remae-freyae

[remae-freyae]

Title: Mo Ghrá

Y/N leaned down swiftly, snagging the plush fur coat from where it had tumbled onto the café floor. She brushed it off gently, its softness momentarily distracting her. With a warm smile, she placed it carefully over the back of the nearby chair. "Oops, dropped your coat!" she said brightly, meeting the gaze of the coat's owner.

The man staring back at her had vivid green eyes, deep as the ocean itself, framed by long lashes. His wavy dark hair caught the soft golden glow of the café lights, and his fair skin seemed to shimmer subtly. But there was something more than just his looks—something commanding about him. He didn’t look away. In fact, his gaze held hers like an anchor, unmoving and intensely focused. Her heart did an odd little flip, and she awkwardly waved before retreating to her table, cheeks warm.

The next day, Y/N was once again in the cozy warmth of the café, idly swirling her latte when a shadow fell over her table. She looked up, startled to find the same man standing before her. But this time, his presence wasn’t shy. It was confident, steady. He placed a small velvet box in front of her with calm precision, his fingers deliberate, sure.

"For you," he said, voice low and smooth, thick with a lilting Irish accent that wrapped around her like a tide. There was a gravity to the way he spoke that made her sit up straighter without realizing.

"Oh," Y/N murmured, blinking in confusion as she opened the box, revealing a delicate gold ring set with an opalescent stone. "I... Isn't this an engagement ring?"

"Aye," he said plainly. "It is. We should be wed properly by your customs."

"Married? But we only just met yesterday! I don't even know your name."

He tilted his head, a small, amused smile curving his lips. "You returned my coat. That’s not a small thing, mo ghrá. That’s everything to my kind." He leaned in slightly, not threatening—never that—but deliberate, as though he already knew she wouldn’t back away. "I’m Cian. And when you picked up my coat and gave it back with your own hands, you didn’t just touch fur, Y/N. You chose me."

She swallowed hard, the sound loud in her ears. "I didn’t mean to—"

"Didn’t mean to doesn’t change what is," he said, his voice soft but firm. "I’m yours. You might not know what that means yet, but I do. And I’ll be patient until you can catch up."

Her breath caught. He took her hand in his own, gently but with a possessive confidence that made her spine tingle. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, grounding her even as her mind spun.

"Mo ghrá," he said again, and this time the way he said it—low, warm, laced with something unshakable—made her stomach flutter in a way she didn’t want to examine too closely. "You don’t have to be afraid. I’ll never take anything you’re not ready to give. But I also won’t pretend I don’t want all of you, either."

She stared at him, flushed and wide-eyed, but for once she didn’t feel like running. Instead, her fingers curled slightly around his.

Cian smiled, slow and pleased, as though he’d been waiting for that tiny movement. "There now," he murmured. "That’s my good girl."

Y/N’s brain short-circuited, her face going red. She quickly looked away, flustered, but didn’t pull her hand back.

And Cian, watching her with quiet satisfaction, knew she wouldn’t.

Took the old Selkie screenshot from Tumblr that crosses my timeline once or twice a year.. and wrote it as it was a male Selkie instead.. and a gentle Dom type of selkie obviously.. ah, the tingles.

[remae-freyae]

"Title: The Executive Distraction" (Fanon/All 4 Boys)

she walked in, handed over a report, didn’t even look at them…

and somehow became the most important topic on the executive agenda 💼👀

---

The boardroom at Stellar Apex Corp was more warzone than workspace.

“I’m telling you, launching the neuro-link tech before Q3 is reckless,” Sylus growled, arms crossed and suit immaculate, tension radiating off him like a dark cloud.

Across from him, Xavier leaned back in his chair, perfectly unfazed. “Oh please. We both know you just want more time to polish your broody aesthetic for the PR shoot.”

Sylus narrowed his eyes. “Unlike you, I don’t need eyeliner to have depth.”

“Boys,” Zayne cut in smoothly, twirling a pen between his fingers. “You’re both pretty. Can we move on to the actual point? Our market share’s about to plummet if we don’t pick a direction.”

Rafayel looked up from where he was sketching something—was that a flower crown?—in the margins of his tablet. “What if we added a virtual garden feature in the next deep-space sim expansion? It’d calm users down. Especially after listening to these two scream at each other.”

“I don’t scream,” Sylus and Xavier snapped in unison.

A silence stretched—interrupted only by Zayne’s smirk and Rafayel’s gentle humming.

Then, without knocking, the door creaked open.

In walked Y/N, plain clipboard in hand, her eyes calm and her footsteps measured. She didn’t flinch at the tension in the room. Didn’t pause. Didn’t swoon. Just calmly walked to the head of the table, where Zayne sat, and dropped a crisp folder in front of him.

“Report from Mr. Neechan. He said it’s urgent,” she said, deadpanned.

Four pairs of eyes locked on her.

Her tone was professional. Not flirty. Not breathless. Not... interested.

And somehow— that was the most interesting thing of all.

“Thanks,” Zayne offered, lifting the folder. “What’s your name?”

She was already halfway to the door. “Y/N.” And she left.

The room fell silent.

Sylus blinked first. “Who was that?”

Xavier sat up straighter. “She didn’t even look at us.”

Rafayel gave a dreamy smile. “I liked her energy. Very grounded. A touch of melancholy. Like a sunrise in winter.”

Zayne adjusted his collar, watching the door as it clicked shut. “Does Neechan need her down there?”

Sylus stood. “I’m going to check on the fifth floor. For no reason.”

Xavier rose too. “No, I’ll check. You’ll scare her.”

Zayne sighed, already pulling up the assistant registry. “Let’s all calm down. We can’t all go down there.”

Rafayel, smiling serenely, murmured, “So we’re agreed then. The next company initiative is… finding excuses to summon her?”

“Executive-level project,” Sylus muttered.

“I’ll draft the memo,” Xavier added.

Zayne grinned. “She won’t know what hit her.”

They all turned toward the now-empty doorway. Business plans forgotten.

The war was about to begin—just not the one they’d scheduled on the agenda.

---

Let me know if you want to read the same thing.. but a spicier or more chaotic version xD because I can definitely deliver. XD;

[remae-freyae]

"Title: If Found, Call [REDACTED]"

Y/N was somewhere in the middle of nowhere, her playlist looping the same four songs and her aging car rattling like it had arthritis. She’d just pulled out of a sleepy roadside inn when she started hearing an odd scraping sound coming from the trunk. At first, she chalked it up to junk shifting around—but then her tire blew out with a loud bang, jerking the wheel and nearly sending her into a ditch. Muttering a string of curses, she pulled over, got out, and popped the trunk.

What she expected: a spare tire.

What she found: a black mechanical bird with glowing red eyes and a mean-looking beak, sitting there like it owned the place.

It blinked. She blinked. "...Okay,” she said flatly, “that’s not a tire.”

The bird cocked its head, then gave a rasping caw that echoed like a voice modulator having a bad day. It didn’t move to fly away—just stared at her like she was the inconvenience.

There was a small metal plate on one leg. Engraved neatly were the words:

MEPHISTO

PROPERTY OF ONYCHINUS

IF FOUND, CALL THIS NUMBER [REDACTED]

DO NOT ATTEMPT TO PET. SERIOUSLY.

Y/N read the last line twice. Then looked at the bird again. “You don’t look that serious,” she muttered. Still, she took out her phone and dialed the number. One ring. Two. Three.

Then: “...Who is this?” The voice was low, controlled—smooth like silk wrapped around a dagger.

She blinked. “Oh good, you don’t sound like a government hitman at all.”

Silence.

Then: “Be more specific.”

Y/N leaned against the bumper of her car. “Well, I'm glad you asked because I found a crow in my trunk. Not just any crow. Full metal, glows red, real bossy vibe. His name’s Mephisto, which, side note, sounds like a supervillain’s backup dancer.”

There was a pause. The line went so still she thought he hung up—until she heard him exhale through his nose, barely audible. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“And he didn’t attack you?” he asked, quieter now. Curious.

“He gave me a little side-eye,” she replied dryly. “But then again, so do most people.”

Another pause. Then, to her surprise, a faint smirk in his voice: “Stay where you are. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” The call ended.

Y/N lowered her phone and looked at Mephisto, who was now pecking casually at the corner of her grocery bag.

“Glad we could bond,” she muttered. “You absolute demon drone.”

[remae-freyae]

i changed it.. a lot. It's a dog instead of an abandoned child and I guess Zeus did kinda give Hades immortality in a way? Lol

www.tumblr.com/remae-freyae/784442903132094464/title-this-will-hurt

The abandoned child you’ve taken in sleeps on your lap as the god who gave you immortality softly warns you. “This will hurt.”

[remae-freyae]

Title: "This Will Hurt"

Hades from Lore Olympus

The rain fell sideways—thin, sharp needles of cold pricking down from a colorless sky. Hades crouched in the alley behind a boarded-up diner, the kind of place that had long forgotten it once served warmth. Nestled beneath a collapsed pizza box, a small, shivering mass of fur blinked up at him. Mud matted the dog’s fur, the ribs beneath its skin jutting out like the skeleton of a bird, and one eye was so swollen it barely opened. The creature didn’t bark, didn’t whine. It just breathed, in thin, wet tremors, like it didn’t expect to be breathing much longer.

“Another one?” Zeus’s voice floated in from behind, tone mild but loaded. “You’ll need a kennel license soon.”

Hades didn’t answer. He shrugged off his coat—black, tailored, far too clean for this alley—and draped it over the box, hands careful, slow. His fingers brushed the dog’s tiny chest, checking for breath. Still there. Faint, but there.

Zeus moved closer, umbrella tilted to cover them both, though Hades hadn’t noticed the rain until now. “He’s barely moving. Might already be—”

“Don’t,” Hades said quietly, but it hit like a slammed door.

Zeus didn’t argue, just studied him. “You used to be better at pretending you didn’t care,” he said, voice light, but not mocking.

“I’m still good at pretending,” Hades replied as he lifted the small bundle into his arms. The weight was barely anything—less than a soul, even—but it nestled into his coat like it had been waiting for him. Rainwater soaked through the fabric, chilling him to the bone, but he didn’t shift.

Zeus watched him, head tilted, a familiar shadow of amusement beneath something older. “You know how this ends.”

“He won’t die,” Hades said softly, as if saying it could make it true.

Zeus gave him a look. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” Hades muttered, stepping away from the dumpster, the alley, and the part of him that had once left things to rot. “Not yet.”

Zeus followed him without speaking, umbrella still held above them. They didn’t portal. No shadows swallowed them, no godly speed whisked them away. Hades walked. Step by soaked step, across puddled streets and through the back entrance of Underworld Corp, up to the quiet apartment above the marble floors and shrieking elevators. No guards. No fanfare. Just him, the dog, and the wet thump of his shoes.

That night, Hades filled the sink with warm water and gently peeled the mud from the dog’s fur. He didn’t call for help. Didn’t snap his fingers and make it easier. He used his hands, his silence, and the kind of patience no one ever gave to him.

Cerberus sniffed at the bathroom door and didn’t growl. Mushroom peeked in, barked once like a sleepy opinion, and retreated. Big John settled beside the threshold and stayed there the whole time.

By morning, the dog opened both eyes—one still cloudy but alive. He looked up at Hades, blinked slow, and licked the inside of his wrist with a strength that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

“Fudge,” Hades said, like it was obvious, like it had always been his name. The dog twitched his ears at the sound. “Yeah,” Hades murmured. “You’re Fudge now.”

Weeks passed. Fudge learned where the best rugs were. Which cupboard made the crinkling sound that meant treats. He barked at Apollo’s reflection in the glass of an elevator door and was rewarded with a belly rub from Mushroom and an amused snort from Hades. Most nights, he climbed into Hades’ lap mid-paperwork and passed out like a dropped toy, all warmth and soft breaths. Sometimes Hades just let him stay there, hand resting on the soft fur without thinking.

“They throw so much away in the mortal world,” Hades said one evening, voice barely audible over the quiet sound of a classical record playing in the background.

Zeus stood in the doorway of the apartment, uninvited but unsurprised. “They do.”

Hades didn’t look up. Fudge’s small body was curled beside his hip, snoring lightly. “He’s not broken. Just discarded.”

Zeus nodded, arms folded, his usual smirk absent. “You’re good at finding the ones everyone else overlooks.”

“No,” Hades murmured, scratching gently behind Fudge’s ear as the pup stirred in his sleep. “They find me.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. The city outside buzzed. Cerberus snored in the next room, one head resting on the couch, another sprawled on the floor.

Hades ran a hand over Fudge’s back, slow and steady. “Everyone deserves a chance to live,” he said at last. “Even the ones they leave behind.”

Zeus didn’t argue. Not this time. “Especially them,” he said, almost under his breath.

And as Fudge lifted his head, eyes half-lidded and tail thumping once, Hades leaned back into the couch and let the warmth settle into his chest.

Alive. Safe. Loved.

It wasn’t immortality. But maybe it was better.

[remae-freyae]

Rules are Suggestions

The lights in the hallway flickered as Person B caught up, breathless, only to find Person A kneeling beside a keypad panel with a stolen ID badge in one hand and what suspiciously looked like a chocolate bar wrapper jammed into the card reader.

Person B stared, exasperated. “Is this legal?”

Without looking up, Person A replied casually, “Legal-ish.”

Person B blinked. “What does legal-ish even mean?”

The panel beeped and the door hissed open like it resented being part of the plan. Person A flashed a smirk and said, “Nobody important has complained yet.”

Groaning, Person B followed them inside, fully aware this was either going to end in disaster or headlines—and probably both. The archive room was bathed in that eerie government-issue fluorescent lighting, the kind that made everything feel both sacred and deeply cursed.

“You know this is technically a felony,” Person B muttered, watching as Person A ducked beneath a motion sensor and used a half-eaten Twizzler to tap something on the console.

“So is jaywalking if you do it with enough confidence,” came the reply, delivered with a wink and the kind of tone that suggested this wasn’t even the weirdest part of their night.

“That is not how the law works,” Person B hissed, already feeling like they needed a nap, a lawyer, and maybe a sedative.

Person A just shrugged, tossing a classified folder into their bag with the nonchalance of someone picking up groceries. “That’s why I bring you. You remember rules. I make things happen.”

And as Person B stood there, helplessly watching their partner in crime—or justice, depending on how blurry the lines got tonight—they couldn’t help but wonder if falling in love with a chaos goblin was karmic punishment... or the best mistake they’d ever made.

[remae-freyae]

The rooftop was cold, but not enough to chase either of them away. The city below flickered like a dying cigarette, distant and unimportant. Up here, there were only two people who mattered—though neither would admit it out loud.

Person B leaned against the ledge, arms crossed, expression unreadable in that infuriating, practiced way. “Tell me something, A,” they said casually. “Are you threatening me or flirting with me?”

Person A didn’t glance over. They just huffed a quiet laugh and tilted their head skyward, the stars faint against the light pollution. “Why not both?” they replied, voice dry as ever. “Multitasking is a skill.”

Person B pushed off the ledge and took a step closer, slow and measured, like they were approaching a wild animal—or maybe something far more dangerous. “That’s what I thought. You’ve got that tone. That I-might-kill-you-but-you’ll-die-blushing tone.”

Now Person A turned. Not fully, just enough to make eye contact. “And you keep coming back for it,” they said. “Which makes me wonder who the real problem is here.”

“You,” Person B said immediately, then added with a shrug, “But I’m probably not much better.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense—but it crackled, full of possibility and smoke.

Person A broke it with a sigh. “I should be worried about you.”

“You are,” Person B said, a little too gently. “But you’re also curious.”

Person A stepped closer to Person B but they didn’t move away.

“If you kiss me,” Person B murmured, their voice like velvet pulled over sharp teeth, “I’ll bite you.”

That pulled a real smile from Person A—tired, amused, and just slightly unhinged. “That’s fair,” they said. “But if I bite you first…?”

Neither moved. And it wasn’t even about the kiss. It never was.

It was about the fact that they hadn’t yet—and both knew they eventually would.

Person A: Are you flirting with me or threatening me?

Person B: I honestly don’t know anymore.

Person A: Great.. now I’m aroused and concerned.

[remae-freyae]

(so,I watched Red shoes and the seven dwarves or whatever it was called. I changed up some of it as red shoes is only a friend to everyone but I had fond writing this as I loved their personalities)

The Crashing of Fates(A forest, duskfall)

The ambush wasn’t elegant. But it was effective.

Shadows had spilled from the trees like ink, silent as breath until it was too late. A dozen cloaked figures armed with steel and dark magic surged through the undergrowth, surrounding the clearing where the princes had made camp.

Merlin stood near the edge, palms glowing with restrained force, the lines of an incantation curling behind his teeth.

Arthur’s blade was already drawn, shield slung forward, stance rooted in instinct.

Jack had climbed halfway up a tree—“*for tactical advantage*,” he claimed, though the daggers already flashing in his hands suggested he was enjoying the view far too much.

And the triplets? *Chaos.*

Pino was halfway through a fire spell, Noki had already tripped two enemies with enchanted vines, and Kio had apparently decided now was the time to sing a battle chant he’d made up on the spot.

“You three focus,” Arthur snapped, deflecting a blow with his shield.

“We’re *very* focused, thank you very much,” Noki said, ducking a hex and retaliating with a blast of sparkling green light. “Just not necessarily on the same thing.”

“They’re *multiplying*,” Merlin muttered, eyes scanning the tree line as another wave emerged.

Jack flipped down from his perch with a wink. “I think we *finally* pissed off someone important.”

The villain, cloaked in shadow and smug satisfaction, stepped forward—raising a hand that crackled with dark energy. “You were brave,” he said, voice echoing like rot. “But not very bright.”

*Then it happened.*

A thunder of hooves. Cracking branches. A scream—not of fear, but of sheer frustration. “NO—NO NO NO, DON’T YOU *DARE*—STOP—*TURN*—WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!”

A streak of motion broke through the far tree line. A wild-eyed horse—mud-covered, reins flapping, brambles tangled in its mane—barreled straight into the clearing.

Clinging to its back, clumsily, was a cloaked figure. Feminine in shape, but utterly anonymous in that moment, tangled in wind and panic.

She wasn’t attacking. She wasn’t even *looking*. She was just trying to *survive* the damn horse.

The villains didn’t stand a chance.

The horse skidded through the center of the clearing, sideswiping two of the minions and flattening a third beneath a flying saddlebag. Another tried to draw a weapon, only to get a flailing boot to the chest as the girl half-fell, half-catapulted off the saddle, barely regaining balance before the horse surged on—straight through the chaos and out the other side, disappearing into the trees.

The girl vanished with it, arms flailing, voice trailing into the distance. “…WHAT EVEN *IS* THIS DIRECTION?!”

Silence followed except from the villains. The villains groaned on the ground, utterly wrecked by clumsy momentum.

Jack blinked. “Well. That was efficient.”

Pino cackled. “Did you *see* that boot?”

“I want that horse,” Kio whispered.

Arthur sheathed his blade with a sigh. “Everyone alright?”

Merlin nodded, but his brow furrowed. “She wasn’t trying to help.”

“No,” Jack agreed. “But she did.”

A pulse of magic radiated from Merlin’s palm as he snapped his fingers—locking the downed villains in a glowing net of vines and arcane runes. “She may have just saved our lives,” Merlin said.

“And now she’s somewhere in that forest,” Arthur added. “On foot. Possibly concussed.”

“And *possibly* magical,” Noki pointed out. “Did you see how the horse responded when she yelled? It actually looked *ashamed*.”

Jack smirked. “I’ve been in love for less.”

Without another word, they followed the trail of broken branches and hoofprints. They found her a mile down.

The girl—disheveled, irritated, and unmistakably human—was flat on her back in a bed of ferns. The horse stood a few feet away, head bowed guiltily.

“I swear to *every* ancient deity,” she huffed at the horse, not realizing she had an audience, “if you *ever* run into a horde of forest goblins again, I will trade you for *soup bones*.”

The horse whinnied, pitifully. She sighed. “Oh, don’t guilt me. That’s *my* trick.”

A twig snapped. She sat up—very fast, a bit dizzy—and froze as six very distinct men emerged from the brush.

Merlin stepped forward. “…We believe we owe you a rather dramatic thank-you.”

[remae-freyae]

Title: Misbound

Part I: The Wrong Book

No one had ever really looked at Y/N.

She’d been given her magic tome a year ago, just like every other student at the Academy. One student, one book, sealed to their soul until the lessons inside were learned. Master it, and you’d unlock your magical path. Most students completed their beginner tome in three to five months. Some took longer. Six months, maybe seven, if they were lazy or distracted.

Y/N had been on hers for a full year.

She didn’t complain. Not once. Just sat in the back row, scribbling notes and frowning softly as her spells fizzled or backfired or simply didn’t work. Her name became a whisper in the dorm halls. Not a cruel one—but dismissive. The kind of pitying cruelty wrapped in soft tones.

“She’s sweet, but slow.”

“She’s still on glow light runes, right?”

“I heard she accidentally set her desk on fire trying to conjure a paperclip.”

No one asked her why it was taking so long. No teacher double-checked her tome. The Academy’s spellbooks were carefully sorted and bound with layered enchantments. There had never been a misprint, not in two hundred years. So they assumed she was just... behind.

What Y/N didn’t know—what no one realized—was that her book hadn’t been a beginner’s tome at all.bIt had been a master’s guide to spell theory and arcane manipulation. A book that only should’ve been placed in the hands of a certified mage with years of training under their belt. How it ended up in her hands was anyone’s guess. A clerical glitch. A binding accident. Divine mischief.

She only knew one thing: it was hard.

Harder than it should have been. Spells didn’t do what the examples in class said they would. Her runes were different. The instructions made no sense. She spent her nights fumbling through scrolls in the library, re-reading the basics that everyone else had already learned.

She taught herself, from nothing, what most students were given hand-fed in the first week. But then something strange happened.

Once she understood the foundation—the true beginner-level spells she found in a borrowed book—her tome suddenly... made sense. The magic started clicking together like a puzzle she’d been solving upside down. One spell unlocked the understanding of the next. And then the next.

And now, one long year later— she was finally on the final chapter.

The great hall was crowded for the annual demonstration—a live test, open to staff and students, showcasing how far the first-years had come. It wasn’t meant to be flashy. Just a chance to show off some levitation, transmutation, maybe a novice shield if someone got fancy. Some parents came. The headmaster and professors clapped. It was meant to be safe.

Y/N stood near the back, chewing her lip, her fingers tight around the edge of her sleeve. Her name was last on the list. Of course it was. The instructors were already whispering among themselves. Some with gentle patience. Others with polite resignation.

“She’ll try,” one said. “That’s all we can ask.”

“They say she still hasn’t summoned a single stable ward,” another murmured.

“I heard she cried during glyph alignment," another snickered. “Hopefully she won’t pass out this time.”

Y/N walked to the center of the stage when called, eyes lowered, heart pounding. Her palms were sweating. She didn’t want to do this. She hated stages. She hated the feeling of being stared at.

But she raised her hands anyway. Y/N took a breath and started whispering the incantation she’d been working on for weeks. And nothing happened. At first.

Then, a slow, golden pulse spread from her fingers. Not a flicker. Not a spark. But a weave of magic—runes folding outward in perfect sequence, layered in interlocking light. The floor around her lit up in a radiant arcane ring, the sigils glowing so bright some students flinched. A pressure filled the air, followed by a golden hum.

And then—without lifting a single finger—she conjured a floating constellation of crystalline orbs, each one pulsing with stabilized spell energy. They rotated around her like planets orbiting a star. Gasps echoed through the hall.

One of the crystal spheres unfolded into a mirror rune, reflecting not her image—but her tome—now hovering open in front of her, the final page glowing.

“Impossible,” one instructor breathed. “That’s a master level sequence—”

“Is that Tome Series 5?” gasped another. “That’s not a student book! That’s not—how did she—who gave her that?!”

In the center of it all, the Headmaster of the Academy stood frozen, staring at the arcane signature blooming across the floor. His face went pale. “She’s been working from the wrong book this entire time.”

And Y/N.. She was still casting. Still weaving. Still glowing. Too focused to hear the gasps. Too practiced at ignoring them.

But for the first time, they weren’t laughing. They were watching.

Everyone is given a simple tome as their introduction to magic. You are not allowed to learn more spells until you master the first. You spent far longer than anyone else attempting to master your tome. Once you do, nobody believes it’s your only one.

[remae-freyae]

Title: Speak and Be Taken

Part One

No one had told Y/N what might happen if a mortal wandered too close to the border of the Fae Realm and screamed their name. Because no one expected anyone to actually do it.

Mortals feared the fae. Rightfully so. They were tricksters, devourers, dealmakers and oath-bound monsters wrapped in beauty. Their rules were iron-clad and impossible to understand. Their realm—a place of endless twilight and jeweled danger—was not where humans went to be found.

It was where they went to disappear. And that’s exactly what Y/N had wanted.

Her life—if one could still call it that—had been carved hollow by grief and repetition. Disappointments stacked like broken bricks. Losses that never gave her a moment to catch her breath. Her name had become a joke to those who once promised love. And eventually, even the gods above seemed to turn away.

So she wandered.

Miles beyond where the old maps ended, her shoes torn, her voice gone hoarse, until she reached the edge of the world, where the trees shimmered too brightly and the air tasted like starlight and lies.

Then she screamed. Screamed her name into the wind. Over and over, until her throat burned and the sky didn’t echo it back. She wanted it gone. Forgotten. Swallowed by something older and crueler than the world that had failed her.

And something did hear her. Not to forget. But to remember.

The veil thinned with a sound like breath being drawn in, and from between the twisted birch trees, three fae stepped through.

The first was tall and slender, his skin the color of midnight dusted in frost, eyes opalescent and swirling like moonstone smoke. His crown of woven antlers shimmered with dew and thorn. King Oryth. The Wild King.

Beside him stood a woman with hair like molten glass and eyes of polished amber, her dress stitched from the wings of fireflies and crow feathers. Queen Elyra. The Hollow Flame.

And between them… the prince.

Younger. Still ancient. Still terrible in the way only something beautiful and unchanging could be. Prince Caelan. Golden-eyed and utterly silent, his stare resting on Y/N like she was a secret he’d just remembered from a dream.

None of them spoke at first. Just watched her, standing there at the threshold of their world, tears on her face, body trembling with the weight of every ruined year.

Then the queen tilted her head. “She gave her name freely,” Elyra murmured, her voice echoing twice—once in sound, once in thought. “And with intention.”

“That makes it a gift,” said King Oryth.

Caelan didn’t speak. But he stepped forward.

Y/N staggered back, eyes wide. “No—I—take it. Take it. I don’t want it. You can have it. Just make it all stop.”

The king’s smile was slow and sharp. “You don’t just give names to the fae, little mortal. We take them when they matter.”

“I want to be forgotten,” she whispered.

Queen Elyra smiled, pitying and cruel. “Then you’ve come to the wrong court.”

Caelan finally reached her. He didn’t touch her. Just looked at her—looked through her—and said the first words she would hear from him in the years to come. “You are not something to be forgotten.”

Then the wind shifted. And the realm took her.

You have had an absolutely terrible life and decided to go to the fae realm and start screaming your name, hoping to be forgotten or erased. But instead, the king and queen of the fae have gained an odd interest in your existence.

[remae-freyae]

The room was thick with unspoken things. Not tension you could name out loud—no, this was sharper. Tighter. Like a wire pulled taut between them, humming with every breath.

Person B stared, jaw clenched, words hovering on the edge of restraint until they finally snapped. “You’re not charming,” they said, low and laced with something dangerous. “You’re dangerous.”

Across the room, Person A blinked once, slow and deliberate. Then a smirk curled at the edge of their mouth—unrushed, indulgent, like they were savoring it. “Aw,” they said, stepping closer, voice dipped in that velvet-smooth mockery. “Say that again, but slower. I want to use it as my new ringtone.”

Person B’s eyes narrowed. “You’re insane.”

“And yet…” Person A tilted their head, the smirk widening just enough to show it wasn’t going anywhere. “You’re still standing here.”

That did it. Person B shook their head, disgust and exhaustion bleeding together. “I’m done,” they muttered, turning on their heel with rigid finality.

They made it three steps before the air shifted—like gravity remembered itself. A hand caught their wrist. Not forceful. Not desperate. Just... inevitable.

“You don’t get to say something that raw,” Person A said quietly, their voice stripped of performance now—lower, hoarser, almost real, “and walk out like I’m not standing here, wrecked behind a smirk.”

Person B froze. They didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe.

Person A stepped closer until the warmth of their breath brushed the edge of B’s skin. “You call me dangerous,” they whispered, “but you’re the one breaking all my rules just by existing.”

Silence followed—but it wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

[remae-freyae]

Title: The Cold of a Dying God

OneShot: A Lore Olympus short

It started, innocently enough, with a sniffle.

Hades hadn’t thought much of it at first. He was a god, after all. CEO of the Underworld. Lord of the Dead. A sniffle wasn’t exactly threatening—not to someone who routinely handled soul contracts and divine negotiations before breakfast. But by the time they returned from the Olympus quarterly board meeting, he had lost every ounce of composure. Now, draped in his favorite black cashmere robe, he lay across the fainting couch in his office like a fallen warrior, one arm dramatically tossed over his eyes, the other cradling a box of tissues as though it were a fragile relic.

Persephone stood nearby with a steaming mug of herbal tea in one hand, watching her husband with a mix of amusement and mild exasperation. His eyes were glassy, his nose an admirable shade of red, and the soft whimpering noises he kept making were beginning to worry the houseplants.

“It’s a cold, babe,” she said finally, setting the tea on the table beside him.

Hades shifted slightly, lowering his arm just enough to peer at her as if he were on his deathbed. “I think my lungs have turned to ash.”

“They haven’t,” she replied, crouching to pick up the blanket he’d thrown off twenty minutes ago in a bout of fevered restlessness.

“I can’t feel my bones,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and warbled. “They’ve dissolved. I’ve become mist.”

“You still have your cufflinks on,” Persephone said, smoothing the blanket over his legs. “Pretty sure mist doesn’t wear accessories.”

Ignoring her, he gave a shuddering sigh and turned toward her with the weary dignity of a soldier preparing for the end. “I made funeral arrangements.”

Persephone blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I left instructions,” he continued solemnly. “I want a spring ceremony. Something quiet. Lilacs. White linens. Just you… and the dogs.”

She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. “You mean Cerberus and the three ghost puppies you said we couldn’t keep?”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy staring into the middle distance like he was reliving his final memories. “We never got to have those smoked ribs again. The ones from that spring in Elysium—remember? With the honey glaze?”

“I remember,” she said patiently. “You had ribs. I had grilled eggplant and lemon potatoes.”

“Yes,” he whispered, eyes closing. “That was a good day. Me and you. Sunshine. Ribs. I’m gonna get better, Kore. I swear. Just… give me time.”

“You have eternity,” she reminded him. “You’ll live.”

He peeked up at her again. “Will I?”

Persephone sat down beside him, finally letting the smallest smile crack through her carefully neutral expression. She reached out and brushed a few strands of silver hair off his forehead. “You’re dramatic,” she said, her voice soft now. “But I love you.”

His breath caught. “I love you too. Just—if I don’t make it, tell Thanatos he can have my car.”

“You’re not dying.”

He exhaled pitifully and finally picked up the tea she’d brought him. One sip in, and he made a face like she’d handed him a potion brewed from betrayal itself. “It tastes like leaf water.”

“It is leaf water.”

“It’s poison.”

“Drink it,” she said firmly.

With the same pained resolve he used to sign off on death warrants, Hades sipped again, then eased down into the pillows with a barely audible groan. Despite all his posturing, he relaxed a little under her touch, his head leaning toward her shoulder. She didn’t move away.

“I just want another spring,” he mumbled.

“You’ll have hundreds,” she said, kissing the top of his fever-warmed head. “But right now, you’re going to take your goddess-damned nap and let the tea do its work.”

“I will. I just… miss the potatoes. The lemon ones.”

Persephone laughed under her breath and pulled the blanket up higher over his chest. “I’ll make them tomorrow if you behave.”

Hades made a content, muffled noise against her shoulder, finally surrendering to sleep. Outside, the Underworld went on as it always did. But inside, the Lord of the Dead was sleeping off a mortal-grade cold like it was a world-ending plague.

And Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, watched over him with a smile—and a thermometer hidden in her sleeve.

[remae-freyae]

(Attempted to write Mori from Ouran High School Host Club.. not sure if I got his character or not)

Scene: Fifth Period – Literature Class

The classroom was serene—more subdued than the rest of the academy. Shelves of aged books lined the walls, and the warm, dusty scent of paper hung in the air. This was where Ouran’s Literature students sank into quiet analysis of ancient texts and elegant prose.

Mori wasn’t usually partnered with anyone. Most students knew better than to bother the silent wall of a boy who rarely spoke more than five words per hour.

But today, the seat beside him wasn’t empty.

Y/N stood near the front, glancing at the seating chart. She hesitated—just a second—before taking the only available spot. Right beside him.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t fidget. She simply sat down, opened her book, and kept her eyes on the desk.

Mori watched her out of the corner of his eye. There was a stillness to her. Not tense. Just… quiet. Deliberate. Comfortable in her silence the same way he was in his.

The teacher announced the assignment—read a passage from The Tale of Genji aloud with a partner and discuss its themes.

Y/N blinked at the textbook. Then hesitated. Waiting. Everyone else had already started reading. She didn’t seem sure if he would.

So Mori, without fanfare, reached across the table and flipped their copy open to the correct page. He held the book steady between them with one hand, turning it slightly toward her.

Then, in a low voice that most people never got to hear: “You read first.”

Y/N looked up at him, startled by the sound. His voice was deep—steady—but not unkind. She nodded, just once and began to read.

Her voice wasn’t loud. But it was smooth. Measured. A little shaky at first, then more natural by the second paragraph.

Mori listened closely. His gaze never left the page, but his attention never left her.

He didn’t say much—only offered a quiet “your turn” or a soft correction when she stumbled on an old kanji character. But he noticed the way her brow furrowed in focus. How her fingers were ink-smudged from taking notes. How she didn’t fill the silence unnecessarily.

When class ended, she closed the book gently and stood to leave. Mori surprised himself by speaking again. “You’re good at reading.”

She turned to him, blinking. Her lips parted slightly in surprise, as if unsure whether she’d heard him right.

He gave her a faint nod—nothing more. But his tone was certain.

And for the first time, Y/N smiled at him. It wasn’t a big moment. It wasn’t loud.

But Mori felt something shift.

Scene: After School – Garden Courtyard

The late afternoon sun dipped low behind the trees, casting golden light over the quiet courtyard. A blanket was spread neatly over the trimmed grass, covered in pastel napkins and a small stack of dessert boxes. Honey sat cross-legged with a slice of strawberry shortcake in his lap, nibbling happily between hums of satisfaction, while Mori sat beside him, legs stretched out, hands resting loosely over his knees.

Honey looked up mid-bite and tilted his head, his bright eyes narrowing with curiosity. “You’re quiet today,” he said softly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, “but it’s a different kind of quiet.”

Mori’s gaze drifted upward toward the sky, watching the clouds shift behind the academy’s tower. After a pause, he said, “We read Genji in literature today.”

“Ohhh, that one where the prince falls in love with, like, five different people?” Honey giggled, licking a smudge of cream off his fork. “Did anyone fall asleep? That book goes on forever!”

Mori shook his head once. “I had a partner today.”

Honey’s chewing slowed. He blinked. “Partner? Wasn’t everyone already paired up?”

“She’s new," Mori stated softly.

Honey perked up immediately. “Y/N-chan? She’s so cute! I saw her earlier in the hallway. She had that hoodie with the little stars on the sleeves—it was adorable!”

“She didn’t talk much,” Mori said, his voice quieter than usual, more thoughtful.

“Like you!” Honey said brightly, resting Usa-chan in his lap. “Were you okay with that?”

Mori glanced down at his hands, thumbs brushing together slowly. “She listened. Didn’t fidget. She read well. Calm voice.”

Honey beamed, leaning forward as if he was being told a secret. “You liked being her partner.”

Mori didn’t answer—not directly. His silence, as always, said enough.

Honey scooted closer, resting his head gently against Mori’s arm. “You always notice people like that first.”

There was a rare softness in Mori’s expression—barely visible, but undeniably there. His eyes closed for a moment as he murmured, “Yeah.”

Scene: The Next Day – Main Hall, Mid-Morning

Y/N stood just off to the side of the school’s main hallway, balancing a worn sketchbook in her arms as she waited for the doors to open for their next class. A few passing students gave her curious glances, but she kept to herself, attention focused on the drawings peeking out from the edge of the pages.

She didn’t see him at first.

Mori leaned casually against one of the nearby pillars, his height casting a long shadow across the floor. His eyes were trained on her—not in an intense or intrusive way, but in the same steady, observing way he always had when something held his interest. He was good at watching without being noticed. But this time, Honey had apparently taken a different approach.

The smaller boy approached with a bright smile and a playful bounce in his step. “Y/N-chan!” he called cheerfully, waving as he walked up to her. “Hi, hi~! You were Mori-senpai’s partner yesterday, right?”

Y/N blinked and gave a shy smile, hugging the sketchbook a little tighter. “Yeah, for literature class.”

“He told me,” Honey said, practically beaming. “That you read really well and didn’t talk too much.”

Y/N chuckled under her breath. “That’s... a strange compliment, but I’ll take it.”

From where he stood, Mori’s lips quirked into the smallest of smiles.

“Wanna come sit with us during lunch?” Honey asked, tilting his head. “Mori doesn’t ask people, but I can tell he was thinking it.”

Y/N looked over at Mori, surprised to find his gaze already on her—quiet, expectant. Not demanding. Just... open.

Y/N paused, then nodded once. “Sure.”

And with that, she was invited into something new. Something subtle but no less meaningful.

Scene: Ouran Academy Cafeteria – Lunchtime

The cafeteria, as always, looked more like a grand European hall than anything resembling a school. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above white-linen tables, and a golden harp played softly in the corner. Most students dined in curated friend groups or cliques that glittered like royalty.

But in a quiet corner of the room—one slightly tucked away behind a marble column—sat a group of three that didn’t match the rest.

Y/N had her tray neatly arranged: miso soup, steamed rice, and two onigiri she made herself. Across from her sat Honey, legs swinging happily as he chattered with a small grin, crumbs dusting the edges of his lips. Y/N responded softly, laughing under her breath as she sipped from a juice box Honey had insisted she try.

Beside her, Mori sat in calm silence, answering now and then with short phrases and soft nods. He wasn’t frowning. He wasn’t scanning the room like usual. His posture was relaxed—his attention focused solely on the two in front of him.

It was subtle, but anyone who knew Mori well would recognize the difference.

Which is why, when the rest of the Host Club arrived in their usual midday fanfare, it didn’t take long for Tamaki to freeze mid-stride.

He blinked. Then blinked again. “Am I hallucinating? Is that… is Mori-senpai sitting at a table with someone other than Honey and not actively glaring at them?”

Kaoru leaned in, eyes wide. “No, wait—he’s responding. Like... voluntarily.”

Hikaru squinted. “Is she feeding him?!”

“She’s not feeding him,” Kyoya deadpanned, flipping open his tablet, “though that would explain a lot. But no. They’re just talking.”

Haruhi arched an eyebrow. “Are we seriously acting like Mori isn’t allowed to make new friends?”

“We’re not saying he can’t,” Tamaki said, one hand to his chest, “we’re saying he doesn’t! There’s a difference!”

“He’s smiling,” Kaoru pointed out in disbelief. “I mean, he doesn’t even smile that much around us! "

As if on cue, Y/N murmured something dryly funny—likely another quiet joke—and Honey burst out giggling. Mori’s mouth twitched upward again. Not a full smile, but a genuine one.

The group stood frozen.

“She’s dangerous,” Hikaru muttered in disbelief.

“She’s fascinating,” Tamaki whispered.

“She’s being normal,” Haruhi replied flatly.

Kyoya pushed up his glasses with a thoughtful gleam in his eye. “We may need to recalculate the dynamic.”

From their table, Y/N finally looked up—and caught all of them staring. She blinked, pausing mid-sip, clearly unsure what to make of five guys frozen like statues across the cafeteria.

Honey cheerfully waved them over. “Hi, everyone~!”

Mori gave a small nod of acknowledgment. Just enough to say, yes, I’m here, and yes, I’m choosing this.

And as the rest of the Host Club approached, the balance of power—though no one would admit it yet—had started to quietly shift.

[remae-freyae]

(Backstory: Kyoya and Y/N got close the night before.. hint, hint.. Tamaki is being an overprotective dad the next day)

(Small short story.. love roleplaying Tamaki)

Tamaki knew.

He didn’t have proof. Not yet. But he knew something had happened.

Y/N arrived late to the club room the next day—hair tied back, buttoned-up shirt slightly rumpled, Kyoya’s pen clipped to her folder.

Kyoya, meanwhile, looked suspiciously… content. Too calm. Too smug.

Tamaki’s eye twitched. “Y/N,” he said sweetly, side-eyeing her with the intensity of a jealous golden retriever. “Did you… have an eventful evening?”

Y/N sipped her tea, unbothered. “Define eventful.”

Kyoya didn’t look up from his clipboard. “You’re projecting again, Tamaki.”

“I AM NOT PROJECTING—”

“You’re literally standing in the middle of the room projecting,” Haruhi muttered.

But it was too late. Tamaki was pacing.

“MY DAUGHTER—TAINTED BY CORPORATE CHARM—SWEET-TALKED INTO SPREADSHEET SIN!”

Y/N blinked. “...You think he seduced me with Excel?”

“DIDN’T HE?!” Tamaki squeaked.

Kyoya finally set his clipboard down. “Tamaki. Take a breath.”

“I WILL NOT. I REFUSE TO BREATHE WHILE SHE’S BEING LED ASTRAY BY A BRIEFCASE WITH LEGS!”

Y/N smirked. “You know, the briefcase has really nice hands.”

Tamaki collapsed onto a chaise lounge like a Victorian maiden. “KYOYA, YOU’VE RUINED HER!”

Kyoya pushed his glasses up. “You’re welcome.”

[remae-freyae]

In a last ditch attempt to save your people, you offer your life to an ancient god of war and blood. Unfortunately, your translation of the ancient text was a bit off. You're married now.

[remae-freyae]

Title: The Unexpected Ascension

Part I: Not Who He Was Expecting

Loki was in a mood.

He’d been yanked from his wine-soaked afternoon, halfway through a particularly scandalous poem about Dionysus and two very flexible satyrs, only to be told he—Loki Laufeyjarson, the God of Mischief, the silver-tongued shapeshifter, Odin’s blood-brother—was to be the official greeter of this era’s newly Chosen.

It was insulting. Normally, one of the Olympians got to do it. But apparently Zeus was “busy,” Hermes was “traveling,” and Hades didn’t “like people.” So it got passed to the Norse Pantheon, the Asgardians.

So here he stood. Bored. Annoyed. Draped in his black silk robe like an unwilling but undeniably glamorous doorman.

He already knew what to expect: another over-fluffed royal brat who thought the world bowed to their designer sandals. Probably someone with a name like Thalassia or Caelum the Third, with a glowing birthmark and an ego larger than Olympus or Asgard itself.

The chamber flickered. The divine portal flared to life in a blinding storm of light and—

Thunk.

A body hit the marble floor with an audible grunt, not grace. Definitely not grace.

“Shit,” the girl gasped, already scrambling to her feet, rubbing her elbow. “What the actual hell just happened—?”

Loki blinked.

She was… not royalty.

No glowing birthmark. No ceremonial robes. Just jeans with a rip at the knee, scuffed boots, and a hoodie two sizes too big. She was breathing hard, pink hair tousled from the fall, her face twisted into a scowl that could curdle ambrosia.

“Is this some kind of kidnapping?” she snapped, looking around. “Because I’m not rich. I don’t have shit you can ransom. My credit’s garbage, and I swear I’ll bite someone if they try anything.”

Loki’s smirk twitched to life, curiosity replacing irritation. “Well, you certainly have the pomp I was expecting. Though I was led to believe you’d have more jewels and less… fire.”

She turned to him, sizing him up. “And who the hell are you supposed to be? Fancy pajama guy?”

He blinked again. Then laughed. Really laughed. “Pajama guy? Oh, I like you already.”

“I don’t like you,” she snapped back. “And nobody asked me if I wanted to be dropped into a glowing marble IKEA showroom by Thor’s side hustle.”

“Charming and violent,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “No wonder the gods picked you. They must be craving chaos.”

She folded her arms. “Start explaining, sparkle robe. Or I start swinging.”

Loki tilted his head, watching her like a cat might watch a flame—aware it could burn him, but unable to look away.

“No throne. No prophecy. No noble bloodline. Just teeth,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her. “How very inconvenient… and how utterly fascinating.”

Y/N scowled harder. “What does that mean?”

“It means, Y/N,” he purred, stepping closer, “that you’ve been Chosen by the gods. Elevated. Divine. You’re not a pawn anymore.” His grin widened. “You’re on the board now. And I get the singular honor of showing you how much that changes… everything.”

She stared at him. “This is a prank, right?”

He leaned in, voice dropping silk-smooth. “Oh, darling. You’ll wish it was.”

And for the first time in a thousand years, Loki wasn’t annoyed about his assignment.

He was intrigued. Terribly, delightfully intrigued.

[remae-freyae]

Hockey Tension Parts 1-3

You never imagined your career would lead you here—standing in a professional hockey training facility, surrounded by protein shake bottles, rehab bands, and the thick stench of sweat and testosterone. You’d worked with athletes before, sure, but never a full-time gig with an entire hockey team. Yet here you were, the newest physical therapist for the local team, trying to blend in without getting caught up in the egos skating around the locker room.

And speaking of egos—

The door creaked open and in walked Logan Walker, the team’s golden boy. The star forward. Local legend. The cocky grin on his face could be seen from across the room as he strutted toward the training table, a towel slung lazily over one shoulder. "Well, well, well. Look what we have here."

You looked up from the clipboard you were reviewing, expression unreadable. He was exactly what you'd expected: all swagger and smirking charm. You didn't need to deep dive to know his type. "Logan, right? The one who thinks he's God's gift to hockey?"

Logan paused mid-step, clearly amused by your deadpan delivery. "Guilty as charged. And you are?"

You tapped your pen against the edge of the table. "You’re new PT." You gestured to the padded surface. "Now, let's see that shoulder."

His brow quirked up, but he didn’t argue. Wordlessly, he peeled off his shirt—casual, confident, clearly used to the attention. And while you were a professional, you couldn’t help the brief flicker of appreciation at his sculpted physique. Still, your expression didn’t change. You weren’t here to ogle.

"So, doc," he said, flexing slightly as he took a seat. "Think you can handle me?"

You smirked, placing your hands gently on his shoulder before applying pressure. "I can handle anything you throw at me, hotshot. Now, does this hurt?"

Logan inhaled sharply, but tried to play it cool. "Nah, I'm good."

You slowed your movements slightly, voice lowering with gentle assurance. "You know, it's okay to admit when something hurts. I'm here to help you, not judge."

His gaze met yours, the edge of his cockiness dulling as he gave a small nod. "Yeah, okay. Maybe it's a bit sore."

"Good," you said, satisfied. You moved back to your task, focused and steady. "Now, let's get you fixed up."

As your hands worked over the muscle fibers, you could feel his eyes on you—not in the usual way men stared, but with curiosity. Interest. Maybe even something like respect. It was subtle, but noticeable. You weren’t swooning over him, weren’t falling for the charm he clearly relied on. And that intrigued him.

"You're different," he murmured, quietly enough that it almost didn’t register.

You glanced up, offering a faint smile. "Different is good, right?"

His smirk faded into a real smile—genuine, soft around the edges. "Yeah, different is good."

---

The days melted into weeks, each one blurring into the next with rehab sessions, early morning practices, and icy sports tape. But you found yourself looking forward to Logan’s sessions more than you wanted to admit. There was a rhythm to your banter now, an unspoken ease. He’d arrive with a joke or a story, and you’d pretend not to care—though your smile always gave you away.

One evening, after a particularly rough scrimmage, Logan limped into the room. His usual confident energy had drained into the ground, replaced with frustration and fatigue.

"Rough day?" you asked, already gathering an ice pack and a warm compress.

He gave a humorless laugh as he eased down onto the table. "Coach rode us hard. Playoffs are coming up."

You crouched beside him, gently assessing the muscle tension in his thigh. "You need to take care of yourself, Logan. You're no good to the team if you're injured."

There was something different in the way he looked at you now. Less teasing, more serious. Like he was really seeing you. "You really care, don't you?"

Your fingers paused briefly. A flush crept into your cheeks, but you didn’t look up. "It's my job to care."

He reached out then, hand covering yours in a way that felt both warm and electric. "I think it's more than that."

Your heart stuttered. But you didn’t move. "Logan..." you whispered, unsure where this was heading.

He leaned in slightly, voice just above a whisper. "You're different, Y/N. You challenge me, you push me. You make me want to be better."

Your breath hitched. His gaze dipped to your lips. The tension was thick—buzzing, breathless—

"Y/N," he murmured, and you swore the room itself leaned in. Then—

The door burst open. A teammate poked his head in, oblivious to the moment unraveling in front of him. "Logan, Coach needs you—"

Logan exhaled slowly, jaw clenching with frustration. He stood up, reluctantly dropping your hand. "Duty calls." His eyes lingered on yours. "To be continued?"

You gave a small, rueful smile. "To be continued."

And as he left, the door swinging shut behind him, you released the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You were in deep. But the funny thing was—you didn’t mind.

---

The unspoken tension simmered under the surface for the next few weeks. Neither of you acknowledged it directly, but it flavored every session, every glance, every half-smile exchanged when no one else was looking.

You kept things professional. Barely. Logan, to his credit, tried to do the same—though the way his fingers brushed yours when he didn’t need to or the way he lingered after everyone else had gone said otherwise.

Game day arrived, and you found yourself stationed on the players’ bench, clipboard in hand, tracking every hit and stride. The crowd roared around you, but your eyes kept drifting to the ice.

Logan was electric—scoring like he had something to prove. After each goal, his gaze would flick your way with that familiar smirk, like he knew exactly what he was doing to your heartbeat. You tried not to react.. and you failed each time.

Midway through the second intermission, as you discussed a player’s condition with one of the assistant coaches, you caught movement out of the corner of your eye. A new figure glided across the rink toward your bench—confident, tall, sharp-featured—and he wasn’t wearing your team’s colors.

"Well, if it isn't Y/N, the famous trainer I've been hearing about," he said smoothly, voice low with just enough gravel to make it flirtatious.

You straightened, clipboard still in hand. "Is that so? And you are?"

He extended a gloved hand, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Dante Rivas. Captain of the other guys. Thought I’d finally introduce myself before I get completely distracted."

You hesitated, then shook his hand briefly. "Nice to meet you. I'm just here doing my job."

Dante leaned in slightly, his tone dropping. "If your job involves looking this good on the bench, you're overqualified."

You blinked, caught off guard by the boldness.

"Maybe after the game, you and I could talk... injuries. Over drinks," he said, gaze trailing down, then back up. “Or better yet... I’ll let you diagnose me hands-on.”

Your brows shot up. You opened your mouth—half to respond, half to shut him down—but a sharp sound cut through the moment.

The screech of skates on ice. Then a solid form stepped between you.

Logan.

He didn’t look at Dante. Not yet. His body simply positioned itself between yours and the opposing captain’s like a wall of heat and warning.

"Something you need, Captain?" Logan asked, voice low, edged with steel. It sounded almost possessive.. Dangerous.

Dante chuckled, clearly not intimidated. "Just welcoming your team’s PT to the game. She’s... charming."

Logan’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t rise to it. He simply stared until Dante backed off, giving you one last knowing smile before skating away.

As the distance grew, Logan finally turned to you, his tone gentler. "You okay?"

You exhaled a slow breath, lips quirking slightly. "I'm fine. But you might want to focus on the game, hotshot."

He grinned, eyes dark with something unspoken. "Yes, ma’am."

As he skated back out, you watched the tension ripple in his shoulders—and the way he barely glanced at the puck drop before body-checking the next guy who looked at you for too long.

Yeah. You were definitely in deep and something told you the game between you and Logan wasn’t just heating up.

It was about to get personal.