cheeks as his fingers grazed the indentation of himself inside your mouth. “Don’t stop.” He praised, his grip on your hair tightening “Don’t fucking stop, i’m close.” 

You speed your movements up — a gag in the back of your throat sounding over the harshness of Jay’s ragged breath and gurgling moans. “Where do you want it, baby?” He asked you. You nodded at him, signaling for him to finish in your mouth and that he did. His eyes squeezing shut, his hand yanking at your hair like it was a lifeline. He came down your throat – hot. You pulled away, your breath harsh swallowing all that he gave you. 

“Did that help?” You smirked, whipping your mouth with the back of your head. Jay laughs his head lazily, nodding a smile on his face. “I’m glad.” 

The morning is crisp and cold, the sky still tinted with the faded gray of pre-dawn. The air bites at your cheeks as you walk across the familiar parking lot, one last time. You’ve arrived early, earlier than anyone else, before the team, before Jay, even before the locker rooms have truly come alive. The hum of the arena is low and steady, the kind of hush that exists only in those sacred minutes before the world begins to move again. You clutch the envelope in your hand tightly, the edges slightly curled from how many times your fingers have clenched it overnight. It holds not just a few simple documents, but the manifestation of your decision, your first true act of defiance not rooted in emotion but in intention. Your choice. You make your way through the maze of hallways you know by heart, each echo of your footsteps reverberating off the walls like a goodbye. When you reach the door to your father’s office, you hesitate for just a second. Your fingers hover over the woodgrain, and you let out a slow breath, steeling yourself. Then, you knock.

The door opens shortly after, and your father blinks in surprise when he sees you. He’s not dressed in his usual suit and tie just yet, still in his fleece-lined warm-up gear, clipboard tucked under one arm. You hand him the envelope without a preamble. Your voice is level, your gaze steady. “I need you to sign these.” 

He furrows his brow, flipping the envelope open and scanning the first page. “What’s this?” 

You don’t flinch. “They’re transfer papers. I’ve accepted an intern position with the university across town. Their hockey program offered me a place to work starting tomorrow.” The silence is sharp and immediate. His eyes snap up to meet yours, laced with confusion, the beginning edge of protest in his throat. “You’re transferring? You don’t have to do that. This is rash. You’re not thinking clearly.”

But you don’t budge, don’t shrink under his stare. You won’t be talked down from this cliff. “No,” you say calmly, each word deliberate, crystalline. “I’ve thought about it a lot. This isn’t just about what happened with Jay. This is about years of feeling small around you. Of being overlooked. Of being managed instead of raised.” He opens his mouth again, some protest half-formed on his lips, but you don’t give him the space. You don’t come here for a fight, you’ve had enough of those. Instead, you keep your tone measured, professional. You say everything you need to say without a single trace of venom.

“I won’t let you ruin my life more than you already have,” you tell him. “I’m not your soldier. I’m not your project. I’m not a pawn on your team board. I’m your daughter.” And for the first time, you see something flicker behind his eyes; not anger, not frustration. Something quieter. Smaller. Maybe even guilt. But you don’t wait to hear what he has to say. You simply turn and walk away, papers left behind on his desk like a verdict. Your spine is straight, your chin lifted, but your heart pounds like a war drum in your chest. Not from fear, but from the quiet, powerful rush of choosing yourself. You don’t pause. You don’t look back. And behind you, in the stillness of that office, your father is left alone, left with the papers, with the silence, and with the heavy weight of everything he’s done to bring you here.

It had been a week of something close to heaven, a fragile but precious interlude where love bloomed without restraint. Mornings tangled in soft sheets and half-spoken promises, afternoons chasing sunlight and teasing kisses, evenings curled into each other like pages of the same chapter. Jay held your hand like it was sacred, touched your face like he still couldn’t believe you were real, and kissed you like he wanted to make time stop. And for a while, it did. For a week, the world outside didn’t matter. But the silence had started to hum. Not the sweet kind, no, this was the brittle, broken silence of something missing. You caught it in the way Jay paused when the boys group chat lit up with win updates, locker room jokes, team photos without him in them. He never said it aloud, never dared to pull at the thread unraveling slowly in his chest, but you could see it. He missed it. Hockey wasn’t just a sport to Jay; it was his identity, his language, the thing he’d bled and bruised and burned for since he was old enough to grip a stick. And now, stripped of it, he smiled with his mouth but never fully with his eyes.

You missed it, too. The chill of the rink, the warm camaraderie of the team, the way Heeseung grumbled every time you corrected his posture but secretly appreciated it. You missed teasing Sunghoon, calling him a ballerina every time he accidentally twirled like a figure skater on a bad turn. And then there was your father, a ghost in the hallways of your heart, haunting the edges of your mind. As much as his choices hurt, as much as his anger pushed you away, there was still a child inside you who missed their dad, no matter how absent. 

So when the boys decided to have a barbecue that Saturday, burgers sizzling on the grill, laughter echoing through the backyard, bottles of soda clinking together like makeshift champagne, it felt like breathing again. The world righted itself for a moment. Heeseung and his girlfriend were playfully arguing over the best way to season corn, Sunghoon was making a mess of the grill, smoke billowing in a way that made Jake dramatically declare they were “all going to die,” and Jay, your Jay, was watching you with soft eyes and Sera babbling in his lap, gripping his thumb with her tiny hand. You leaned into the warmth, into the joy, just as your phone rang. 

The screen lit up: Mom. Your heart stumbled. You hadn’t heard from her in a while, she was always somewhat removed, orbiting your life like a distant moon. Not unloving, but not present either. Always polite. Always brief. Her voice on the other end of the line was calm, collected, and surprisingly direct. “I’d like you and Jay to come to the rink,” she said. “Just the two of you.” The words hit you sideways, strange and off-kilter. You blinked at the grill smoke, at the glow of the afternoon sun casting long golden rays across the yard. Jay noticed your expression, his brows furrowing in gentle concern.

“Why?” you asked your mother, confused. “Why the rink?”

She didn’t explain, not really. “I think it’s time,” she said instead. “Please.” 

And somehow, despite every piece of your rational mind screaming confusion, your heart said yes. Not because you knew what waited at that cold rink. But because something inside you, some sliver of hope still left unspoken, whispered that maybe, just maybe, the ice didn’t have to be a battlefield forever. So you turned to Jay, hand still wrapped around your phone, and told him. “She wants to meet us at the rink.”

His face mirrored your own disbelief. But he didn’t ask why. He just nodded. And said, “Okay.”

The sky is beginning to gray by the time you and Jay reach the rink, that familiar stretch of parking lot empty and echoing beneath your footsteps. The glass doors hiss open, letting out a breath of cool, sharp air that prickles against your skin like old memories. The sound of skates against ice, the steady drone of a Zamboni finishing its last lap, the scent of chilled rubber and piney disinfectant; it's all the same, unchanged, and yet nothing is the same at all. 

Jay squeezes your hand as you walk in, and you squeeze back, his warmth grounding you. You keep expecting to see your mother, her sleek coat, her warm expression, her sunny voice carrying across the echoing lobby, but when you step fully inside, it's not her standing under the buzzing fluorescents. It’s him. Your father. You freeze. Rage unfurls in your chest, slow and molten. You turn immediately, heels pivoting toward the exit with cold finality, but Jay is quicker; he gently catches your wrist, his voice soft, pleading. “Just… stay. Please. Hear him out.”

And you don’t know why, but something in his tone, in the quiet steadiness of his gaze, makes you stay. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Or maybe it’s hope, shriveled but not yet dead. Your father’s shoulders look heavier than you remember. There’s a strain to his face, like he’s been carrying something too long. And when he speaks, it’s not the usual bark of orders or that razor-edge tone laced with judgment, it’s low. Gentle. Sincere.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words hit you like the crack of a puck against the glass.

You blink. “What?”

He nods slowly, eyes on you with something startlingly close to regret. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “For everything. For… not being there the way I should have. For choosing the game over you. For being too proud to see what was right in front of me.” You don’t know what to say. This is the man who turned away when you cried, who praised your brother's goals but never your straight A’s, who ran drills longer than dinners and could name every stat in the league but forgot your favorite color. And now he's standing here, shoulders sagging, saying sorry like it costs him everything. 

“I lost my daughter,” he continues, voice gruff with the weight of what he’s admitting. “And I lost the best player I ever coached. The best captain I ever trusted.” He glances at Jay, who stands beside you, spine stiff but eyes glistening. “It was like a slap in the face,” your father murmurs. “And I deserved it.”

Silence settles, a snowfall between you all. “I wish I could go back,” he says. “Wish I could change a lot of things. But I can’t. I can only move forward. And moving forward means trying to be better. Not just as a coach. As a father.” Your eyes are glassy now, throat tight. You look at Jay, and he’s watching you; not your father, not the rink, but you, like you’re the only one that matters in the world. 

Your voice comes out small, trembling around truth. “Jay makes me happy.”

And that’s when your father finally turns to him, arms crossed like a coach, but not unkind. “Then I want you to be with him. If he treats you right.” Jay blinks, startled, then nods quickly, a smile breaking slowly over his face like dawn cresting the horizon. Your father lifts a brow, his voice tinged with dry humor now. “If he doesn’t… he’ll regret it.”

Laughter bubbles up, genuine and breathless. You laugh, and Jay laughs, and even your father chuckles, shaking his head like he’s only just beginning to understand what it means to let go of the past and step into something new. And in that moment, everything shifts. Not completely. Not perfectly. But enough. You walk out of the rink hand in hand with Jay, the weight in your chest lighter than it’s felt in years. The past is behind you. The cold can’t touch you. And ahead lies only the warm unfolding of a future finally, finally your own. 

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

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

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

@guapgoddees @demigodmahash @cloud-lyy @heesky @ikaw-at-ikaw @shuichi-sama @shawnyle @kwhluv @iarainha @ikeuwoniee @mora134340 @firstclassjaylee

[oddlylovingaddiction]

; Coming Full Circle

Part 1: Here , Part 2: Here , Part 3: You’re here! , Part 4: Here , Part 5: Here

CW: Reader is pregnant BUT is gender neutral only being referred to as you, if you don't have the ability to get pregnant you do now (in this series). Neglected reader x (platonic.) bat family. Reader is probably around in your 20s (21 - 25) and is the 5th(??) oldest.

TW: Past abuse in the form of emotional neglect/abuse, pregnancy, panic attacks and angst

After passing out from the emotions of the shopping trip you woke up to your warm bed. It seems someone (other than Damian, he was too small to carry an adult.) had placed you on your bed, removed your shoes and removed anything that would snag or choke you in your slumber as well, it seems they also left your shopping bags at the foot of your bed. You were starting to wonder if that shopping tripped really ending up helping you because now it’s 12:32 at night and you’re texting your husband you were supposedly not talking to and you felt unbelievably drained from all that crying you did. Usually you’d cry in his arms while he comforts you so perhaps that’s why your reaching out to him.

You:

I’m fine. And I’m safe just need some space

Him:

I want to give that to you but I’m just nervous not knowing where you are.

You can feel a headache coming on, perhaps from the crying, the fact you were still in your day clothes and from the fact he was so insistent on your location, fair enough, you disappeared with almost nothing on you and also, in his eyes, randomly one day with no signs that you would be away from him for so long. You choose to turn off your phone and just lay there. Honestly it’s all too much. These hectic phew days seeing your family again has been overwhelming. You can’t lie and say you aren’t enjoying the attention but at the same time you feel this gnawing feeling in your chest. The lingering in the back of your mind being ‘Is this all real? Was the years of neglect real or did I imagine it all? Has everyone always cared I didn’t notice?’ and arguably the most significant reason to you ‘what was the reason for it all?’

You can feel your mind start spiralling and you begin to feel sick. You hate it all. Hate being aware of everything all at once. Hate the almost never ending unanswered questions.

You quickly get up shaking your head gently refusing to let it completely overwhelm you, grabbing some PJs you change into as you do. They smell like your him, you both use the same detergent so it always reminds you of each other. You then slide on your slippers as you walk to the kitchen to get a late night snack. You’ve been have some pregnancy cravings but nothing super weird surprisingly, like pickles and peanut butter.

In the kitchen you search for some of your favourite snacks to eat lately, unfortunately there’s none left so you settle for some fruit you like, not as tasty like the ones you have at home but decent enough. The moonlight comes through the kitchen window making you think once again as you bite into the succulent fruit while you lean against the marble kitchen counters. The night is quiet, perfect for unwelcomed overthinking.

‘I wonder what would’ve happened if I stayed here?’

‘What would’ve happened if I never had gotten pregnant?’

The worst thought of all though was; ‘is this sudden affection from everyone in this manor only because of the baby?’

You love your baby you do but you’d hate for all this affection to be just for the child. You are your family’s child first and all you want is for them to love you as you and not for the child you carry.

You feel a slight buzz in your pyjama pocket. You’ll have to deal with your true family before your second, and right now part of your true family is worried about you.

Him:

Please talk to me, my love.

You pause sighing, perhaps if you were raised in a healthy family you could’ve grown up to handle conflict better. Maybe you would still be there with him in your shared home. No point in lamenting about it though.

You:

I’m here sorry I needed to take a break, I was getting overwhelmed.

Him:

Thats okay I’m sorry… I’m just scared

Your husband has always been kind and patient with you even when you found even yourself difficult. Of course he makes mistakes, but he never hurts you and he would never emotionally abandon you like this cursed family did and yet here you were abandoning him, thinking about that makes you wince slightly.

You:

That’s fair… I’m sorry.

Ever since our last argument I’ve been struggling a bit. I know it seems minor but the fact we disagreed on something so small but important around our child is scary. Because what happens next?

All your thoughts spill out as you type, like an overflowing fountain, speaking of fountains you can feel your eyes fill up with tears as you type.

Will we continue to argue about every small thing, like on how to parent our child? Will you get tired if we just continuously disagree and fight? What happens when the baby comes, if I’m like this now will I really be a good parent? Can I even love when I was raised without it?

Your sweet husband knows everything about your childhood and you know everything about his. He never once judged or blamed you for the trauma you endured, he was always on your side.

Him:

I know you’re scared, my love. but one disagreement doesn’t mean our marriage will fall apart, raising a life can be scary but that’s why we are doing it as a team and not as individuals.

I’ll never get tired of you, I intend to stay true to our marriage vows and love you in sickness and in health. I’ll never be tired of you and I won’t be tired of the baby because I love you both. Also you will be a good parent, I know it. Just because you may have been raised without love and care doesn’t mean you can’t love and care anymore, you’re married to me and you love me just fine.

Don’t doubt yourself so much. Thinking so big about everything all at once is bound to get you overwhelmed.

You can almost hear his naggy voice lecturing you towards the end making you giggle softly.

You:

Youer right I’m sorry. I love you so much ♡

God I feel like a fool right now.

Him:

My fool ♡

Now go to sleep I can tell you’re about to pass out because you spelt you’re wrong

Also I bet the reason you stayed away from me for so long is you were too embarrassed

Shit! He caught you. You should’ve known better but he can practically see through you sometimes so you don’t know why you’re surprised. You laugh softly and hang your head slightly at the fact you can still feel the connection when you’re both apart. It’s a testament that you both are truly blessed with one another.

You:

Will do, love you again. Also your bet was right, I’ll text you my location tomorrow so you can pick me up.

Him:

Looking forward to it ♡

You yawn after he sends his last text for tonight, he was right all anxiety has left you with a giant puddle of sleepiness. You eat the last slice of your fruit, wash your hands in the kitchen sink, then finally you walk back to bed.

You’ve never walked around so late it’s almost eerie how quiet it all is, when you were younger you were afraid monsters would get you as sometimes you heard weird noises when you did try to venture outside your room.

Perhaps you should’ve looked around at night more because then you wouldn’t be lost, wandering around a large manor in a sleepy haze, desperate to get back to bed. “Office…?” You mumble looking into rooms for the staircase so you could get to your room to no avail.

Somehow you end up in Bruce’s study, that he once expressed you weren’t supposed to go into at any point, normally you’d listen, it was just an office after all but the sleep made you bold as you step in.

The room in your sleepy vision was normal.

Minus the bookcase behind the desk which was moved to the side to reveal a staircase going down. The shock of the weird bookcase and stairs going down sobered you up from your sleepy haze.

“Wait.. we had a basement?”

You crept down the dark stairwell, the only way you knew where you were going is because of the small lights that lined the walls as you descended. The stairs and the walls weren’t old and rickety for a secret passage, they were what looked to be sold black iron all around minus the matching black carpet going down the middle of the stairs.

“This isn’t weird at all…” you mumble sarcastically to yourself.

You can’t decide what would be worse a creepy old staircase that looks like it lead to a dungeon or a staircase that looks like it would lead you to something like a room for experiments. Either way it felt like you were about to witness something you shouldn’t have seen.

If only you knew how right you were.

Finally you reached the end of the stairs, if you were even still a tiny bit sleepy that terribly long walk down got rid of it. You walk a wide corridor, what looks to be different entrances to rooms line the walls. You want to open one and check but your body pushes you to continually walk forward.

Once you reach the end you see two see-through automatic doors, when you step past one you panic as you’re sprayed down with what you can only assume are chemicals. One you step through the other, you’re greeted with a very large cave.

A cave full of shit you’d never find in a cave, like cars and, sitting in the middle of the very big cave, what looks to be a giant computer.

Alarm bells ring in your head, this definitely wasn’t for you to see. But those alarm bells and everything else in your head quickly dies when you see Bruce, Dick and Alfred walking towards you talking amongst themselves.

You wouldn’t feel this sudden horrifying pit in your stomach if that was it.

No. If that was it you’d be fine. But instead Dick and Bruce were in costumes.

Not just any costumes but Batman and Nightwing costumes.

‘No.’

‘There’s just no way.’

‘This is a joke.’

But you knew it wasn’t when Alfred looked ahead and met your eyes, his face paling at the realization of you standing there and that’s all you needed to turn and run.

You run back to the see-through doors, down the black hallway and up the black stairs. You are pretty sure you can hear yelling but you can’t hear it over the sound of your own breathing as you hyperventilate.

Everything you knew about your family has come crashing down. What was real? Who else knew? No, they all must’ve known. It makes sense that everyone in this family knew but you. Which other superhero was secretly your family member?

Your vision blurs from tears. They were superheros. Saving EVERYONE. EVERYDAY. But they could forget your birthdays, they could forget your existence. Watching your brothers and sisters celebrate their birthdays all together as a happy family and Bruce, your DAD, YOUR BIOLOGICAL DAD couldn’t find time to get you a different gift each year.

Everywhere feels unsafe, all you could do was run to the living room before you could feel the air in your throat get stuck from how quick you were breathing. The tears blurring your vision.

You quickly pull out your phone and quickly open your messages, your hand shaking as you click on your husband’s contact before sending him your location along with a single line saying ‘help’. You need to leave here fast no where feels safe. Everything feels fake.

As this is all happening you hear people call your name, through your tears you could make out Bruce and Dick.

“Hey hey hey let’s just calm down… it’s not a big deal! And what you saw wasn’t what it looked like.” Dick starts his own voice sounding unsure.

“N-not a- A BIG DEAL?” You manage to choke out and scream.

“Don’t be this way.” Bruce coldly glares at your reaction.

“DON’T BE THIS WAY?” You yell again, you’re pretty sure the entire manor is awake now from your cries. “You… you don’t get to tell me that.” You hiss through tears.

“Tell me, Bruce Thomas Wayne. Who else knows.” You ask slowly and carefully, voice full of spit.

There’s a silence before Bruce speaks up, “the… entire family knows.”

You go to laugh but before you can he adds on, “Because they’re all vigilantes too, we never told you because we wanted you to live a normal life...”

His voice fades away as the world around you shatters, a seemingly innocent illusion of a neglectful family has cracked and revealed a family who purposefully isolated you from themselves because they decided to choose for you that you’ll live a life full of wondering what you did so wrong to deserve this.

Your own father decided to tell the kids that aren’t even related to him to become heroes with him but here you were his biological child and yet he decided you weren’t worth it all.

You gently crumpled onto the floor.

Right before your husband decides to make a flashy entrance by shattering the living room window.

[cherryredstarz]

Cherries 🍒

A/n: more nasty Caleb ☺️aka Caleb popping your cherry

Cw: NSFW, fingering (f receiving), unprotected piv sex (wrap it before you tap it), a little blood, fluff, aftercare, petnames

Your Grandma was going to be away for the night—out visiting a close friend. Which left Caleb in charge of you at the house. He made your favorite braised chicken wings for dinner, and now you both were fooling around on the couch while watching a Disney movie.

“Caleb!” You giggle, dropping some pink confetti into his hair; you’d just celebrated your eighteenth birthday a couple days before. Caleb shakes his head like a wet dog while grinning. “What? Can’t handle being tickled by your gege?” The nineteen year old pulls you onto his lap and playfully bites at your neck.

You squeal and swat at his chest, before nestling into his warmth. You’re wearing one of his old shirts from highschool—it smells so comforting, like him. Burrowing your face into his neck, you inhale softly. “What’s all that for?” Caleb flicked your nose, albeit gently.

“Ya’ smell good.” You mumble.

“Yeah?” He squishes your cheeks together, like a pufferfish, before pressing a quick peck on your lips. You return to watching the movie, but it isn’t long before you feel a certain someone’s hands wandering down your hips to the bottom of your teeshirt. “What are you doing?” You tilt your head back at him. “Nothing.” He smirks, his fingertips brushing against the dainty lace of your panties.

You nearly gasp when his fingers slip under your panties, and begin to gently circle your clit. “C-Caleb!”

“Shh, Pipsqueak. Let me take care of my girl, yeah?” He mutters against your ear before giving your cheek another soft kiss. You both stay their like that, him leisurely rubbing your poor little bud while you leak into your underwear. Nobody’s ever touched you like this before, and Caleb is playing you like a fiddle.

You mewled and tried not to squirm as a strange, unfamiliar sensation began to fill your belly, and tried to keep your thighs still when they threatened to jerk. Then his hands creep lower, lazily stroking your pussy lips, and gathering all the slick that’s pooled in your slit. “C-Caleb—mph—”

“Caleb’s gonna take care of you.” He nipped at your neck before pushing a finger into you. You whimper and clench at the unfamiliar feeling. “Relax baby. Deep breaths for me.” He lazily pumps his fingers in and out of you. You moan into his neck, your thighs clenching around his hand. “Caleb—m’ tummy feels tight—” you’d never orgasmed before.

“Just let it happen. It’s okay baby.” He coos, and grins as you moan and for the first time, cum around his fingers. “Good girl.” He kisses your nose and gently wiped sweat from your forehead before sticking his wet fingers into your mouth. Whining, your tongue swirls around the digit. You taste…sweet.

Before you know it, you find Caleb had you laying on your back on the couch, and Caleb was tugging off your panties, and pulling down his pajama pants. “C-Caleb—I’ve never done this before..” you whisper, and he just gives you a little kiss. “I’ll take care of you, huh? When has your gege ever steered you wrong?”

Multiple times, you think, but your mind goes blank seeing the size of Caleb’s dick. Huge. “T-That’s not going to fit inside me.” You stammer.

“I’ll make it fit, okay?” He assures you. It takes two tries, but he lines up and gently thrusts inside you. You gasp, whimpering at the sharp pain. He does a few gentle thrusts, and the pain eases to a dull ache and the beginnings of pleasure bubbles in your belly.

“Popped your cherry, huh, pipsqueak?” Caleb’s hands gently massage your breasts. Your eyes flicker to where his were at—a tiny bit of blood on the base of his dick. You whimper, but he hushed you with a kiss. “It’s okay. It’s normal baby.” Caleb begins lazily thrusting—it feels so good.

2 hours later you’ve squirted and cummed more times that you can count, and you’re seeing stars as Caleb pounds your poor, abused hole. “C-Caleb—” you don’t even sound like yourself anymore; just a poor, wanton mess.

“So tight baby..” he moans, leaving another dark hickey on your neck. How are you going to hide these from Grandma?

Caleb moans as he blows another load into you; cum leaking from your weeping pussy. “Such a good girl, huh?” He kisses your cheek before easing out of you. Caleb puts his boxers and sweats back on before disappearing in the bathroom, and returning with a warm wash rag, and fresh pair of panties, and a clean teeshirt of his. Caleb gingerly wipes down your thighs and soaked cunt, and carefully redresses you.

“My girl, huh?” He carries you to bed and snuggled close.

“Love you Caleb..” you babble before passing out.

“I love you too, pipsqueak.”

[sugurizz]

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐬, 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐬, 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐬 ✧ Feat. JJK MEN

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ── Jjk Men in their -real- Daddy era. (Am I secretly having a baby fever LMAOO)

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 ── fluffy stuff, pure wholesomeness and affectionate dads.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢

It's safe to say that sometimes you're raising two babies - only one of them is a big buff pouty one.

Daddy Toji sneaks to the kitchen in the middle of the night, leaving you both sleeping in your shared bedroom and then slowly closes the door. He promised himself he'd only take one *unnoticeable* spoon of your newborn's baby formula but ends up stuffing his face with the forbidden powder in the heat of the moment. He tries his best to hide his tracks by shoving the tin somewhere far in the cupboard.

He *oddly* always makes sure to be the one preparing his baby's bottle the next day - 'Oh darling, don'tcha move a muscle...I'll be right back with our baby's breakfast!'

You smile and raise a brow, already suspecting something. Daddy Toji is not much of a morning person. much less when it comes to baby chores...

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

Gojo is always there whenever you change your baby's diaper. He keeps laughing and giggling like a 6 year old, curiously learning from his baby momma how to take care of his little child. His sky blue eyes are staring at your skilled hands, handling your precious little one with infinte care. He keeps smiling in awe, chuckling every time your baby farts and making the funniest faces just to make them giggle.

He takes a million pictures of his baby every day; we're talking his whole camera roll is just his baby's face, cutesy hands, tiny feet, smiling, eating, sleeping on daddy's chest, drooling on his shoulder...the list never ends.

His baby looks so smol when he holds it in his huge hands. He has to bend all the way down just so he could pick them up cause obviously my dude is the tallest man ever.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐍𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢

He'd take full care of your newborn just to see you rest and relax. He told you to teach him everything he needs to know so that he'd be perfectly fit for his new -and best ever- occupation; your baby father. He's got however only one pet peeve; getting his little one to burp after feeding them.

The reason? He was doing it once, holding the baby while gently patting its back...until he suddenly felt a warm liquid slithering down his shirt - the expensive one you dearly gifted him on your wedding anniversary- and to his surprise it was none other than his little one's vomit dripping down his shoulder...

Now he makes sure you hold a napkin behind him whenever he does it.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨

He's by far the chillest Daddy EVER. Carries his little one whenever he goes. Gets super jealous when your baby starts calling for you, or wants you to hold them instead of him. He's determined to make them say 'daddy' first, but deep down knows it'd melt his heart when he sees the little version of him utter mommy's name for the first time.

Staying awake at night putting his baby to sleep just so you can get your full nightly rest is something he'd never miss out on. He hates seeing you tired or sleepy and puts both of your needs before anything else.

Daddy Geto is always calm and smiley, no matter how much mess his baby makes or how long it'd take for him to clean it up - sometimes makes you seriously wonder how he manages to be so damn chill all the time.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚

For a husband twice your size with four arms and eyes he sure should take most care of your little offspring - He does tbf - His baby is always laying somewhere on his body or at least near him; sleeping against his chest, nibbling on his thumb, drooling on the side of his shoulder or sitting on his huge lap.

He's got a 6th sense whenever it comes to his baby being hungry, thirsty, sleepy or needing anything at all. Instantly knows the reason why his little one is crying and most of the time is very quick to make them happy again.

Absolutely hates poopie smell and calls them a brat whenever he senses their diaper getting heavier. 'Aggh you little runt!' You can't help laughing at him getting overwhelmed with such a tiny thing and start teasing him over it.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐘𝐮𝐮𝐭𝐚

There's nothing that Yuuta loves more than children. He has always wanted to have kids and couldn't wait to create his very first and own one with you. He's in LOVE with seeing you taking care of them; almost admiring every move and every word you say. He smiles like an idiot whenever he sees you holding your baby, breastfeeding them, playing with them or even laying next to them.

His favorite game is to hide somewhere in the house and let his little one look for him. He does it so suddenly and quickly, leaving them puzzled with big round eyes - comes out of his hideaway when they start sobbing and laughs at their little red nose and pouty cheeks.

'Aww why is my little cupcake cryiiing?...Daddy's right here!'

[cordidy]

Just needed to get this out of my head after Sylus's Myth so i hope you like it :)

TW : drunk MC, fluff, it's sad I guess ? No proof read cause i'm a savage, english is not my mother tongue

“......tail ?” 

“What did you just say kitten ?” Sylus asked, gently patting the back on your thigh while steadying you on his shoulder as you exited the elevator together, .

At first he had been quite surprised to receive your call.

Even more so when you bluntly asked him if he would be ok playing bodyguard and keep an eye on you while you indulged in a night of carefree debauchery at the club but hey, who was he to judge ? 

Besides, if you felt safe enough to be in such a vulnerable state around him, going as far as trusting him with your safety and your apartment key to make sure you would make it back safe and sound, he was not going to complain.

“I….I said…ooooh that spins…do…do you ever miss your tail ?” you repeated, your voice tired and slurred, words barely comprehensive despite your best effort.

Sylus couldn’t help the chuckle that came as you poked his lower back through his jacket.

You really were wasted…

But you had a good reason !

Your week has been shitty as hell.

Your nights were even worse lately, barely getting a couple hours of sleep only to wake up either with a sore throat, screaming or crying at something you could not recall.

And, on top of that, you were off duty as Zayne decided you needed a break and refused to sign your abilitation.

“Come on Zayne, look, I’m fiiiiiiiiine” you tried to convince him with a huge smile and so much concealer on your face you could open your own makeup shop.

“As your physician I cannot let you go on field with such results” he retorted not even looking away from your chart “You should be dead with such a high blood pressure”

“I’m a tough cookie !”

“And you’re going to have to stay in the jar until these get better. You’re not only a danger for yourself right now but also for your partner”

That was a low blow but he had a point.

Clearly, you needed a break, something to unplug your brain, something fun, a good night out to leave all your problems behind and get shitfaced to oblivion. What you did not need though was the unwanted attention a young woman alone at the club would probably get and, while you were very capable of handling those kinds of situations, you did not really want to have to be on the lookout constantly or end up in a cell for assault.

You tried Tara, back to her family for the Holidays.

Simone ? Night shift.

Xavier….doing God knew what God knew where….

So, with a heavy heart you picked up your phone and called your secret weapon…

“Not necessary,” Sylus finally answered in a calm, composed voice, as he opened your apartment door, being extra careful as to not bump you in the doorframe. Based on the current humming coming from you right now and your kicking feet, your head was already going to kill you tomorrow.

Better not add “commotion” to the list of your impending issues.

“To be honest, being half human half cat was quite annoying” he admitted, walking you toward your bedroom to tuck you into bed. “I don’t like not being in control of myself and beside, it was bad for business to be away from the N109 zone for so long...although…I kind of enjoyed having to hide here and spend time with you…” he added with his signature smirk, poking your side before tossing you onto the bed, making you giggle like an idiot as you plopped on your back. It was the first time you allowed him into your room and, although he did plan on being a gentleman despite what you could think of him when sober, he couldn’t help the loving smile on his face as he watched you mumble something about a potato bag while fighting with your plushies for room.

“I miss you tail” you retorted in your drunk voice, closing your eyes in hopes it would help with the dizziness while Sylus started to remove your shoes and socks.

“I quite remember you telling me how insufferable it was” the man said in a collected tone while making his way to the kitchen once he was done. 

“Yeah but it was sooooo pretty…I miss how you used it to grab me with it and…and toss me around ! That was funny !” you laughed, mimicking being tossed around like a ragdoll in the middle of your plushies as Sylus was coming back in your room, a glass of water in his hand.

He stopped in his tracks, a puzzled look on his face.

“I never use my cat tail to...toss you around” he corrected. His Evol, yeah, on a daily basis at some point actually, just to annoy you and enjoy those little lovely sounds coming from your mouth, threats mostly.

He had not been able to use it at all during the time those damn kittens from Hell had turned him into one of them though.

Your foggy brain did not hear him though and just kept mumbling in your drunken state, propping yourself on your elbows, trying to focus your gaze on him.

“You would think scales are cold and harsh…” you started, raising a finger to look all serious before falling back onto your pillow, not registering the look of surprise on his usually steady face.

“Kitten wh…” his voice was faltering as he looked at you getting all comfy like you had not just shaken his world upside down with your words.

“...but it was sooooo soft and sooooo warm…” you continued, grabbing your pillow to hold on tight as if you were looking for said warmth. 

Your voice was starting to fade as sleep was settling in.

“...felt safe when you wrapped it around me…I kept holding mine to sleep after…but…”

The glass in his hand fell to the ground, shattering as he froze in place, eyes wide open in shock. 

“…it was not…not the same…” you mumbled before losing consciousness, your body going limp against your pillow, before starting to snore.

______________________________________________________________ Pssssst, you liked it ? P2 is already up here :) https://www.tumblr.com/cordidy/770227784125677568/a-few-days-ago-i-wrote-this?source=share

[yawnderu]

Colonel!König x Reader

Colonel!König, who knew he wanted to marry you the moment he saw you come back from your first mission, covered head to toe in blood and dirt, yet as beautiful as ever.

Colonel!König, who makes enough money to spoil you with anything you'd ever want, and that's how he managed to win you over.

Colonel!König, who knew just how inappropriate your relationship was, yet all his morals went out the window for you.

Colonel!König, who always looked out for you in the battlefield despite knowing just how capable you are. There's a reason you were recruited for KorTac, anyway.

Colonel!König, who used his experience in the battlefield to teach you new techniques that could save your life when he wasn't on missions with you. He couldn't risk losing you.

Colonel!König, who took advantage of his rank for the first time ever to spend more time with you. Whether it was asking you to assist him with reports or inventory, he'd always have you by his side.

Colonel!König, who was teased about his little crush on you by Horangi, earning him a dirty look through the mask.

Colonel!König, who painfully had to hide his crush on you in fear of rumors going around and damaging your career.

Colonel!König, who allowed you to work hard for your promotion and didn't have anything to do with it, simply to show just how capable you are.

Colonel!König, who took you out for dinner and shopping after your promotion was announced, hiding it under the excuse that it's what a good colonel should for his soldiers.

Colonel!König, who seemed very polite the entire time of your day together despite the turmoil in his head.

Colonel!König, who practiced in the mirror how to start and keep a conversation with you despite communication being one of his strengths.

Colonel!König, who held in his laughter once your confused face looked up at him, not recognizing him without the mask and eyeblack.

Colonel!König, who had the best day of his life with you, buying you anything you even glanced at despite your protests.

Colonel!König, who was brave enough to put his hand on the inside of your thigh when he was driving you back to base.

Colonel!König, who was growing painfully hard when you made his hand cup your crotch.

Colonel!König, who had two of his massive fingers inside your dripping cunt, his cock already out as you jerked him off with expertise, happy that the ride back to base was long and lonely.

Colonel!König, who had to resist the urge to cum when your tongue was swirling circles on the tip of his dick as you jerked him off, bent over in the passengers seat.

Colonel!König, who insisted on taking you to a nice hotel for your first time together, wanting to make a special memory of what he hoped were more to come.

Colonel!König, who ate you out and fingered you for minutes before fucking you, making sure you came at least three times before he finally pulled his dick out, laying it down on your stomach so you could see how deep he was going to be inside you.

Colonel!König, who bit the inside of his cheek to resist the urge to laugh at your horrified face once you looked down at his length.

"That's it, mein Engel." He praised, rubbing the tip of his cock on the entrance of your folds, mixing your own arousal with his own. He looked at you for consent before he started slowly going inside you, stopping whenever he saw your discomfort only to be reassured that he could keep going.

"More..." You moaned out, and he didn't have to be asked twice. He was delicate and careful with you, your much smaller frame making him feel as if he was handling fine china, and in a way, he was. The bare hands that could murder enemy soldiers were now delicately rubbing and pulling on your nipples as he moved inside and out slowly, making sure your cunt would get used to the stretch of his fat cock.

"Such a good girl." He praised, one of his hands going down to gently rub your hardened clit as he started moving faster, your squelching cunt surprisingly taking him like a champ as his heavy balls slapped against your ass.

"Your tight pussy keeps sucking me in... can barely move." He confessed through gritted teeth, his eyes slightly narrowed as he struggled to move faster, fighting off the urge to cum until he dragged another orgasm out of you. His fingers rubbed your clit faster, groaning and panting once he felt your pussy tighten up, back arching as you welcomed your fifth orgasm of the day, yet there was more to come.

"Scheiße... let me cum in you, please, schatz...?" He didn't even know how he resisted the urge to cum for so long, yet as soon as you nodded your head, he started moving faster and faster inside you, basking in the way your tight hole was sucking him in before he pushed himself balls-deep, releasing his load all the way inside your fertile womb as your cunt milked him dry.

[pearlymel]

Cont. capitano x fem!reader, NSFW, unprotected sex, riding, reader is called 'wife'.

“the mask stays on.”

…

“whatever for?” but your already silent pleading face did not make him question you any further, if this would please you.. then he was more than willing to obey.

Is this what they call a kink? Capitano thought as a thumb mindlessly brushed over your already exposed hardened nipple, enjoying the way you would squirm in return.

“darling,” he spoke, voice deep as his thumb circles around breast with no intention of teasing you, of course. “would you use me for your pleasure tonight?”

You blink at him, and be tilts his head, awaiting for your answer. His long hair brushing over your body, almost tickling your skin.

Fuck, if he could only chase you down slowly with the mask on—

“ah, y-yeah,” you clear your throat, trying to get yourself together to gently push his back against the headboard, his legs spreading wide for you. His cock jutted proudly from within the tight confinements, fingers barely brushing over his impressive girth, making his breath hitch in response.

You swallow thickly before wrapping your hand around the shaft, raising your hips to attempt to take him all at once. Even when you were already well prepped and dripping for him, taking him in always seemed like a challenge…

His hands trembled slightly as they gripped your hips, helping to guide you to position above him. He always got to handle with care.

Oh and the moment you started sinking down his cock, taking in the head before making your way further down, down—

his head fell back against the headboard, and if it weren't for the mask, you'd see just how much of a panting mess he was being. Nonetheless, he looks equally as hot with the mask on.

The first groan left his lips as your warm cunt stretched around him, and he rolled his hips upwards, burying himself deeper inside you until there was nothing left to take in.

So full.

You couldn't wait before you were already slamming your hips into him, making him startled by the sudden movement of you bouncing up and down, up and down, jaw clenched so tight when he glanced down to witness the way his cock would disappear and reappear from inside you.

His hands slid down to grip your ass, kneading the firm globes as he helped you move above him. You were already in another world, expression too fucked out to comprehend any other feelings.

“my darling wife,” capitano couldn't help but match your movements, thrusting upwards, burying himself as deep inside you as he could go. The head of his cock kissed your cervix everytime you slammed your hips down to the hilt, and he could feel your gummy walls fluttering around him, clenching and releasing in a desperate rhythm that soon made him all fucked out.

“C-cum with me,” you whine, your thrusts growing sloppier with each passing second, nails scraping any place you find untoched on his body before you could cry his name out beautifully when you spasm around him, like you were trying to squeeze the life out of him—

Taking your body in his arms, he thrust upwards one final time as he felt his own release approaching. His balls tightening, his cock throbbing and pulsing within your wet heat.

And there it was, his hips jerked erratically before he spilled inside you.

Capitano could feel his cum flooding, could feel the warmth of it spreading through your body, and could literally feel it leaking out of your sweaty and panting figure.

“… is this what you wanted?” You take the time to ask, and you're only met with heavy breaths and his limp body.

But he nods afterwards.

"next time you could praise me more," oh, he's intrigued.

"maybe sprinkle some degrading words," alright, so you liked it different sometimes. "And then pull my hair a bit," okay, he's a bit concerned but he can do that for you.

"maybe choke me too—"

"... Darling, were you tortured before? I worry for you."

[urdreamydoodles]

Hello!!! I just found your page and yes I already I love your work!!

If it’s no trouble, may I ask for X-men characters with a Pregnant s/o headcanons? Like how they would be when you tell them you’re pregnant, how they are when you’re pregnant, and how they’d be during labor! 😵‍💫😵‍💫

Could I also ask it be with: Logan, Scott, Gambit, Ororo, Colossus, and Kurt??

If not it’s totally okay! Have a great rest of your day 💖💖

X-Men x Pregnant!Reader

How they handle your pregnancy

Each X-Man reacts differently to your pregnancy, from initial surprise and joy to unwavering support during labor, reflecting their unique personalities and love for you.

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Scott Summers, Ororo Munroe, Kurt Wagner, Colossus (+ my personal addition : Erik Lehnsherr, Wade Wilson, Wanda Maximoff & Pietro Maximoff)

Thank you for saying that, hearing that my work is liked makes me really happy, thank you ♡ And it's not a trouble at all — love the prompt! — Love, Marie, your friendly marvel fangirl

Logan Howlett (Wolverine)

When you tell Logan you’re pregnant, his initial reaction is a mix of shock and silence. For a moment, he’s frozen in place, his gruff exterior cracking just enough to reveal how truly taken aback he is by the news. He’s been through so much, lost so many people, and had so many regrets in his life that the thought of bringing a child into this world overwhelms him. But after a long, quiet moment, his eyes soften, and he gently places a hand on your stomach, the roughness of his calloused palm contrasting with the tenderness in his gesture. His voice, usually gruff and low, is quiet when he says, "I’ll protect both of ya… no matter what."

During your pregnancy, Logan becomes fiercely protective. He’s always been the protective type, but now it’s ramped up to an entirely different level. He doesn’t let you do anything that might risk your health or the baby’s, even if it’s something small like lifting a grocery bag. He makes sure you’re comfortable, constantly checking in with you—though he tries to act like he’s not worried. You often catch him watching you, eyes filled with a mix of awe and uncertainty. He tries not to hover, but you can see how much he cares. The moment you’re uncomfortable, he’s there, ready to do anything to help. His biggest fear, though he never outright says it, is that something will happen to you or the baby, so he keeps an almost obsessive eye on both of your well-being.

When labor begins, Logan is a mess of emotions. He’s usually the calm in any storm, but seeing you in pain makes him feel helpless in a way he’s not used to. He holds your hand, trying to keep you calm, though his own heart races. "I’m here, darlin’. You’re strong. You got this," he murmurs, pressing kisses to your forehead, staying close, trying to mask his own panic. When the baby finally comes, and he hears that first cry, tears fill his eyes. He never thought he could experience something so beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Logan would quietly hold the baby, marveling at the tiny life you both created, knowing he’s going to protect this child with everything he has.

Remy LeBeau (Gambit)

Telling Remy you’re pregnant is like lighting a firework. He’s always been a charmer, quick with a grin and a flirtatious quip, but when the news sinks in, his eyes light up with uncontainable excitement. "Mon dieu… I gon’ be a papa?" he says in disbelief, his signature grin widening as he pulls you into his arms. His hands immediately find your stomach, even if there’s no sign of the baby yet, and he plants a loving kiss on your lips. Remy is the kind of man who loves with his whole heart, and now, the idea of a family with you makes him feel like the luckiest man alive.

Throughout the pregnancy, Remy is absolutely doting. He spoils you beyond belief, making sure you have everything you need. He constantly brings you little gifts—flowers, chocolates, or even things for the baby—and he can’t help but talk to your belly every chance he gets, whispering sweet nothings in French. "Cher bébé, you gon’ have de best life wit’ us," he coos. He’s also incredibly playful, making jokes to keep your spirits high during the more uncomfortable parts of the pregnancy. If you’re feeling tired or sick, he’s quick to comfort you, but he does it with his usual playful charm. "You look beautiful, ma chérie, even wit’ a lil’ bump," he teases, kissing your cheek. Remy’s energy makes the whole experience feel lighter, more fun, and less daunting.

During labor, Remy’s usual calm and collected demeanor falters. He’s still his charming self, but there’s a frantic edge to his words as he holds your hand. "You okay, chérie? I’m right here wit’ you," he reassures, though you can see the worry in his eyes. He’s not used to seeing you in pain, and it shakes him more than he thought it would. As the labor progresses, he stays by your side, whispering sweet encouragements in French and English, never letting go of your hand. When the baby finally arrives, he’s completely overwhelmed, tears of joy running down his face as he holds your child for the first time. "Our lil’ miracle," he says softly, his heart full to bursting with love for both you and the baby.

Scott Summers (Cyclops)

When you tell Scott you’re pregnant, he’s stunned, standing still for a long moment as he processes the news. Scott, being the logical and responsible leader he is, has always thought about the future and the possibility of a family, but hearing it from you makes it real in a way that both excites and terrifies him. "We’re… we’re going to be parents?" he asks, his voice soft with disbelief before his arms wrap around you tightly. You can see the joy in his face, mixed with the weight of responsibility that’s already setting in. He’s already planning everything in his mind—how he’ll protect you, the future he’ll build for the three of you, ensuring that you and the baby are always safe.

Throughout your pregnancy, Scott is incredibly attentive and thoughtful. He’s the type to read all the parenting books, meticulously prepare for every scenario, and ensure that you’re comfortable and healthy at all times. He schedules every doctor’s appointment, makes sure you’re eating well, and insists that you take things easy. He’s also incredibly emotional during this time, though he tries to hide it. You often catch him looking at you with a softness in his eyes, one hand resting protectively on your stomach. "I love you so much," he says out of the blue one night, his voice filled with quiet awe. Scott takes everything seriously, and your pregnancy is no exception—he’s already planning how to be the best father he can be.

When the day of labor arrives, Scott is calm and composed, but you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves. He’s a natural leader, but this is out of his control, and it scares him more than he’ll admit. He holds your hand the entire time, murmuring words of encouragement, but there’s a tightness in his voice that betrays his worry. "You’re doing great, we’re almost there," he says, though you can tell he’s just as nervous as you are. When the baby is born, Scott is overcome with emotion. He’s usually so controlled, but in this moment, tears stream down his face as he holds your newborn in his arms. "We did it," he whispers, looking between you and the baby with a sense of awe and love so profound it leaves him speechless.

Ororo Munroe (Storm)

When you tell Ororo you’re pregnant, her reaction is calm yet filled with quiet joy. She has always been a steady presence, and that doesn’t change even in a moment as life-altering as this. You watch as her eyes widen slightly, and she takes a deep breath, letting it out with a smile that’s filled with nothing but love. "A child," she says softly, as if testing the words out on her lips before she steps closer, pulling you into a tender embrace. She kisses your forehead, her fingers gently brushing your stomach. "We will raise them together with the strength of the earth, the wind, and the skies," she whispers, her voice filled with a quiet reverence for this new journey you’re about to embark on together.

During the pregnancy, Ororo is a pillar of strength and grace. She watches over you with care, making sure you feel supported and at peace throughout. Her connection to nature allows her to sense even the smallest changes in your well-being, and she’s quick to help ease any discomfort you feel. She spends hours talking to your growing belly, whispering stories of the world, of the sky, and the beauty of the elements. Her presence is soothing, and she brings you peace in moments where the discomforts of pregnancy are hardest to bear. At night, she holds you close, her hands resting protectively on your stomach, often saying a quiet prayer to the earth for your safety. "You and our child are my heart," she says softly one evening as you drift off to sleep, her love for you as powerful as the storms she commands.

When the time comes for labor, Ororo is a calming force by your side. Even as the pain begins, she stays with you, her hand in yours, reminding you to breathe, to focus on the world around you. "Feel the wind, my love, let it guide you," she murmurs, her voice steady as she helps you through each contraction. You find yourself drawing strength from her presence, her deep connection to the elements grounding you. When the baby finally arrives, she cradles the tiny life in her arms with such tenderness that it brings tears to your eyes. "Welcome to the world, little one," she whispers, her eyes filled with awe and love. Ororo knows this is a moment of great power, not just in the birth of your child, but in the creation of a family bound by love and strength.

Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler)

When you tell Kurt you’re pregnant, his first reaction is pure, unfiltered joy. His golden eyes light up, and in an instant, he’s pulling you into a tight embrace, his tail curling around you protectively. "Mein Gott! You are serious, ja?" he asks, his excitement palpable. When you nod, he lets out a delighted laugh, teleporting you both into the air for a brief moment in his excitement before bringing you back down gently. He cups your face in his hands, pressing kisses all over your cheeks and lips, his happiness absolutely infectious. "I am going to be a papa?!" he repeats, as if he can’t quite believe it, but the pure joy on his face shows that he couldn’t be happier. He immediately begins to talk about your future together, about how he’ll be the best father, about how lucky the child will be to have you as their mother.

Throughout your pregnancy, Kurt is an absolute ball of energy and love. He’s always fussing over you, making sure you’re comfortable, making sure you’re happy, and doing everything he can to make you smile. He talks to your belly constantly, telling your baby stories of his own childhood, sharing his love for adventure and his deep faith. "You will be loved, little one. So very loved," he whispers often, his tail lightly wrapping around you as he presses his head to your stomach. Despite his own rough upbringing, Kurt is determined to make sure your child is raised with nothing but love and joy. He’s so excited for every little milestone, constantly asking how you’re feeling, and making sure that you never feel alone or overwhelmed. He even starts knitting baby clothes in his spare time, determined to create something personal for your child.

When labor begins, Kurt is nervous but tries his best to stay calm for your sake. He teleports in and out of the room, fetching things, bringing you water, doing anything he can to help. "You are so strong, meine liebe, you’ve got this," he says, though you can see the nervous energy in him as he paces slightly. When things get intense, he stays by your side, holding your hand tightly, his usual calm demeanor replaced with pure awe at what’s happening. The moment the baby is born, Kurt is overwhelmed with emotion. Tears fill his golden eyes as he looks at the tiny life you’ve created together. "Our little miracle," he whispers in awe, his tail brushing gently against the baby’s tiny hand as he cradles them carefully. His heart is full, knowing that this is the start of a new, beautiful chapter for your family.

Piotr Rasputin (Colossus)

When you tell Piotr you’re pregnant, his first reaction is one of quiet shock. His gentle nature has always been a core part of who he is, but the idea of becoming a father leaves him momentarily speechless. He stares at you for a moment, as if processing the magnitude of what you just said. Then, slowly, a smile breaks across his face, and his massive arms gently pull you into a warm, protective embrace. "We are going to have a child?" he asks, his voice soft and filled with wonder. His metal form, cold to the touch, somehow feels comforting as he holds you close, his hands resting gently on your stomach. "I… I will do everything to protect you and our child," he promises, his deep voice filled with determination and love.

Throughout your pregnancy, Piotr becomes an even more protective and attentive partner. He’s already used to being careful with his strength around you, but now he’s even more cautious, always making sure you’re comfortable and safe. He spends hours drawing and painting, creating art that reflects the love and joy he feels for you and the baby. His gentle nature shines through as he constantly checks in with you, making sure you’re well-rested, eating enough, and not doing anything that could put strain on you or the baby. "You should rest, moya lyubov’," he says softly, offering you a cup of tea or a warm blanket whenever you look the least bit uncomfortable. He talks about the future often, about how he wants to raise the child with the same love and care his family gave him, how he wants to teach them to be strong but gentle, like him.

When labor begins, Piotr is a bundle of nerves beneath his calm exterior. His metal form shifts, and you can see the tension in his usually composed demeanor. He stays by your side, holding your hand gently, though you can tell he’s trying not to show just how worried he is. "I am here, love, you are so strong," he says softly, his voice a low rumble as he reassures you throughout the process. As the labor progresses, he’s there every step of the way, doing whatever he can to help. When the baby is finally born, Piotr is overwhelmed with emotion. He carefully cradles the tiny life in his large, metal arms, his eyes shining with tears as he looks at you with pure love. "Our family," he whispers, his deep voice filled with awe and devotion. "You have given me everything."

Erik Lehnsherr (Magneto)

When you tell Erik you’re pregnant, his initial reaction is one of deep, contemplative silence. You watch as the weight of the news settles over him like a heavy cloak, and for a brief moment, there’s an unreadable look in his sharp eyes. He’s always been a man burdened by the past, his life filled with loss and pain. But then, his expression softens, and he reaches out to touch your face, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. "A child," he murmurs, almost as if he’s afraid to believe it. Slowly, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and he pulls you into a tight embrace, burying his face in your hair. "We will give them the world," he promises, his voice low and filled with the intensity that only Erik can bring. Though you can tell the news has stirred up memories of his past, the joy he feels for this future with you is undeniable.

During the pregnancy, Erik becomes fiercely protective, bordering on overbearing at times. He’s always been a man who values control, and now that you’re carrying his child, that instinct is heightened tenfold. He monitors everything, making sure you’re safe, making sure you’re comfortable, and making sure nothing threatens you or the baby. His magnetic abilities become almost a subconscious part of how he protects you, moving objects out of your way before you even realize they’re there, adjusting the temperature of the room without a second thought. Despite his intensity, there’s a tenderness in the way he speaks to your belly, as though he’s already trying to form a connection with your unborn child. "You will be strong," he says one evening, his hand resting on your stomach. "I will make sure of it."

When labor begins, Erik is calm but incredibly focused. He’s been through many battles in his life, but this is something different—a battle of a more personal kind. He stays by your side, his hand gripping yours tightly, though you can see the tension in his jaw as he tries to remain composed. "You can do this, my love," he says, his voice steady despite the worry in his eyes. As the contractions grow stronger, he channels his abilities to make the environment as soothing as possible, dimming the lights, adjusting the metal fixtures in the room to make everything feel more comfortable for you. When the baby is finally born, Erik is silent for a long moment, staring at the tiny life you’ve both created. Then, without a word, he takes the child in his arms, his eyes filled with a rare vulnerability as he gazes down at them. "I never thought I would have this again," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."

Wade Wilson (Deadpool)

When you tell Wade you’re pregnant, his reaction is, unsurprisingly, over the top. He stares at you with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open comically for a moment before he suddenly breaks into a huge grin. "Are you serious?!" he shouts, throwing his arms in the air and spinning around in excitement. He grabs you and starts bouncing you up and down, all the while chattering on about how you’re going to have the coolest kid in the world. "Oh man, this is going to be awesome! Our little baby Wadelette, or Wadelino!" His excitement is infectious, and though his humor never stops, you can tell there’s genuine love and excitement behind his wild antics. He talks about everything from baby names to what kind of mini-costume the kid will wear, all while being completely and utterly himself.

During the pregnancy, Wade is a chaotic but devoted partner. He’s constantly hovering, making ridiculous jokes to keep your spirits up, and finding the weirdest ways to pamper you. "You’re eating for two now! Gotta keep that belly happy!" he’d say, handing you a tray of the strangest food combinations you’ve ever seen. Wade has a way of making even the most uncomfortable moments of pregnancy into something funny, but when the serious moments hit, he’s surprisingly thoughtful. He talks to your belly in exaggerated voices, telling the baby stories of his adventures and promising to be the best (and weirdest) dad ever. Though he can’t quite stop being himself, you know that beneath all the humor, Wade is completely committed to you and the baby.

When labor hits, Wade is... well, Wade. He’s running around like a madman, alternately panicking and cracking jokes to try and keep things light. "Okay, okay, I’ve got this! I’ve fought ninjas, I’ve blown up buildings, how hard can this be?!" he says, though the genuine concern in his eyes gives him away. As things progress, he becomes a little more serious, holding your hand and whispering words of encouragement between his nervous ramblings. When the baby is finally born, Wade is struck speechless for once in his life. He stares down at the tiny bundle in awe, his usual mask of humor slipping as he gently takes the baby in his arms. "Holy crap," he whispers, his voice barely above a breath. "We made a tiny person." He looks at you with wide eyes, his usual bravado replaced with pure, unfiltered love.

Wanda Maximoff (Scarlet Witch)

When you tell Wanda you’re pregnant, her initial reaction is one of quiet, overwhelmed emotion. You watch as her eyes fill with tears, her hands trembling as she reaches out to touch your face. "A baby?" she whispers, her voice filled with disbelief. For Wanda, this news is a dream she never thought possible, a hope she had long since buried beneath the weight of her complicated life. She pulls you into a gentle embrace, holding you close as she tries to process the enormity of what this means for the both of you. Her powers flicker around her, responding to her heightened emotions, but she calms herself quickly, pressing her forehead to yours. "I never thought I would have this chance," she says softly. "But now… now we can have a family."

Throughout the pregnancy, Wanda is a bundle of emotions—both excitement and worry. She’s incredibly protective, her powers always at the ready to keep you and the baby safe, but there’s an underlying fear that something could go wrong. Despite her concerns, she embraces the experience fully, surrounding you with warmth and love. She spends hours researching everything about pregnancy, reading books, and using her magic to ensure you and the baby are healthy. She talks to your belly every night, using her magic to create little illusions of what she imagines your child might look like. "You will be so loved," she whispers to your stomach, her hands gently resting over the growing life inside you. Despite the fears that linger in the back of her mind, Wanda finds joy in the journey, grateful for the chance to experience this with you.

When labor begins, Wanda is nervous but focused. She holds your hand, her magic swirling around the room in gentle pulses, trying to ease your pain and keep you calm. "You’re so strong," she says, her voice soft but full of conviction. "I’m here with you." As the contractions intensify, Wanda uses her powers to help as much as she can without interfering too much, guiding you through the pain with a steady hand and reassuring words. When the baby is finally born, Wanda is overwhelmed with emotion. She cradles the newborn in her arms, tears streaming down her face as she gazes at the life you’ve created together. "Our child," she whispers, her voice filled with awe. "I can’t believe it… they’re perfect."

Pietro Maximoff (Quicksilver)

When you tell Pietro you’re pregnant, his reaction is fast—literally. He zooms around the room at breakneck speed, his excitement palpable as he tries to process the news. "Wait, wait, wait—seriously? I’m going to be a dad?!" he exclaims, coming to a sudden stop in front of you with wide eyes and a grin that stretches from ear to ear. He’s so thrilled that he can barely stand still, constantly moving from one side of the room to the other, muttering excitedly to himself about baby names, future races, and all the things he’ll teach your child. "They’re gonna be fast, I just know it!" he says, already imagining a little speedster following in his footsteps. His excitement is contagious, and though he can be overwhelming at times, you know that Pietro’s joy is genuine and heartfelt.

During the pregnancy, Pietro is both attentive and hilariously impatient. He’s constantly zipping around, checking on you, fetching things, and making sure you’re comfortable. "You need anything? Water? Snacks? Foot rub?" he asks at lightning speed, already halfway out the door before you can answer. His energy is boundless, and though it can be a bit much at times, you appreciate how much he cares. Pietro is always talking to your belly, encouraging the baby to hurry up and grow faster. "Come on, little one, we’re all waiting for you!" he says with a grin, pressing a kiss to your stomach. Despite his impatience, Pietro is incredibly sweet, and he does everything he can to make sure you feel loved and supported throughout the entire process.

When labor begins, Pietro is a whirlwind of nervous energy. He’s constantly pacing, moving from one side of the room to the other, his speed betraying his anxiety. "You’re doing great, babe, really great!" he says, though his voice is tinged with nervousness. He tries to stay calm for your sake, but you can tell he’s on edge, desperate for everything to go smoothly. When the baby is finally born, Pietro’s world comes to a complete standstill for the first time in his life. The moment they place the baby in his arms, everything around him slows, and for once, he’s not in a rush to go anywhere. He stares down at your newborn child, his usual cocky smirk replaced with a look of pure awe and disbelief. "Wow," he whispers, his voice soft and reverent. "I… we made this." His hands, usually moving a mile a minute, are gentle as he cradles the baby close, eyes wide with wonder as he examines every little detail of their face.

[ysaefinn]

Pairing: Dilf!Satoru Gojo x gn!reader x Dilf!Suguru geto

In a marriage you pick up each other's slack.

It's a partnership first and foremost, spouses don't have to necessarily operate as a merged unit but it should always be them against the problem.

Suguru is an extraordinary cook, nothing short of an artist with his tools and ingredients. An alchemist with spices and sauces, and a surgeon with knives. Two big calloused hands coming down on the freshly put-together batch of dough, effortlessly kneading away at the mass, shaping it so ~so~ easily into whatever shapes he desires. It's a little odd to think this but there's something...~sensual~ about it, maybe it's the casualness, maybe it's because it almost feels like a subtle reminder of what he can do, that you are yet to see his physical abilities meet their limit. Regardless, the display coupled with the golden rays of the sun, shining on his unwavering gentle smile, reflecting on the silver strands of his contrasting inky locks, giving the illusion of crystals meticulously woven in each strand. Suguru puts angels to shame.

Satoru rests on the other side of the coin. According to the silver-headed man, brute force is the only way around a car engine, you can't possibly get a vehicle to start moving without giving it some maintenance with your fist. Lifting heavy parts and maneuvering them requires a lot of strength and stamina, both are qualities that Satoru has managed to retain throughout the years. Rough fingers easily popping small pieces on and off, inserting rods and poles with a swift push of his hip. The black engine oil that seeps out is quickly nipped in the bud with a rough thumb shoved into the leaking hole. And once the problem is solved he runs his whole hand through his pure white hair and cracks his typical joke of turning into his husband before giggling to himself every time. It's very sloppy and messy the way he goes about things, but as long as it gets him where he needs to be, he won't be changing the way he operates.

It doesn't make Suguru the happiest man in the world watching his husband beat a non-living object somehow to death, he couldn't even entertain the thought of going about things the way his husband does. But that's what Satoru's here for! To take care of the things Suguru would rather not and vice versa, –since the white-haired man doesn't have the patience for marinating chicken or baking food for hours–.

Because in a marriage you pick up each other's slack!

–

"That's my baby.." you finally reach your peak with a drawn-out whine, coating Suguru's entire hand in the process, the man wastes no time licking his finger clean from your slick while running his other large hand up and down your tummy "you're doing so well, sweet thing" he moves his palm around your waist before squeezing at your flesh gently and you shudder in response "making us so proud like always, sweetheart". "Satoru, focus on keeping those pretty wrists together, we're working on being braver and not hiding our face, right?".

Right, this was a lesson.

By the time your vision clears from your orgasm, Satoru has finished wiping off the juices you left on his face from your earlier climax, and he takes the chance to kiss your drowsy self rough and messy catching you completely off guard. He's ripped away from you just as quickly by the hair.

Suguru's hands are more than capable of being cruel and unforgiving when it comes to you.

"Be gentle" Suguru scolds, an icy cold tone –almost unrecognizable– "they're still sensitive" and he's back to cooing sweetly again, Suguru is only ever this mean because he knows his husband can handle the heat.

The silver-haired man falls back with a grumble "Ugh, you never let me do anything" he whines childishly, earning a playful raised brow from his husband. "That's only because you don't know how to be gentle" Suguru counters "You brute.." A warm heavy hand rests on your head before petting you like a well-loved kitten, as if the smallest of sudden movements can hurt or distress you. "You have to be gentle with them. They can't handle how rough you get at times, Satoru".

Oh he doesn't have the slightest idea.

You can definitely without a single shadow of a doubt handle Satoru when he gets his hands on you. Unlike his husband, Satoru listens to your requests of a rougher pace loud and clear and gives you exactly what you wish for –something Suguru has never approved of. But on the other hand, he is much softer and more intimate with you when his head is between your thighs. Suguru however, would rather watch you squirm and whine and cry from that same angle. Now that is what you can't handle.

And it makes sense because in a marriage you pick up each other's slack!

"Can't handle how rough I get?" Satoru scoffs before looking back at you and lovingly rubbing your thighs "Seems Sugu doesn't know the first fuckin' thing about what you can and can't handle sweethe–A-ah!" Suguru interrupts his husband's sass by yanking him by the hair again and pulling him in for a kiss. All teeth all saliva.

Satoru pulls away to catch his breath, lips bitten and swollen crack into a smug grin. "Daaww you mad? Jealous that you know you hold yourself back? What kind of boyfriend are you Sugu~?"

It's really all in good fun –it would be at least, if this didn't question his dedication to caring for you to a degree– but his jaw still clenches and his eyes narrow as if challenging the man. He is undoubtedly bothered, yet still chooses the high road to ensure you continue to be in the spotlight. Classic.

The long-haired man releases his grip and moves over to scoop you up in his arms, he slides his hands from your waist down to your thighs before spreading your legs wide open for his husband. You jolt back and sink more into his plush chest, clearly still overstimulated from the previous peaks they forced you to reach. Suguru coos before kissing your cheeks sweetly and whispering something about not being shy or trying to hide from them.

"Use your mouth for something useful for once" he gestures to your aching core "come on, don't keep them waiting".

And Satoru gets into position without another word– for now–, moving forward and placing your legs over his shoulders, he pecks your left inner thigh before looking straight at you, –Azure flames shocking your senses, a strange cold sensation washes over you– sending shivers down your spine. It doesn't pass unnoticed, your men exchange fond looks.

It's like your little reactions are bonding moments for them.

But as long as Satoru's in the room, it wouldn't last.

"See? Very responsive. There's clearly a favorite~" Satoru purrs, and his husband rolls his eyes "Giving good head doesn't make you a better lover, Satoru" he scoffs, but still refuses to derail "But keeping our baby needy certainly makes you a terrible one, doesn't it sweetie?" Again, a noticeable softness in his tone when he turns to address you. "Now come on, get on with it"

"I want you to admit it first"

Suguru sighs "...you are good with your mouth".

"Just picking up your slack. That's marriage after all!"

[lust4nero]

SWEAT FOR ME! ─ ✦.ᐟ

summary ✦ the piling and constant number of missions that come through his doors has left Dante unable to look after himself and neglect his needs, which eventually hits him especially hard one night. luckily, he has his fiancé to take care of it.

tags ✦ p in v, MDNI, not beta read, light cursing, riding, masturbation (m!), dante gets caught jerking off and is turned on by it

wordcount ✦ 1.9k

Mission after mission that came through the wooden doors of the Devil May Cry building left him little to no time to look after himself, hopping from one city to another to take care of some demons. Sure, they were nothing he couldn’t handle but too many all at once while barely having time to recuperate can take a toll on him despite being a seasoned demon hunter. Nero and Nico were running the remote Devil May Cry branch just fine, excellently in fact, so it’s not like Dante had to work thrice as hard in order to keep the lights on and the water going; in short, your fiancé is simply too hard-working for his own good.

Eventually, you hear the distant yet familiar thrum of Nico’s van followed by some conversing voices. Nero heads in first, a hand perched on Kyrie’s waist, followed by Vergil alongside his brother; unlike the others, Dante’s a lot less chatty, especially with the exhaustion evident in his eyes. In true younger sibling fashion, he’s still irritating Vergil but not exerting a hundred percent of his effort into effectively getting Vergil to fall to his ragebait. Whilst everyone makes a beeline for the peeling living room couch, the legendary devil hunter rushes to your arms.

“Hey baby.” His words come out the slightest bit muffled as his stubbly cheek is pressed against your shoulder.

“Hey,” you respond. “Long week, hasn’t it?”

He affirms with a lazy hum, not bothering to use his brain now that he’s home. A deep groan rumbles from the depths of his chest as you give him his favorite head scratches, most of his weight now pressing against.

“Feels nice?” You ask and he nods, eyes damn near closing as all the exhaustion from fighting and travel of the past weeks hits him like a ton of bricks.

“How about you freshen up and I’ll follow you later? I’ll just tell the others we’ll go to bed early.”

He mumbles something, wrapping his strong arms around your waist and hugging you like a stuffed animal. Eventually, he lets up and quietly makes his way to your en suite bathroom.

Kyrie breaks away from the group to fetch herself a glass of water from the kitchen and you take the chance to talk to her.

“In case the others are wondering, Dante and I are going to bed early. He can barely keep his eyes open.”

The girl nods, giving you an understanding smile. “Sure! I can tell he needs that rest, the poor man was out cold as soon as we got back in the van. I’m pretty sure Nico drove on the curb at one point and ran over a cone but he didn’t wake up from all the jostling.”

Your eyes widen; Dante was the type to wake up from something as faint as the sound of the window gently rattling because of wind. He was never able to sleep deeply, always kept up by the slightest of noises or the haunting flashbacks of his troubled childhood.

“That’s new, he’s never really the type to sleep through anything like that. Thanks for telling me, Kyrie, and have a good night.”

Right after she greets you ‘good night’ as well, you head up as a yawn escapes your lips with a soft groan.

By the time you’re upstairs, he’s all clean and fast asleep on his side of the bed. The silence of the room is occasionally interrupted by his snores, not too loud but not exactly muted either. The longer you look at his snoozing form, the more you feel slumber’s somnolent lullaby lull you to drowsiness. Tired yourself, you freshen up right before joining him in bed.

One thing about summers that Dante hates is the irritating humidity and heat that drags on until nightfall; he already runs warm like a half-demon heater and the summer intensity just makes it unbearable for him. Unfortunately for him, his deep sleep is interrupted by the uncomfortable feeling of blankets sticking to his sweat-dampened skin. He switches positions, trying to get comfortable, but the chafe of his boxers jolts his body in sensitivity and wrings a whimper out of him. Peeling the too-warm blanket from his lower half, Dante looks down and sees the groin of his garment tented by a raging hard-on.

“Fuck,” he hisses. He’s too tired but a growing need for relief wrestles against his desire to fall back asleep. You’re fast asleep and facing away from him, he can’t possibly wake you up just to fuck and especially when you look so peaceful.

Electing to ignore his problem, he inches closer to you and snuggles up to hold you while he attempts to find sleep once more. How can he drift back asleep and will for the flames of desire to extinguish when your ass looks so delectable in those flimsy sleep shorts?

Oblivious to his problem, you move ever so slightly in your sleep and brush up against his straining boner.

“S-Shit,” he shakily breathes as he shuts his eyes. “Not the time, bud.”

This won’t do, he thinks to himself. Pulling away from you, his hands travel to his waistband and tug it down just below his ass. Carefully, calloused palms rub the insides of his thighs before coming to squeeze around his needy length.

“A-Ah– shit…–”

Once he has his breathing controlled, he thumbs over his drooling slit before gliding his tunneled hands down to the base. He temporarily stops when he knows he’s about to get noisy, unwilling to disrupt your beauty rest; such a gentleman.

Eventually, he picks up the pace and thrusts up into his hands; it feels so good and he’s right at the edge but it would’ve been better if he was thrusting in and out of your wet heat.

“T-This would’ve been– mmh– better if we had sex– hah–”

He’s right there, but you wake up from all the commotion at your right side.

“Dante? Is that you?”

He freezes, though his grip never loosens around his cock; in fact, getting caught just escalated the intensity of arousal that rushed through his veins.

“Yeah baby, it’s just me.” His voice is strained and ever so slightly out of breath. “Don’t worry, get back to sleep.”

You don’t quite like the breathiness and urgency in his voice, lacking it’s usual cockiness that usually still shines through even when he’s halfway through sleep and consciousness. In a swift movement, you sit up and peel the blankets.

The move startles Dante, who wasn’t fast enough to withdraw his hand from his dick and is now caught in such a promiscuous act. An embarrassed, yet oh-so turned on, flash of warmth surges over his body and manifests on his cheek as a reddened flush. His desire, the overwhelming need to fuck, is evident in his lidded eyes and frankly, the passion spreads like wildfire and sets you ablaze. Suddenly the evening heat is too unbearable for clothes, ridding your lower half of your sleep shorts before sitting on top of his hard-on in just your panties.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” You whisper as you start to grind against him. He groans, large hands settling on your waist.

“Didn’t wanna disturb you,” Dante mumbles. “You looked too peaceful.”

You take his face into your hands, feeling the tickly prickle of his white stubble on your palms, before locking lips in a manner far from composed; the liplock is all spit, whines, and tongue, something reminiscent of a passionate porn flick.

“Grind on me harder,” the white-haired half-demon hissed as he temporarily breaks away from the fiery kiss.

Guiding you along, you grind and bounce strong enough to start making the bed squeak. Dante’s getting more vocal beneath you, silencing himself by pressing wet kisses or hickeys into your skin. The sensitivity is high for you as well, the drenched gusset of your panties allowing for an easier glide along his exposed length. Unlike you, who’s still chasing your high, your fiance is even more sensitive now that you’ve unintentionally edged him moments ago.

“S-Stop,” Dante huffs. You look at him curiously but he doesn’t notice, focused on sliding your panties down before throwing it off to the corner of the room.

“At least you learned not to tear it off now,” you joke. Dante, when crazed and impatient for your tight pussy, has a tendency to rip your panties instead of sliding it off. Not that it overly bothers you, you just can’t keep going back to the lingerie shop and buying new ones; they aren’t exactly cheap.

Now that you’re naked from the waist down, you line him up with yourself and start to sink down.

“I’d love to eat that pussy and feel you gush on my face but I need you on me more,” he pants.

You whined as the head filled you up first, joining his growls in filling the silence.

“F-Fuck, can never get used to how big you are Dante,” you whimper. His stubble tickles against your cheek, followed by a gentle nip to your jaw followed by light kisses.

“Yet you always do so good f’me, sugar. C’mon, just a little more.”

You finally sit on him, cock all the way in. After taking a moment to properly adjust, you begin rolling your hips as your mouth at his earlobe.

“So good,” he praises as he meets your ass, pelvis thrusting up in search of your heat with each bounce. “Sooo fucking good, baby– oh shit–!”

He coos, dragging you down harsher to stuff you completely full. Eventually, your thighs start to give out but you still want to reach that high. Noticing you slow down, Dante halts his ramming for a moment to check on you.

“You gettin’ tired, baby?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Still wanna ride though.”

He smiles, pressing a sloppy kiss to the corner of your lip.

“Let me take over, hm?”

He plunges the rest of his cock back in at full speed, not bothering to increase the speed gradually with each powerful thrust. Dante rabbits and rams hard, wringing squeaks and sexed up squeals from you.

“C-Coming–!” you repeatedly murmur in his ear, nails digging into the muscles of his pale back.

“Me too baby, me too. C’mon, you can do it– gush around my cock baby,” he coos.

He plants his feet into the mattress for the last of his thrusts, keeping you pressed tight against his pelvis. You cry out, walls pulsating erratically around his sensitive cock as you lurch forward and tightly enclose your arms around his neck.

He leans back into the headboard, the cool metal a relief that contrasts his warm and sweat-dampened skin.

“Fuck,” you groan. “Missed this.”

He laughs, a hand coming up to stroke your hair. “Yeah, I did too.”

“This is why you have to trust Devil May Cry to your brother and Nero sometimes,” you point out. To further prove your point, you pull away from hugging him and look at him directly into his icicle-colored pupils.

“I’m not saying you should quit by the way, I just want you to take a breather and stop overworking yourself. You’re not alone anymore, Dante, we got you. Let yourself rest sometimes.”

Dante hates that he worries you with how frequent he’s gone, leaving you alone and lacking any attention from him. With a soft smile, he tucks your hair behind your ear and swears that he’ll do better as a fiance.

“Okay, I promise, honey. Now, how does sleep sound? I’m pretty tired now, not gonna lie.”

[ many thanks to the anon who sent a request, hopefully it lived up to your expectations! ]

[synity]

Can you please write Y/N is a oldest daughter and Jun always by her side and help her with everything she need even when she never ask

OPEN ARMS

(Wen Junhui x FemReader)

*Soft angst, comfort, slow romance*

Being the eldest daughter meant a lot of things.

It meant folding clothes while your younger siblings watched cartoons. It meant wiping away your own tears so your mother didn’t have to worry. It meant walking on tiptoe around your father's moods, biting your tongue when you wanted to scream, and carrying burdens in silence because well, someone had to.

It meant growing up too fast.

You never had to be told twice that your role was to hold everything together.

And most days, you did it without thinking juggling school, work, home, helping your siblings with homework, taking care of your parents when they were tired, cooking dinner, managing bills. You did it all, smiled through it, even when your knees buckled under the weight.

But what no one ever seemed to notice… was how tired you really were.

Except for him.

Wen Junhui.

He wasn’t your boyfriend, at least not yet. You wouldn’t call him a best friend either. He was… just there. Like a quiet, steady wind in the background of your storm. You met him in university he’d been part of your theater class, always loud and smiling, while you were the silent, responsible one who came and left early to catch the train home.

But for some reason, he stayed.

And stayed.

Until it became normal for him to help you carry your books. To text you to eat. To drop off vitamin packets at your door during midterms. To walk you to the station even when you insisted he didn’t have to. To show up at your part-time job with hot tea and say, “Just happened to be around.”

But you knew better.

Jun always knew where to find you. And he always helped. Even when you never asked.

One rainy Wednesday night

You were carrying a bag of groceries in one hand and a stack of your sister’s school art supplies in the other, soaked to the bone. The strap of your bag had broken and your phone had died. Your chest ached from how tightly you were trying to hold everything together. The streetlights were flickering as you walked home, the wind sharp and cold, your arms trembling from the weight.

And suddenly

An umbrella covered you.

A familiar voice. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

You blinked, breath caught. “Jun, how did you?”

“I called. You didn’t pick up. So I came.” He took the grocery bag from you without waiting. His hand brushed yours warm, solid. “You should’ve called me.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you whispered, looking down.

His sigh was soft. “Y/N. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

“I’m the eldest,” you replied without thinking, voice cracking on the edges. “It’s my job.”

Jun didn’t say anything for a moment. But then, he placed the umbrella handle in your hand and reached out gently wiping away the tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“You’re allowed to rest too.”

He was always there.

When your little brother got sick and you had to run between home and pharmacy, Jun was the one who showed up with soup and stayed to clean the dishes.

When your mother snapped at you during dinner out of her own stress, Jun held your hand under the table until it stopped shaking.

When your boss yelled at you unfairly and you cried in the breakroom, Jun was the first to show up outside with bubble tea and a stupid dance to make you smile.

He never asked anything in return.

Never once said, “You owe me.”

But one day, you broke.

It was after a long week your father had fallen ill, your sister was behind in school, and your manager had threatened to cut your hours.

You came home to find the water heater broken, and the living room flooded.

You sat on the floor, soaked, surrounded by the smell of damp socks and soap, and cried. The kind of crying that comes from the bones, from a place so tired it no longer remembers how to hope.

And just like always, Jun showed up.

“Where’s the mop?” he asked softly, crouching beside you.

You couldn’t even speak. Just shook your head, covering your face.

“I’m here,” he whispered, rubbing your back gently. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He didn’t ask questions. Just stood up, rolled up his sleeves, and started cleaning. You watched him through blurry eyes how careful he was, how gentle, how patient.

You didn’t realize how long he stayed until the living room was dry, your tears had stopped, and he was sitting beside you, arm loosely wrapped around your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you said hoarsely. “For always making you come save me.”

“You didn’t make me do anything,” Jun replied softly. “I wanted to.”

You looked up. His eyes were kind but serious.

“Do you know how strong you are, Y/N? How much I admire you?”

You didn’t speak. He reached over, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

“But even the strongest people need someone to lean on sometimes. Let me be that for you.”

Later that week, you asked him something.

“Why do you help me so much?”

Jun smiled, but it wasn’t playful this time. It was quiet. Honest.

“Because I see you.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I see you, Y/N. The way you carry everyone. The way you smile when you’re hurting. The way you give and give, even when you’re running on empty. I see it.”

And then, softer: “And I love you for it.”

Your heart stopped.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he said, eyes gentle. “I just want to be by your side. To be the person you don’t have to be strong around.”

Years later

When you stood at the altar, dressed in white, you remembered every moment Jun had been there.

When your father gave you away, his hands trembling with age, you remembered how Jun had helped you convince him to take his medication.

When your little sister hugged you tightly, crying happy tears, you remembered how Jun helped her pass her exams when you couldn’t.

And when Jun held your hands in his, whispering vows you didn’t need to hear to believe you smiled.

Because in a world where you had to be strong for everyone…

He had always been strong for you.

And the best part was you never had to ask.

[ridingthatd]

𝄞 𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤

`• sukunaxfem!reader, nanamixfem!reader, gojoxfem!reader, getoxfem!reader, nsfw, heavy smut, bdsm, multiple orgasm, over simulation, brain fucked, kinky, filthy •`

𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧. sukuna wasn't someone you can mess with easily. he wasn't amused by anything. the only thing that he was obsessed with were his weapons. his guns. his bullets. his bombs. his knifes. but his other obsession happens to be you. he was so fucked up. he was into a lot of fucked up shit. using the handle of his knife to fuck your ass. while he pound his fat cock into your tight cunt. he would go to as much as slicing his palm with the knife that was up your tight little hole. just to grab it and push it deeper inside of you. not caring about the blood that was dripping down his hand. spreading your ass cheeks with his bloody hands. while shoving his pierced tongue deep inside your throat. mixing his spit with yours. after all he was a maniac.

a maniac for you.

𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨. nanami was the type of guy. who would give of gentleman vibes. when you first meet him. he doesn't speak much. only grunts and nodes. but his actions spoke a lot. gently holding your cold hand into his rough huge ones. carrying you in his masculine arms. that were coated with tattoos. you would never tell how rough nanami was while fucking you. placing you on his face. sitting directly on his big nose. making you ride it. while roughly slapping your ass. abusing it till it's barely recognizable. and he wont let you stop. slamming you into his big nose. till your liquid is gushing all over his face.

nanami didn't speak a lot. but he touched a lot.

𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮. gojo didn't give a fuck. he didn't care about people's eyes. he didn't care about what people thought. because he knew they were under his feets. he didn't care about fucking you in public. having you sit on his lap with your tiny little skirt on at the club. just to unzip his pants. and grab his ragging tattooed cock. yes he had a tattoo on his long cock. it was the a symbol of your name. and his. he would shove it up your already drenched cunt. that was already filled with his cum. that he fucked into you in the car on the way here. bouncing you on his cock. not caring that everyone knows. sneaking his hand under your bra. just to grope your tits. pinching your nipples between his fingers. over simulating you. till you make a mess all over his suit pants. all over the seats you sat on. all over his cock.

and he was also a mess for you.

𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮. geto was a soft men. an emotional men. that wasn't ashamed of showing his emotions. whenever he's sad or anxious. he would cuddle you all day. slowly slipping his cock inside of you. not moving. just keeping it warm. while you sleep together. pushing your shirt over your head just to suckle on your lips while he keep his cock warm inside of you. but he also got another mood. whenever he's angry. he would fuck you. till you're crying. pushing you hard against the showers wall. just to shove his angry pierced tip inside of you. not caring if you had time to adjust. tearing his cock through your pussy. just to slip out. and have you on your knees. taking him deep down your throat. feeling his pierced tip. hit the back of your throat. he liked it this way.

and he liked you this way.

and this how you got here. chained up their meeting desk. both of yours legs forcibly spread apart by a chain. just like your hands. you were completely naked under their gaze. they were eyeing you just like a prey.

two small nipple clumps sucker were placed on your breast. pumping on your red sensitive nipples. it was to much. to much. it's like your nipples were being sucked by an inhuman force. they for sure put the pumpers on full speed.

you can hear wet sloppy sounds. sounds from them stroking their fat cocks at the sight of you. it made you even more horny. knowing they're standing their. cocks out. pumping it with their huge vieny hands just like the pumper is pumping your nipples.

you sway your hips, trying to get away from the cold metal that was being slowly shoved up your ass. whimpering, throat dry from how much you have been screaming.

"shh it's okay you filthy slut, you're going to like what daddy is about to feed your tight little ass" sukuna coo at you. in awe at the way your tight ass eagerly sucked in the cold plug that he gave you. his cock was so fucking hard. pants down- still in his suit. but his cock was out, hitting his abdomen. leaking on his abs.

you twitch taking it all in, you can feel inside it your tummy- so filled. and what had you in tears was that they didn't touch your pussy. they're tutoring you. simulating everything but your pussy. letting the cold air hit your wet cunt, but not filling it with their cocks that you were so desperate for. no. they were just stroking them in front of your body- your face.

sukuna place another cold metal. and another and another one follows. your eyes widen as your realise it was bullets- he was shoving bullets up your ass without mercy. your eyes roll back as hot arousal drips down your pussy. your empty pussy.

your eyes catch nanami. as he makes his way toward your face. you stick your tongue out. droll spilling down yours red puffy lips. that had nanami groaning. his hair messly place on his heated face. precum leaking down his pinkish red huge tip. tripped blondish hair was placed on his heavy balls.

"how can I deny my little baby?" nanami horsely mutters. as he shove his fat cock inside your mouth. hitting the back of your throat without any warning. his eyes rolling back at the squishy feeling of the your throat. he doesn't give you time to adjust either once he pull out and plugs his cock bain in. in full force. your chocking sounds full the room. as nanami grabs your hair, pushing your face harder into his fat cock. your lips brushing against his balls.

groans soon after fill the air. as the other three of his friends. place their cocks on your warm skin. sliding their wet cock on your warm skin. your body trembles. as you feel nanami whimpering before he spurt his boiling seeds deep down your throat. you felt like it will come out of your nose.

his friends soon follow, spilling hot shoots of their cum on your body. not finishing. till it was painted with their cum. you cry out as you squirt out finally after an hour of simulation. your body arch. the pumper is still sucking on your nipples. making your orgasm even harder. seeing black and white spots.

you didn't fully recover. but they didn't care. because you feel sukuna grabbing his huge cock that had a straight line of cold piercings starting from the tip of his shift. and ending at his heavy balls. the feeling of having his piercings caresses the tight walls of your pussy. you want it do bad.

"please- daddy please please" you whine. begging him to fuck you. begging to tear your desperate pussy. to feed it his fat cock.

"tch, someone need to plug her throat again. she's being a whiney bitch" he tsks at you. grinning from ear to ear. at your pathetic little state. before he shoves his pierced cock inside of you. hitting your womb directly. and you completely black out.

your eyes flutter open. pussy stuffed. it was teared. ripped with two fat cocks that were maniacally going in-out of your wet cunt. your ears were filled with squashy sounds that your pussy made. while your mouth was behind abused by also two cocks. reaching the back of your throat. rubbing on your tongue before fully going back in.

"looks like our sweet slut is finally awake" geto moans out as you feel the piercing that was on the tip of his cock, hit your throat. your eyes roll back making eyes contact with gojo. gojo who had his cock shoved deep your throat, next to his friends. his own cock rubbing against getos cock. mixing their precum together.

you glance down at your nipples. feeling a familiar tingly feeling. just to see them still being pumped.

even though your cunt was scratched out to the max with nanamis and sukunas cock. you still were sucking their cocks in. holding their cocks so tightly. it had them going animalistic. huffing and groaning. drooling into your skin.

the only thing that filled their mind. was the need to breed you. fill you so full of their seeds. "you fucking filthy." shove. "little". shove. " whore". shove.

sukuna growls out. going crazy. so drunk on your pussy that he completely lost his sense. he doesn't care if he dies like this. he doesn't care if he kills you like this. all he wants right now is to gush his hot cum inside your gready little pussy.

the harshness of sukunas cock also made nanami go crazy. with the way his fat cock was rubbing against his cock. it created to much simulation. your tight pussy sucked them together. he wanted to whine.he wanted to whimper. but he bit into your thighs instead. tasting your blood against his tongue from how hard his bite was.

"em going to fucking cum" gojo moans out. his hips were shaking. you can feel his cock twitching against your throat. tip leaking ready to spill. but nanami does it before him. a loud whimper left him as he pumps his fat cock one last time inside you before he gushing his white liquid out. your eyes crossed. enjoying the feeling of his cum. filling your tummy.

geto soon follows him. coating gojos cock that was next to his with cum. you didn't even realise you were drooling till now. as your spit hit gojos tattooed balls. and that seems to do it for him. because you feel another shoot of cum being gushed down your throat. feeling sweat salty taste of it.

your eyes cross as you feel nanami long fingers stroke your red puffy clit. throwing you to the edge as sukuna keep hitting your womb with his pierced cock. you body had never felt pleasure like this before. you scream, your cunt making an embarrassing loud wet sound before you squirt all your liquid out. the bullets that sukuna shoved up your tight ass, slipping out one by one in the process.

feeling your orgasm mixed with your pee being sprayed on sukunas abs seem to finally trigger him. causing him to let out the tiniest whine before he pulls his cock out and gush his white cum on your stomach. the same stomach he promise to put a baby in.

"I think I'm about to cum again" gojo groans out.

tag list: @miyaluvvsyou @gumitoru @lilharuchiiii-slit @evilbunny22 @silbersee @awhoreforfictionmen @d1cklethep1ckle @ivy-vivii @chxrryvibes @mysticprincessdonut @i88b0nten @man-eaterfr @apwing @callmekimjennie @sheeesh-life-sucks @kariatenoh @ebonysdark @marusatonanhin @suukunnnaaa @jadedsgsg @creolequeen11210 @charisthemaniac @lemonintrovert01 @rosemaydone321 @deadlikestorm

: ̗̀➛ for part 1 click 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

[rafeandonlyrafe]

first moments

words: 1.5k

warnings: mom!reader, dad!rafe, established relationship, brief hospital setting, anxiety (from rafe)

“rafe, wanna do chest to chest?” you hum, eyes mostly closed, the exhaustion from labor still affecting you.

“i…” he stares at you, and then at your son, resting against your chest, maternity dress pulled open so he's against your skin, his face resembling the exact same one rafe makes when he's sleeping. “its okay, you keep holding him.”

“okay.” you say, looking down at your son. it didn't take you long to decide on a name. leon andres cameron. leon after rafes grandfather and andres after your own. a good strong family name. 

“he's so perfect.” rafe whispers, his voice cracking slightly.

“come closer.” you beckon, rafe moving his chair closer, but still keeping his distance, making you frown. “what's wrong?”

rafes mouth opens, but no words come out. you pause, hand petting over leons back.

“wait…” your mind starts to piece together, still foggy from the delivery and drugs. “you haven't held him yet.”

“i-” rafe stumbles over his words, knowing he's been caught. “i can't. he's too tiny. too perfect. i-i don't want to ruin him.”

“ruin him?” you frown. “rafe, you're his father. get over here.”

you struggle to scooch over on the hospital bed, but manage to make room for rafe to sit down next to you. he even sits carefully, gnawing at his lip as you turn leon over, keeping him asleep as you turn him face up, supporting his neck the whole time.

“just cradle your arms. it's okay, you'll get used to it.” you watch as rafe moves his arms before placing leon in them, having to cover your mouth when the sudden urge to cry hits you, leon looking even smaller being held by your husband.

“i love him.” rafe whispers, voice cracking, a few tears sliding down his cheeks. “i love him so much.”

“look how relaxed he is in your arms.” you coo. “i knew you'd be a good dad.”

--

“god, im so nervous.” rafe looks in the backseat where you’re sitting, leon buckled tight into the carseat.

“its okay.” you hum, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “just drive slow.” “yeah, of course.” rafe nods. he barely puts the car above 15 miles per hour the entire ride home. leon thankfully stays asleep, you’re not sure if you could have handled just leaving the hospital and having him crying on the way home.

“okay, here.” rafe takes a deep breath as he pulls the car into the garage.

“you got his carseat?” you ask. your body is still recovering from birth, and you’re not sure if you can lift anything up without tearing.

“yeah.” rafe undoes the carseat carefully as you get out and unlock the house, happy to be home after two days spent in the hospital.

“mmm.” you breathe in the fresh air. “my eyes are so happy after all that fluorescent light.”

“um- watch out baby.” rafe hates having to have you move out of the way so quickly, but he can hear leon beginning to fuss and needs to get him inside.

you giggle and step away, watching as rafe quickly rushes to unbuckle him. he looks to you to get him out of the carrier, but you allow rafe to scoop him up, shushing him and gently rocking him back and forth.

--

“i got it.” rafe offers.

“no, he's hungry.” you groan, already feeling your breasts swelling with milk just from hearing his cry. “i can tell.”

“im sorry, baby.” rafe sighs, staying in bed as he tries to get back to sleep. no point having both of you completely exhausted.

you manage to settle leon, feeding him in the rocking chair rafe got you before you gave birth. he almost wakes when you transfer him back to the crib, but you get him down and back to rafe, crawling into bed next to him.

“i wish i could do more.” rafe sighs. so much of you is required from leon, not just the pregnancy but now needing to feed him. rafe tries to take care of anything else you could need, but he struggles with not knowing how to do things as basic as changing diapers.

“you're learning fast, rafe. it's okay.” you move closer so rafe can hold you, snuggling into your back, his hand gently rubbing over your hip.

“i don't deserve you.” you know it's just the exhaustion talking. you grip his hand in yours, squeezing three times, saying the words without needing to speak.

“we should sleep while he's asleep.” you say, rafe nodding and pressing kisses to your shoulders and upper back until you're pulled back to sleep.

--

“shh, leon, it's okay.” rafe looks around for you, surely you must have heard leons cries. you said you'd be just a minute, running to the beauty aisle to grab your conditioner before returning to rafe shopping for groceries.

rafe pushes the brim of the carrier back, his heart breaking as his sons little face scrunches with big tears rolling down his cheeks.

rafe isn't sure what to do, so he just lets his instincts guide him as he quickly undoes the seatbelt and lifts leon into his chest, being careful to hold his head just as you instructed.

the second leon is against rafes, his cries lessen, and then all together subside as rafe bounces gently.

“is he okay?” rafe looks up to see you hustling down the aisle towards him.

“yeah, he was upset but i got him.” rafe pats leons back gently, turning his head to press a kiss against his cheek.

“okay.” you let out a sigh of relief, tossing your conditioner into the grocery cart. “want me to take him?”

“no, im good.” rafe shifts leon a little as you start to walk, pushing the carrier and loading the bottom up with more groceries, especially all the things you couldn't have while pregnant but are now safe despite still breastfeeding.

rafe doesn't miss the way you keep looking over at him with light in your eyes, excitement evident at seeing how comfortable rafe is becoming with leon held snuggly in his arms.

--

“are you sure?” you ask, frowning as your eyes flicker between leon laying on the couch cushion and rafe sitting next to him, focus on your baby as he makes silly faces at him.

“baby, i know i struggled at first, but this is one weekend. you have plenty of milk pumped. ill be fine.” rafe scoops leon into his arms as he stands, walking towards you.

“besides, if i need help i can always call your mom. even wheezie, you know she'll be happy to see leon.” rafe shifts the baby to one arm while his free hand comes to cup your cheek. “go. please, i will miss you and leon will too, but you deserve a break.”

“okay.” you nod, getting on your tip toes to press a kiss to rafes lips before also kissing leon, who lets out a familiar cooing sound.

“im gonna text my girls.” you can't hide the excitement in your voice, pulling out your phone to confirm you'll be able to go to the girls spa weekend away. 

“i want nightly face times with you though baby.” you poke leons little nose, whose cheeks stretch into a smile.

--

“oh my god, rafe, is everything okay?” you squeal, squinting at the screen as if it'll somehow make leon appear.

“yes! fine, i promise.” rafe points the camera down so you can see leon happily on his lap, already looking tired as bedtime is quickly approaching.

“why didn't you pick up the first time?” you ask, a lot calmer now that you have eyes on your baby.

“leon and i were just getting home. i took him to the park. he couldn't really do anything but be in the carrier but he liked watching the other kids play.” rafe looks down at leon, giving him a little tickle under the chin. “isn't that right buddy?”

“did you-”

“yes, i put sunscreen on him. and he wore a hat. and-” rafe stresses before you can interrupt. “i reapplied sunscreen after an hour.”

“you're the best.” you smile. “you know i never doubted you rafe, it's just-” you take a deep sigh. “i worry so much about him. and making sure he's happy.”

“and he is.” rafe assured you. “look at his little face.”

you feel tears well up in your eyes as you look at your husband and your son, snuggled together on the couch. you quickly take a screenshot while they both have smiles on their faces.

“you're such a good mama. leons lucky to have you, and so am i.”

the tears are now falling down your cheeks as you smile. “i love you.”

“i love you too. and we miss you, but go enjoy your night with the girls!”

“okay.” you nod. “you're right. ill be home tomorrow around noon.”

“got it.” rafe holds the camera closer to leon. “say bye bye to mommy, leon.”

the call ends with his smiling face looking back at yours.

sfw taglist: @bejeweledreverie @winterrrnight @ladyinbl00d @ethanthequeefqueen

[iamgonnagetyouback]

I'VE GOT YOU.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ S. REID

SUMMARY ৎ୭ when spencer leaves you alone in his apartment for the day, the last thing you expect is someone trying to break in. scared and hiding, you call him—and he does everything he can to keep you calm until he gets home to wrap you in his arms

WARNINGS ಇ. panic/fear, attempted break-in, mentions of anxiety, comfort after distress, established relationship, spencer being soft and protective

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 2,071

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

Spencer’s apartment always smelled like old books, coffee, and something distinctly him. A mix of cedarwood and laundry detergent that clung to the furniture and lingered in your hair long after you left. You weren’t planning on leaving anytime soon, though.

The rain tapped gently against the windows, a soothing rhythm that matched the quiet rustle of pages turning in your lap. Spencer’s favorite worn-out quilt was draped over your legs, the one he pretended he didn’t care about but always reached for first on colder nights. It smelled like home.

You were curled up on his couch, your feet tucked beneath you, a half-empty mug of tea on the coffee table—his mug, of course, because it was bigger and the handle fit your fingers just right. A book lay open in your hands, but your eyes weren’t on the words. Not really. You were too wrapped up in the stillness, in the comfort of this space that had slowly become yours as much as his. You stood up to get Spencer's copy of "In Cold Blood". The book was not the kind of book you'd read on such a cozy day, but the annotations Spencer did on the margins always made you amused.

As you walked through the apartment, you noticed the way it was filled with quiet signs of him. Stacks of books organized in that peculiar Spencer way—alphabetical but with side categories only he understood. A chessboard paused mid-game on the shelf. Notes in tiny, cramped handwriting stuck to the fridge with magnets shaped like planets. One of your sweaters was hanging over the back of a chair, and your favorite slippers sat beside the door, right next to his well-worn dress shoes.

You glanced at the clock. Almost time.

Spencer had texted you hours ago that he’d be home late, some case running over again. But knowing him, he’d be apologetic the moment he walked through the door, even though you never minded. You liked being here. Liked knowing he’d come home to you, liked the way it felt to exist in his space, to feel safe in the silence between moments.

You grabbed the book from the nightstand when something made you freeze. A soft sound.

A click.

Not the comforting kind—the door-click you knew by heart, the one Spencer always made when he came home late with tired eyes and soft apologies. This one was different. Slower. Uneven.

Like someone was struggling with the lock.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You turned sharply toward the bedroom door, heart already picking up speed. That couldn't be Spencer. He had keys. He always had keys.

Grabbing your phone with shaky hands, you turned on the small security app he insisted on installing—“just in case,” he’d said.

You tapped into the feed from the hallway camera.

And then your blood went cold.

There, just outside the apartment, was a man. Tall. Hoodie pulled up, face mostly hidden. His hand fumbled with something near the lock—thin metal glinting in the light. Not a key. Definitely not a key.

You stumbled back a step before catching yourself. Your brain spun. Lock the bedroom door? Hide? Call Spencer? The police?

Your thumb hovered over Spencer’s contact, panic rising like bile in your throat. You didn’t want to believe it was happening, not here—not in his safe, quiet space filled with books and mismatched mugs and soft blankets.

The door rattled again. Louder this time. He was trying harder now.

Your thumb hit the call button.

It rang once. Twice.

“Hey, sweetheart,” came his voice, warm and a little tired. You could picture his soft smile, his coat probably still damp from the rain. “I was just about to stop for coffee. Do you want—?”

“Spence.”

Your voice broke like glass.

He stopped mid-sentence. You could hear it—the shift in the air between you. His brain kicking into overdrive.

“Darling?” he said, suddenly alert. “What’s going on?”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “There’s someone at the door. He’s still trying to get in.” You swallowed, eyes flicking to the bedroom door as another soft rattle echoed from the front of the apartment. “I locked the bedroom. I… I pushed a chair in front. I can hear him, Spencer. He’s not going away.”

There was a pause. A very brief one. And then—

“Okay. Listen to me. You’re going to be alright.” His voice dropped into that calm, precise cadence he used in the field, except this time it was soaked in fear. “Stay where you are. Keep quiet. I’m calling the police right now. I’m just five minutes away. You’re not alone, okay?”

Your breathing was shallow, fingers digging into the floor, trying to ground yourself. “He’s jiggling the lock again.”

“I know. I know, sweetheart. Just stay hidden. Don’t hang up.”

There was some rustling on his end. Then a low, urgent murmur—you could tell he was talking to someone, rattling off the address with a speed only he had.

“Officers are en route,” he said quickly, back on the line with you. “And I’m running. I don’t care what the weather’s like. I’m getting to you.”

“Spencer,” you whispered, your voice cracking, “what if—what if he gets in before—?”

“No. No, he won’t. You did everything right. You’re safe in there. I promise. Just keep talking to me, okay?”

You let out a soft sob, muffled into your sleeve. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he said, voice suddenly gentler, breaking a little too. “But you’re so brave. You’re the bravest person I know. Just a little longer.”

There was a loud bang from the living room, something knocking over—maybe the umbrella stand. You flinched so hard you nearly dropped the phone.

“Still with me?” Spencer said quickly, his voice tightening.

“Y-Yeah.” You could barely get the word out.

“I’m almost there. Less than a block. I can hear the sirens.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until a tear dripped onto your hand. You squeezed your eyes shut. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not alone,” he said firmly. “I’m with you. Even if I’m not through the door yet. I’m with you, always.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded, even though he couldn’t see you.

“Do you remember,” he said gently, “that fact I told you once about Saturn’s rings? How if they were just a little closer, just a few thousand kilometers, they’d break apart completely?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to anchor yourself in the sound of him. “Yeah.”

“But they don’t,” he continued. “They hold. Even with all that gravity pulling and pushing and shifting. They stay exactly where they’re meant to. Just like you’re going to do. You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re holding. You’re not breaking.”

Your breath hitched, a tear slipping down your cheek. “Spence…”

“I’m here. Keep listening. Did you know Venus spins backwards? It’s called retrograde rotation. It’s one of only two planets that does. We used to think something slammed into it to make that happen, but now we’re not so sure. It might’ve always been that way.”

Another footstep outside. You flinched. He heard it too.

“Hey—breathe with me. It’s okay. Just my voice. Nothing else matters right now. Just us.”

You clutched the phone tighter, your eyes locked on the door, but your ears stayed with him.

“And you know what else?” he said softly. “You’re braver than Venus. Because even when the universe throws chaos at you, you don’t spin backwards. You’re facing forward. You’re right here.”

You let out a shaky breath, your body slowly sinking to the floor again. The footsteps were still out there, but they felt distant now—like they belonged to another world entirely. Because Spencer’s voice was bigger. Warmer. Steadier.

And then— Voices. Loud ones. A knock. Strong. Measured.

You held your breath. Frozen.

And then—his voice.

“Love, it’s me. It’s Spencer. I’m here. You’re safe now. Please open the door, sweetheart.”

Everything inside you cracked open at once.

The sound of him—gentle, sure, real—was like something breaking through the panic clouding your chest. You scrambled to your feet, practically throwing the chair aside. It clattered loudly to the floor, but you didn’t care. Your hands fumbled over the lock, your breath caught in your throat—

And the moment the door opened, you flew into him.

Spencer barely had time to step inside before you crashed into his chest, arms around his neck, clinging to him like if you let go, everything would fall apart. He caught you instantly, wrapping you up in his arms, holding you tighter than you’d ever been held.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your hair, your cheek. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’m here now.”

Your fingers clutched at the back of his coat, and your face was buried in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of rain and safety.

“I was so scared,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“I know,” he said, his own voice thick. “But it’s over now. I promise. I’m not letting you go.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you, hands cradling your face with such care it made your throat tighten. His eyes searched yours, still wide with concern, but full of love.

“Come here,” he whispered, pulling you back into his chest, rocking you gently like you were something fragile, something worth protecting.

And you were.

He didn’t rush you. Didn’t ask you to move or let go.

Spencer just stood there, in the middle of the apartment, arms around you and lips pressed to the top of your head, as long as you needed. You were still trembling, but it was easing now—not gone, but quieter—with every slow, steady breath he took with you.

When your legs began to ache from standing so stiffly, he gently leaned down, letting you wrap yourself tighter around him, and lifted you off your feet with ease.

“Let’s get you warm, sweetheart,” he murmured.

He carried you to the bedroom, pausing only to toe off his wet shoes. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t press for details—not yet. He just guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair back tenderly from your face as he crouched in front of you.

“Can I get you something comfy to wear?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Y-Yeah… please.”

He pulled out one of his softest long-sleeved shirts—your favorite one that smelled like him even after three washes—and some cozy sleep shorts. He handed them to you like they were made of gold.

“I’ll stay right here, okay? Back turned. Not going anywhere.”

You changed slowly, limbs still heavy with adrenaline. But when you pulled the shirt over your head and felt the familiar scent of Spencer around you, something settled in your chest.

When you were done, he helped tuck you into bed, layering blankets over you like he was building you a nest of safety.

“Don’t move,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m making tea.”

He came back with your favorite mug, careful not to spill, and set it on the nightstand.

“I added honey,” he said softly, sitting beside you. “Just the way you like.”

You smiled weakly, reaching out to take his hand instead of the mug. “Can you… stay?”

“Of course,” he whispered, already climbing in beside you. He pulled you into his chest, your legs tangling naturally with his under the covers. One arm curled around your waist; the other rested gently over your hand.

You listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, your ear pressed right against it.

“Want me to read to you for a bit?” he asked, nuzzling into your hair.

“Yes,” you murmured. “Please. Something nice.”

He reached for the worn paperback on his nightstand—a poetry collection you both loved—and flipped it open, finding your bookmarked page.

His voice was low and warm, each word slow and careful like it was meant just for you. You barely registered the poem itself—you just listened to the way he said it. Like a lullaby. Like a promise.

By the time he reached the second poem, your eyes were fluttering closed, your body finally beginning to relax for the first time in hours.

And just before sleep took you, you heard him whisper, lips brushing against your temple:

“You’re safe, love. I’ve got you. Always.”

And wrapped up in Spencer Reid’s arms, you believed it.

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