#team: built for each other<3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[my-fall-from-grace]

order of the cats passing around the stanley cup:

sasha

schmidty

seth

nosek

vanny

aj

jesper

THE BABEY MACKIE

balinskis

megna

cormier

the man the myth the legend sergei bobrovsky

marchy

kulikov

ekky

reino mr dick trick himself 💅

benny OUR mvp leading goal scorer

chucky

forsy

swaggy baby <333

evan (that name on the cup AGAIN)

mikksy

lousty

lundy

gadjy

sturm

zito

pomo

[doedipus]

tf2 pyro airblast and ggst baiken parry are moves that infuriate me for mostly the same reasons and I think both will probably be used to torment me during my journey through the underworld

[amelikos]

Spotlight posts of each chapter in anticipation of HZ100 (Liko and Roy Set Off, Terapagos' Shine, Terastal Debut, Rayquaza Rising).

[reasonsforhope]

Pictured: Luis Cassiano is the founder of Teto Verde Favela, a nonprofit that teaches favela residents in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, how to build their own green roofs as a way to beat the heat. He's photographed at his house, which has a green roof.

Article

"Cassiano is the founder of Teto Verde Favela, a nonprofit that teaches favela residents how to build their own green roofs as a way to beat the heat without overloading electrical grids or spending money on fans and air conditioners. He came across the concept over a decade ago while researching how to make his own home bearable during a particularly scorching summer in Rio.

A method that's been around for thousands of years and that was perfected in Germany in the 1960s and 1970s, green roofs weren't uncommon in more affluent neighborhoods when Cassiano first heard about them. But in Rio's more than 1,000 low-income favelas, their high cost and heavy weight meant they weren't even considered a possibility.

That is, until Cassiano decided to team up with a civil engineer who was looking at green roofs as part of his doctoral thesis to figure out a way to make them both safe and affordable for favela residents. Over the next 10 years, his nonprofit was born and green roofs started popping up around the Parque Arará community, on everything from homes and day care centers, to bus stops and food trucks.

When Gomes da Silva heard the story of Teto Verde Favela, he decided then and there that he wanted his home to be the group's next project, not just to cool his own home, but to spread the word to his neighbors about how green roofs could benefit their community and others like it.

Pictured: Jessica Tapre repairs a green roof in a bus stop in Benfica, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

Relief for a heat island

Like many low-income urban communities, Parque Arará is considered a heat island, an area without greenery that is more likely to suffer from extreme heat. A 2015 study from the Federal Rural University of Rio de Janeiro showed a 36-degree difference in land surface temperatures between the city's warmest neighborhoods and nearby vegetated areas. It also found that land surface temperatures in Rio's heat islands had increased by 3 degrees over the previous decade.

That kind of extreme heat can weigh heavily on human health, causing increased rates of dehydration and heat stroke; exacerbating chronic health conditions, like respiratory disorders; impacting brain function; and, ultimately, leading to death.

But with green roofs, less heat is absorbed than with other low-cost roofing materials common in favelas, such as asbestos tiles and corrugated steel sheets, which conduct extreme heat. The sustainable infrastructure also allows for evapotranspiration, a process in which plant roots absorb water and release it as vapor through their leaves, cooling the air in a similar way as sweating does for humans.

The plant-covered roofs can also dampen noise pollution, improve building energy efficiency, prevent flooding by reducing storm water runoff and ease anxiety.

"Just being able to see the greenery is good for mental health," says Marcelo Kozmhinsky, an agronomic engineer in Recife who specializes in sustainable landscaping. "Green roofs have so many positive effects on overall well-being and can be built to so many different specifications. There really are endless possibilities.""

Pictured: Summer heat has been known to melt water tanks during the summer in Rio, which runs from December to March. Pictured is the water tank at Luis Cassiano's house. He covered the tank with bidim, a lightweight material conducive for plantings that will keep things cool.

A lightweight solution

But the several layers required for traditional green roofs — each with its own purpose, like insulation or drainage — can make them quite heavy.

For favelas like Parque Arará, that can be a problem.

"When the elite build, they plan," says Cassiano. "They already consider putting green roofs on new buildings, and old buildings are built to code. But not in the favela. Everything here is low-cost and goes up any way it can."

Without the oversight of engineers or architects, and made with everything from wood scraps and daub, to bricks and cinder blocks, construction in favelas can't necessarily bear the weight of all the layers of a conventional green roof.

That's where the bidim comes in. Lightweight and conducive to plant growth — the roofs are hydroponic, so no soil is needed — it was the perfect material to make green roofs possible in Parque Arará. (Cassiano reiterates that safety comes first with any green roof he helps build. An engineer or architect is always consulted before Teto Verde Favela starts a project.)

And it was cheap. Because of the bidim and the vinyl sheets used as waterproof screening (as opposed to the traditional asphalt blanket), Cassiano's green roofs cost just 5 Brazilian reais, or $1, per square foot. A conventional green roof can cost as much as 53 Brazilian reais, or $11, for the same amount of space.

"It's about making something that has such important health and social benefits possible for everyone," says Ananda Stroke, an environmental engineering student at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro who volunteers with Teto Verde Favela. "Everyone deserves to have access to green roofs, especially people who live in heat islands. They're the ones who need them the most." ...

It hasn't been long since Cassiano and the volunteers helped put the green roof on his house, but he can already feel the difference. It's similar, says Gomes da Silva, to the green roof-covered moto-taxi stand where he sometimes waits for a ride.

"It used to be unbearable when it was really hot out," he says. "But now it's cool enough that I can relax. Now I can breathe again."

-via NPR, January 25, 2025

[purifiedclitoris69]

Statements

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Shield agent!reader

Summary: Assumptions are made about the relationship you have with Natasha, so you took it upon yourself to make a statement :)

Your relationship with Natasha is built on years of trust, mutual respect, and an unspoken understanding that comes from living in the shadows of espionage. You met when she first joined SHIELD, and while she was still finding her footing within the organization, you were already established as a specialist sniper—someone who worked alone, took the impossible shots, and disappeared before anyone even knew you were there.

At first, your relationship was purely professional. You recognized each other as dangerous and highly capable, but there was always a quiet pull between you. Over time, through shared missions, late-night debriefs, and the rare moments of quiet in a world full of chaos, that pull became something more. It wasn’t dramatic or rushed—it was a slow burn, a natural evolution of two people who understood each other better than most and yearned to show one another a genuine love.

Now, after almost 3 years together, your bond is unshakable. While the Avengers see you around the compound, they don’t truly know the depth of what you and Natasha have. They assume your relationship is casual, just a convenience in a life full of uncertainty. But in reality, Natasha loves you fiercely, and you love her just as much. You’re her safe place, the person she trusts with the parts of herself she doesn’t show anyone else. When the world feels too heavy, she turns to you—not for protection, because she doesn’t need it, but for the rare comfort of knowing she’s not alone.

You don’t need grand gestures or constant declarations. Your love is in the quiet moments—the way she always finds her way to you after a mission, the way you instinctively reach for her hand under the table, the way she relaxes against you when no one is watching. To the outside world, you might just be another agent who occasionally lingers at the compound. But to Natasha, you’re home.

—————————-———

Wanda was the first to recognize the depth of your relationship.

It was early—early enough that most of the team was still asleep or barely functioning. The compound was quiet, save for the soft hum of the coffee machine in the kitchen. You stood by the counter, leaning against it, eyes still heavy with sleep as you waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

Natasha, still in her sleep shorts and one of your old SHIELD t-shirts, wandered in with a yawn, her hair slightly tousled from sleep. She didn’t say anything as she approached—you felt her presence before you saw her. Without hesitation, she walked straight into your space, wrapping her arms around your waist and burying her face into your chest.

"Mm. Too early," she mumbled against you.

You huffed a quiet laugh, your hand instinctively coming up to rub slow, soothing circles on her back. "You say that every morning, but you’re always up before me."

She hummed but didn’t respond, just tightening her grip around you as if she could steal some of your warmth. You didn’t mind. In fact, moments like this were your favorite—the ones where she let her guard down, where she wasn’t the Black Widow or an Avenger, just Natasha, just yours.

Neither of you noticed Wanda standing by the doorway, frozen mid-step. She had come in for coffee but stopped in her tracks at the sight of Natasha—fierce, guarded Natasha—melted completely against you.

Wanda had always assumed your relationship was casual. Everyone had. You weren’t around often, and Natasha never entertained deep conversations about her personal life. But standing there, watching the way she clung to you, the way your hand moved over her back with the kind of practiced ease that spoke of years of familiarity, Wanda realized they had all been wrong.

This wasn’t casual. This was love—deep, unwavering, and so achingly real.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but eventually, Natasha stirred, tilting her head up to look at you. "Coffee ready?"

"Almost," you murmured, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. The gesture was so gentle, so natural, that Wanda almost felt like she was intruding.

Before Natasha could move away, you leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead. "Go sit. I’ll bring you a cup."

Natasha didn’t argue, just gave you a sleepy, content smile before releasing you and making her way to the kitchen table.

Wanda finally decided to make her presence known, clearing her throat as she stepped fully into the kitchen. "Morning," she greeted, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips as she grabbed a mug and you unpromptedly filled it for her greeting her with a kind smile and filling Nat’s next, starting another pot for anyone else who might want it.

Natasha, already seated, just raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Wanda glanced between the two of you, then just shook her head, her smirk widening. "Nothing. Just... you two are cute," she blew on her coffee.

Natasha rolled her eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. Meanwhile, you simply handed Natasha her coffee before grabbing your own along with d the morning crossword, completely unfazed.

Wanda took a sip of her drink, still smiling to herself. Maybe the rest of the team had been blind to it, but now she knew the truth—Natasha Romanoff was hopelessly, completely in love.

—————————-———

The next person was Steve. You had gone on another lengthy mission; it had kept you away for weeks longer than either of you liked. You had kept in touch when you could, brief calls and cryptic messages, but it wasn’t the same. And now, finally, you were back.

Steve wasn’t looking for either of you when he entered the common room. He had just been passing through, planning to grab something from the kitchen before heading to the gym. But as soon as he stepped in, he stopped in his tracks.

The lights were dim, the soft crackle of the old record player filling the space. An oldie—something slow, something familiar. And in the center of the room, barely swaying to the rhythm, was you and Natasha.

She was pressed against you, arms loosely wrapped around your shoulders, her fingers idly playing with the hairs at the back of your neck. Your hands rested on her waist, holding her close as if you needed to feel her warmth to believe this moment had finally come after weeks of waiting.

Neither of you spoke. There was no need. The way Natasha clung to you, the way you held her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered, it said everything.

Steve had never seen her like this. Sure, he had seen her care about people, had seen her protect and fight for those she loved. But this? This was different. This was Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, completely at peace. Safe. Home.

He felt like he was intruding on something sacred, so he took a quiet step back, turning to leave—only to nearly bump into Bucky.

“what’s with the face?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow at the look on Steve’s face.

Steve exhaled, shaking his head with a slight chuckle. “Nothing, just—” He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at Bucky. “You and Sam better stop checking Nat out so much.”

Bucky scoffed. “What? We don’t—”

Steve gave him a knowing look.

Bucky shifted. “Alright, maybe Sam does. I just—y’know, appreciate a good—”

Steve cut him off. “Don’t.”

Bucky smirked. “Okay, but why the sudden warning?”

Steve shook his head again, that small smile still lingering. “Because they’re in love. Like, really in love.”

Bucky frowned. “I mean, yeah, I figured they were serious, but—”

“No,” Steve interrupted. “Not just serious. Not just together. In love.”

Bucky studied him for a second, something unreadable passing over his expression before he nodded. “Alright,” he said simply.

Steve gave him a final glance before clapping him on the shoulder and walking off, leaving Bucky standing there, a little quieter than usual.

Because if what Steve was saying was true, then it wasn’t just Natasha they had underestimated. It was you.

—————————-———

The true statement was made in the compound gym.

The gym was alive with movement—punching bags swinging, the clatter of weights, and the rhythmic sound of fists meeting training dummies. You had just finished some shooting drills when you decided to swing by, knowing exactly where Natasha would be.

Sure enough, there she was, moving like a force of nature. Every strike was precise, every kick sharp. She was a sight to behold—dangerous, powerful, and effortlessly graceful.

Apparently, you weren’t the only one who thought so.

You noticed Sam and Bucky standing off to the side, arms crossed, observing her with a little too much focus. Eyes tracked her every movement, and while you weren’t necessarily the jealous type, and were well aware how gorgeous Natasha is; people couldn't help but be enamoured by her, however weren’t about to let this slide.

You strolled up beside them, tilting your head. "Enjoying the view?"

Bucky, to his credit, immediately raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, don’t look at me. I was admiring the technique, alright?" He nodded toward Natasha. "She’s one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen."

You eyed him for a second before nodding, accepting the explanation. Bucky was a lot of things, but he wasn’t dumb enough to cross that line.

Sam, however—

"Look, I’m just saying," Sam started, his eyes still trailing Natasha as she wiped sweat off her forehead. "It’s not my fault she moves like that. That’s a distraction."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Sam glanced at you, then seemed to realize way too late that he had just said that to the one person who could make him regret it. "Uh—"

"You know what?" You rolled your shoulders, tossing your towel aside. "I feel like I haven’t sparred in a while. What do you say, Wilson? A little one-on-one?"

Sam hesitated, looking between you and Bucky, who just took a step back, clearly enjoying the fact that he wasn’t involved.

"You sure you wanna do this?" Sam asked, crossing his arms. "I mean, no offense, but I’ve got wings, I’ve fought aliens—"

"You’re standing here watching my girlfriend train. I just want to see how you train too." you cut in, smirking.

The room went silent for half a beat before Bucky let out a low chuckle. "Oh, this is gonna be good."

Clint grinned, nudging Wanda. "Five bucks says Sam regrets this immediately."

Natasha, who had been too focused on training to notice the exchange earlier, finally turned toward the group, eyebrow raised. "What’s going on?"

Wanda smirked. "Your sniper just challenged Sam to a sparring match because he got caught staring at you."

Natasha let out a small laugh, tossing a towel over her shoulder as she walked closer. "Oh, I have to see this."

Sam exhaled, shaking his head. "Y’all are ridiculous. But fine. Let’s do this."

You stepped onto the mat, rolling your shoulders as Sam joined you. He gave a cocky smirk. "You sure you wanna do this? I am pretty fast, you know."

You just smirked back. "We’ll see."

Steve, ever the responsible one, clapped his hands. "Alright, keep it clean."

The second Steve gave the go-ahead, you moved—fast.

Sam barely had time to react before you were already in his space, effortlessly dodging his first strike. You didn’t just block—you controlled. Every punch he threw was sidestepped. Every kick, redirected. You weren’t just fighting Sam. You were toying with him.

The smirk on his face started fading as frustration crept in. "Damn," he muttered, throwing another punch. You caught his wrist, twisting him off-balance before sweeping his legs out from under him.

Sam hit the mat with a grunt.

From the sidelines, Bucky let out a whistle. "That looked like it hurt."

Clint was grinning beside Nat.

Wanda shook her head in amusement. "He walked right into that one."

Sam groaned but pushed himself back up. "Alright, alright—lucky shot."

You didn’t respond. You just motioned for him to try again.

This time, he put more effort into his attacks, but it didn’t make a difference. Every move he made, you were already three steps ahead. You parried, countered, redirected—all with ease.

After a few more humiliating takedowns, Sam finally dropped to the mat, breathing hard, lying flat on his back. "Damn. Alright. Message received."

You crouched down beside him, grinning. "Good. Maybe next time, you’ll keep your eyes to yourself playboy"

Sam exhaled, closing his eyes. "Noted."

You stood up, offering him a hand. He took it, groaning as he got to his feet. "You really don’t like people looking at her, huh?"

You shrugged, "I know she can handle herself, I just felt like making a statement today," you smiled stepping off the mat and walking to Nat

"Possessive looks good on you," Natasha said with her signature smirk

Without a second thought, you grabbed her by the waist and kissed her—really kissed her—right in front of everyone. It was slow, deep, and left no room for doubt. Natasha, normally composed, melted into you, gripping your bicep to steady herself.

When you pulled back, she was a little breathless, a rare blush dusting her cheeks.

You smirked. "See you at dinner, love."

And with that, you walked off, leaving Natasha still catching her breath.

Clint let out a low whistle. "Damn."

Wanda smirked. "That was a statement,” Natasha throwing a towel at her, mumbling out a whatever and heading to the lockers

Bucky clapped Sam on the shoulder. "So, you still gonna stare?"

Sam rolled his eyes taking a tired seat on the bench "I hate you all."

[nottswitch]

— if you’ve been naughty, you get…

──────────────── 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩. ──

summary: quidditch is a sport that demands strength and stamina, resulting in physical exertion. exertion equals releasing disproportionate amounts of warmth, which, as it turns out, feels better shared.

pairing: mattheo riddle x reader

cw: 18+ smut, enemies to lovers, rough p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, semi-public sex, spanking, choking, degrading, hair grabbing, cursing

wc: 3.1k

a/n: the first fic of the naughty side of the list, so buckle up for the filth!! hope you enjoy <3

⟡ navigation ; m.lists ; mattheo m.list ; kinkmas 2024

────────────────────────

The entirety of the Quidditch stadium roared as Harry Potter hovered proudly in the air, the Golden Snitch snug between his fingers. The ultimate rivalry between the houses never ceased to exist, be it on the school grounds or on the pitch, the students from other houses having chosen a side long ago and now discreetly passing galleons to each other in the stands. You craned your neck a bit, your loosely tied scarf sliding off as you watched the players descend onto the ground, the green and silver side clearly trying to get off the pitch as hastily as possible.

Mattheo was, for all intents and purposes, pissed. His nostrils were flared, his breath coming out short and ragged, the exertion from the long-winded game straining his aching muscles. His bat was clutched tightly in his hand, his knuckles almost translucent as he fought the urge to swing it at the annoyingly smug Gryffindors who seemed to be very purposeful with the loudness of their celebrations. A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth – the opportunity was too golden, no pun intended, to have a go at the guy, even though you knew that now, of all times, he wouldn’t dream of holding back. It was a constant push and pull between the two of you, a burning need to kick the other while they were down, and a loss of a very important game was a chance presenting itself on a silver platter.

"Hey, Riddle!"

The sound of your voice made Mattheo grit his teeth, the vibration echoing in his already ringing ears. His eyes briefly darted to you descending the stairs from the top of the stands, the look in them as close to murderous as it can possibly get.

"Don’t," he muttered, continuing to stride across the field, towards the tunnel, where the other players from the Slytherin team had already disappeared.

"Don’t what?"

Your voice was clearly taunting as you approached him, your arms crossing on your chest as you fixed him with a smirk. Unconsciously, your gaze slid down his body, taking in the sight of his Quidditch jersey clinging to him, damp with sweat and accentuating the ridges of his toned abs. You licked your lips, the action coming out of your subconsciousness that craved to feel those abs underneath your palms, although you had yet to admit it.

"Don’t fucking try me right now," Mattheo retorted without sparing you a glance. He was already more than a little aggravated, and the last thing he needed was your teasing and endless quips, combined with the effortless allure you always held despite being an insufferable little cunt. His uniform suddenly felt too tight, which prompted him to take off the green jersey, harshly tugging it over his head with one hand.

Your lips parted ever so slightly as you watched his torso opening up to you in all its firm, built glory. But the muscles weren’t the first thing that you noticed – as much as the view was enticing, it was also not completely new. No, the thing that made your breath hitch was the fact that he was literally steaming, as if he had just left a sauna. Translucent whirls were emanating from his heated body, his skin breaking out in goosebumps in the chilly December air. Mattheo didn’t even shiver, throwing the piece of clothing over his shoulder and flicking the bat from one hand to the other. His pace was firm and purposeful, leaving no doubts about his intentions to leave the Quidditch pitch as quickly as possible.

You had entirely different plans for him, though.

Without thinking much, you followed him into the tunnel leading out of the stadium, barely able to match his long steps.

“Or what?” you called out defiantly, finally reaching him at the price of your breath getting shallow and your heart beating faster than normal. You weren’t one hundred percent sure it was just the effect of walking quickly.

Mattheo stopped in his tracks, nearly making you stumble into his broad back. His eyes closed shut for a moment, his chest heaving as he took a deep breath, feeling his already nonexistent control slipping away with every single sound of yours he heard behind him.

“You will regret it,” he muttered through gritted teeth, not making a move to turn around to look at you – he knew that if he did, he could say goodbye to any traces of restraint still left in him.

“Oh, really?”

You knew you were walking a dangerous line by taunting him like that, but at this point, you couldn’t stop. Was it a sudden surge of bravery, was it recklessness or something else, deeper and yet uncharted, you couldn’t tell. You just knew that if you stopped right now – that was what you’d regret for a long, long time, possibly for the rest of your life. You stepped closer, your chest almost pressing against his back, feeling his muscles tense as your proximity registered in his mind and sent signals through his whole body.

That step was all it took for him to finally snap. In a split second, his hand was wrapped around your throat, pressing you against the wall of the tunnel. A strangled gasp escaped your parted lips, your pulse fluttering wildly as his fingers pressed right on the point, curling around your neck as if he was ready to snap it in half. He probably could, if he wanted to.

“Say another word and find out,” Mattheo hissed, the warm air of his breath brushing against your flushed face. His already dark chocolate eyes darkened further – you swore you could see his pupils dilating in real time, the dimness inside the tunnel failing to hide the mixture of anger and lust swirling in their depths.

“I’m not scared of you,” you whispered, your voice quiet but filled with a strange type of determination. Whatever was happening was something completely new in your dynamic, yet it felt like it had been building up the whole time you spent bickering and trying to get to each other using the power of biting words.

Mattheo’s hold grew tighter around your throat, almost cutting off the stream of much needed air flowing into your lungs.

“You should be.”

A loud thud echoed through the tunnel as his bat hit the floor, thrown away and immediately forgotten about. His newly freed hand gripped your waist, pressing you harder into the wall, the coldness of the surface seeping through the fabric of your winter robes. Mattheo’s body was flush against your front, creating a sharp contrast between the chill of the air surrounding you and his fired up skin, dampening your shirt with small rivulets of sweat dripping off him.

You swallowed thickly, unable to tear your gaze off his face, his dangerously handsome features tense and barely moving. You had no idea what to do with your hands, so they ended up on his bare chest without any real input from your mind, which, you could tell, was slowly turning off anyway. A hiss coming from him once your skin touched his was a surprise, but you couldn’t lie and say you didn’t enjoy his reaction. For some reason, you found yourself bold enough to try exploring this newfound knowledge, sliding your hand down his chest, along the firm planes and ridges. Two things happened at the same time: Mattheo’s fingers dug deeper into the sides of your throat, causing a strangled sound to escape your lips, while his other hand left your waist to grab your traveling wrist.

“You have no fucking idea what you’re doing right now,” Mattheo muttered, and you swore you could hear his teeth grinding against each other. “I’ll show you, though. I’ll fucking show you.”

Next thing you knew, you were lifted off the ground, stuck in the iron bars of his embrace. The instinct in you that still tried to persuade you that this whole thing was wrong made your dangling feet try to hit Mattheo’s knee. This weak attempt at defiance was quickly stopped by his arm moving down and tightly locking around your thighs, stopping your legs from moving altogether.

“Asshole.” You did hear the treacherous breathlessness of your voice, but also didn’t have it in you to care. The heat between your legs was rapidly intensifying, the friction created by your pressed up thighs only making you more desperate for something real, something substantial to quench your undeniable thirst.

A dark smirk appeared on Mattheo’s face, the one that did nothing to soften his expression – it only made him look more like the devil he appeared to be. A second later, his foot was pushing a door you didn’t even know was there, doing the same from the other side once he walked into a dark room that smelled like wood and broom polish. You didn’t have time to think or formulate a snarky response to his actions before you were getting turned around and bent over, Mattheo’s hand pressing insistently on the back of your neck. You barely had time to stabilize yourself against the cold wooden bench that stood at the wall, your scarf sliding off completely and falling to the floor.

“What the fuck?!” you exclaimed, although it was more of a formality, since you made no actual attempt to get up from the new position. Mattheo, of course, took notice of that, his smirk widening a bit.

“This the only thing you can think of?” His voice was cold and mocking at the same time, not failing to send a shiver down your spine – it was huskier than usual, an undertone of desire obvious even to untrained ears. Mattheo effortlessly lifted up the hem of your robes, the rumpled fabric of your skirt splayed across your ass in a way he found sinful. “Where’s the smartass attitude, hm?”

A sharp smack landed on your ass, stinging even through several layers of clothing. Your body jolted forward, a yelp breaking out of your throat both at the unexpectedness of it and a wave of pleasure the smack sent straight between your legs. Mattheo found himself enjoying your reaction, his hand coming up to rest on your hip, fingers curling and pressing into the flesh.

“Fuck y-,” you started to mutter, glancing at him over your shoulder, but another smack shut you up pretty quickly. You could feel the sting, only intensified when his strong hand grabbed a handful of your ass, roughly kneading and squeezing.

“Much better from this angle,” Mattheo murmured, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek as his eyes shamelessly roamed your body up and down. His free hand slid up your back, pushing you to lean further down against the bench until he reached your hair. His fingers threaded through your locks in an almost tender gesture, one so uncharacteristic of Mattheo Riddle, before he yanked your head back, making you hiss from the harshness of the pull.

The warmth of his body enveloped you whole as Mattheo bent over, his flaming chest covering the entirety of your back. A fleeting thought flickered in your mind, that even the warmest robes couldn’t hold a candle to the human heater that was Mattheo after a Quidditch game. As his mouth neared your ear, his hand never stilled on your ass, lifting your skirt up to bunch up at your waist and running over the fabric of your tights.

“Really?” he asked, mockingly, making you want to strangle him and kiss the hell out of him at the same time. Your lips parted when you felt his sneaky fingers pressing between your legs, causing your thighs to clench. “D’you know I can feel you getting wet?” he cooed, brushing his lips against your ear, you were sure, very deliberately. You closed your eyes, unwanted embarrassment making its way to your cheeks, and you just knew the bastard was smirking again. You couldn’t control your body’s reaction to him, though, and your wetness seeping through your tights fully gave you away.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. I thought your smartass mouth could handle better than that.”

Mattheo gave your hair another tug before his hand slipped down, curling around your throat again. His grip was tight, not allowing even a single millimeter of movement, a strangled gasp escaping you once you felt his hips pressing to your ass from the back. His hard-on was firmly planted between your cheeks, straining against his Quidditch trousers, as if he was trying to break through the layers of your clothing.

“But when I’m next to you,” Mattheo continued murmuring into your ear, a malicious smirk giving his words a dangerous hint, “you’re just a bitch in heat.”

“Fuck. You.”

You somehow managed to find words, the ones you couldn’t bring yourself to say before. Mattheo chuckled darkly, feeling your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his thumb – you really weren’t the best in hiding your deepest emotions, though your face still tried to keep its defiant stance.

“That’s the plan,” he answered, as his fingers moved against your covered pussy, the sound of it, though muffled, still embarrassingly wet. Once his torturous movements stopped, you nearly whined, biting your bottom lip in order to save yourself from further humiliation. Your teeth sunken into your lip didn’t go unnoticed – Mattheo licked his own, his hand on your throat lifting you up just a bit, his body heat a fire burning your back.

“Didn’t know having you speechless would be so…” Another smack on your ass interrupted his words, a squeal caused by the mixture of pain and pleasure sounding through the dark room. “…so fucking hot.”

You gained the courage to push your hips back, a satisfied hum rolling out of your mouth as you felt his cock twitch at the friction.

“So damn impatient,” Mattheo whispered into your ear. His own hips bucked forward, forcefully, enough to make your body jerk again. “But you’re lucky, because…”

He suddenly straightened up, roughly pulling down your tights and baring your skin to the chilly air. It was already stinging from the previous slaps, the sensation now stronger as the frost of early winter bit at the sensitive flesh.

“…me too.”

You didn’t notice the moment Mattheo’s trousers pooled at his feet, but they definitely did, along with his boxers. You couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling to the back of your head when his warm, slicked up cock slid through your folds, making you feel every inch of him, providing the friction you desperately craved. Your entrance clenched, as if trying to suck him in but failing. His tip prodded at your hole, your whole body backing against him in an attempt to finally let him inside.

You didn’t have to wait – a single deep thrust, and he was splitting you open in the best, most mind blowing way possible. Your high-pitched moan was so loud it could be easily heard outside, but you didn’t care – you couldn’t care. Mattheo’s groan matched up in volume, his hands gripping your hips with brushing strength.

“If I knew you’d be so fucking tight…”

He pulled out only to thrust right back in, making you moan so loudly you could feel the air shake around you.

“…I’d shut you up like that every. Single. Time.”

Each word was accompanied by another thrust, each one deeper than the last, even though it was physically impossible – at least you felt like he discovered new depths within you every time. The squelching sounds of your pussy roughly meeting his dick echoed through the narrow space you were squished into, the slapping of your bodies surely making its way into the tunnel behind the door. It was something you’d never felt before – the passion, the lust filling your very essence, consuming and turning your brain into mush.

Mattheo’s palm connected with your asscheek again, making it bounce and ripple. Immediately after, he squeezed the round mound, and you hissed, another sting shooting through your body. His pace was unforgiving, but you didn’t want to be forgiven – if that was punishment, you’d rather be guilty for life. The stretch of your walls around his cock felt like it was tearing you apart and gathering you back in one piece right after, and at that moment you were sure that no one else could fuck you like that.

His hand ended up in your hair again as he tugged you up, making your back press against his chest again. Somehow, it was still just as hot as before, causing you to break out in sweat from the exertion and his body heat seeping through your skin and bones. If the room had windows, they would certainly be fogged up. However, the only foggy thing was your mind, getting more and more dazed as your peak approached.

“You wanna cum, huh?” Mattheo growled, his laboured breath prickling at the sensitive skin of your neck. “Wanna cum on my cock, like the slut you are?”

As much as you hated yourself for admitting that, cumming around him was the only thing swirling in your head. You tried to nod, but his grip on your hair didn’t allow it.

“Words,” he muttered, his teeth clenching as he tried to hold his own orgasm back, determined to make you fall apart first. “The only time I want you to use your fucking words.”

“I wanna– Fuck! Wanna cum on your cock,” you managed to mumble, your cheeks heating up at the fact that you had just given in, had given him control over the pleasure you yearned for.

“Do it, then.”

With another rough slap on your ass, you came, wave after wave making your body tremble and shake. Mattheo was quick to finish right after, his growl bordering on animalistic as he spilled deep inside of you. The warmth of his cum felt like it was etched into your very soul, hot and sticky, your clenching hole squeezing some out to trickle down your thighs. Mattheo could get hard all over again just from the sight alone, but he resisted, pulling your skirt down to cover the delicious view.

For a few moments, you could only try catching your breath, leaning on the bench still somehow holding up in front of you.

“Next time you lose, you know where to find me.” Your voice was shaking, yet already filled with the cockiness of knowing that you, in some way, made Mattheo Riddle lose control.

“Next time I win, you won’t be able to walk for days,” he retorted, his tone bearing something akin to a threat. Or a promise.

[moonstruckme]

https://www.tumblr.com/moonstruckme/781092034027159552/this-is-the-anon-who-just-sent-a-request-ab?source=share

oh the way you talk about spencer in this response is so lovely! would you ever consider spinning this into a small drabble - maybe a reader who often compliments spencer and him just not knowing what to do, if it takes your fancy! thank you! <3

Aw thanks angel! I really do think he deserves the world. Thank you for your request <3

cw: joking mention of cannibalism; mention of narcotics, addiction, withdrawal, torture, and death; vague discussion of muder victims' families/grief and very vague talk about a case the bau recently investigated

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

Spencer thinks you might be trying to eat him. He’s met his fair share of cannibals—more than the average person, that’s for sure—but none so nice as you, so he thinks he’ll allow it. You’re being sweet about it, gentle little love bites in between thoughtful questions, leaving marks like gifts up and down the column of Spencer’s throat. It wouldn’t be the worst way to go. 

“How did you know about that?” you ask, nose tickling the underside of his jaw. 

“I recognized part of a quote the unsub left at the crime scene,” Spencer replies. Your lips brush his Adam’s apple, and for some reason the thought that you might feel his voice in your mouth makes pleasant chills skitter up his spine. “It was taken from Antigone, but not the most common version. There was an older translation which stopped printing in the early twentieth century, so for the most part the only copies that still read that way are in public libraries. We narrowed the libraries with those copies on record to ones in the unsub’s comfort zone, and that’s how we found his hometown.” 

Your sigh sounds almost reverent. “You’re so smart.” 

“It was a leap of faith.” 

“A good one. How’d you recognize the quote if it was different from the common translation?” 

“I’ve read both.” 

Spencer feels lucky, so lucky, to be graced with the feeling of your smile blooming against his skin. “Of course you have,” you say, utterly fond. You mouth gently over a constellation of marks you’ve just made. “You realize they would have never found this guy without you, right? You’re so smart, baby.” 

Spencer’s guts twist, a strangely pleasant feeling. He always thought that was weird—couples calling each other baby. Why would romantic partners want to address each other as if they were infants? It defied the tenets of mutual respect and responsibility that adult relationships were supposed to be built upon. It confuses Spencer to no end why he doesn’t mind at all hearing it from you. 

“It was the whole team,” he says. 

You make a sound half amused and half vexed, nipping almost rebukefully at the edge of his jaw. Spencer’s hand splays over your back in surprise. His first instinct to keep you close. “Especially you,” you say. 

“Why do you always want to hear about my work?” Spencer asks. 

It’s a genuine question. Spencer is aware that the details of his cases don’t make for great pillowtalk—even his own team prefers not to discuss them after they’re off the clock—but you ask questions like all you want in life is Spencer’s body beneath your hands and his voice in your ears, forever. 

It had been a longer case. Four days, three nights. No sooner had Spencer texted you that he was back D.C. than you were insisting he come meet you at your place, and no sooner had he gotten off the elevator than you were running out of your apartment to greet him, arms around his shoulders and body pressed to his and a warm, sweet kiss finding his lips. You love like no one else Spencer’s ever known. You’re unafraid of it, liberal with it, brazen in it. You always meet Spencer like a cup overflowing, without a care for whether he catches the spillover or not. He tries his best to. 

“Because I like hearing about your day,” you answer, mouth turned gentle again where you kiss your way up beside his ear. “I like catching up on everything that happened while I wasn’t with you. And I like hearing about you being a hero.” 

A little laugh stutters out of him. You pull away so he can see you, obviously displeased by this reaction. 

Spencer doesn’t think of himself as a hero. He knows some people do. It’s not the first time he’s been called one. Some people think of all law enforcement as heroes, and since Spencer falls into that category he’s one by default. But that’s not…him. That’s not the same as Spencer being a hero, it’s just an arbitrary title that came with his badge. 

“I don’t think I’m a hero,” he says. 

“You are to the people you help,” you reply obstinately. “You’re a hero to the victims’ families. You talk to them nicely instead of brushing them off, and you try to comfort them when they’re overwhelmed with questions and media coverage and trying to process their grief. That means a lot to people, Spencer. It’s important.” Your eyes are soldered to his. Firm, but not harsh. Earnest. “And you’re a hero to all the people who never had to hear about you, because you caught the bad guy before he could make victims out of them. You’re a hero to them. I just…after all you’ve been through, I don’t think you get the credit you deserve for still choosing to help others.” 

Spencer’s eyes burn. Almost nobody talks about that. What his job has cost him. Spencer has been tortured; he was addicted to narcotics; he went through withdrawal; he’s seen people he loves hurt and some killed right in front of him. And he goes on, because there’s nothing else he knows how to do. He knows that’s what the rest of his team is doing, too. But sometimes, when everyone acts like nothing happened, Spencer feels like no one remembers but him. 

You hold Spencer’s gaze. His hand presses into your back, keeping you close. Always wanting you close. 

“You don’t have to,” you murmur, “but you do. A lot of people would decide that they need to only look after themselves after all that, and that’s reasonable, I think, but you…” You get a heart-melting sort of look on your face and find him again, your lips pressing softly into his. “You keep looking after the whole world anyway. That’s a hero, baby. You’re thoughtful, and you’re so valuable to your team, and you have the—the kindest sense of justice of anyone. I think you’re just so used to it you forget it sometimes.” 

Spencer’s burning all over. It’s a happy sort of burning, a smile he has to fight as you peck the corner of his lips, his cheek, your own smile bright and unabashed. 

“You’re blushing,” you say. 

“I never had a chance.” A breathless sort of laugh escapes him. 

“A chance against what, handsome? The truth?” 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re relentless?” 

“Yes.” You give him a devious look. It makes Spencer feel like you’re going to squish his face, probably because you often do. You don’t now, pinching his chin instead before bringing your lips to his. “It’s a compliment, you know.” 

You’re sweet, and brazen, and warm beneath his hands. Spencer’s chest burns with a soul-splitting fondness. He kisses you back and promises, “It is.”

[goldfades]

ICE QUEEN & HER HOCKEY PLAYER──CROSBY⁸⁷

for this request!

─ summary | long awaited: crosby x figure skater where they both meet early in their careers and are not impressed by each other, so kinda enemies, they end up at the 2010 olympics and they still dont like each other but they both carry great pressure and basically just them falling in love over the years and of course the media would be highly involved in two generational talents

─ pairing | sidney crosby x fem!reader

─ word count | 19k

─ warnings | slooooow burn, angsty but gets very fluffy toward the end, lmk if yall want a part 2!!

─ ev's notes | thank you my babies cassie & amber for beta reading, yall are the best!!!!!! go give them some love<3 @v6quewrlds @sc0tters

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

⇨ missing out on updates? check out my masterlist!

You first saw him across the rink, his focus sharp as he moved effortlessly through drills, like he was born on ice. It wasn’t admiration that struck you, though—more like irritation. Sidney Crosby. The “next one,” they called him. All this talent, all this praise, and yet here he was, gliding around like he had something to prove.

Not that you cared.

You had your own path, your own climb. Figure skating was different, but the pressure was just as suffocating. Every jump, every spin felt like the world was watching, expecting perfection. So why did it bother you, seeing him here, looking so... untouchable?

Your coach nudged you, urging you to focus, but you couldn’t help the flicker of competition that lit in your chest. He was just another athlete. Another story. And you, well, you were writing your own.

But something in the way his eyes met yours—cool, unreadable—told you that this wasn’t the last time you’d cross paths with Sidney Crosby.

You try to brush it off, turn your focus back to the ice beneath your feet, but that small moment lingers. His presence sticks with you, even as you push through your routine, every movement precise, practiced. It’s all muscle memory at this point, but somehow, your mind keeps drifting back to him. The way he didn’t seem phased by anything, not even you.

You lace your skates with a quiet determination, the cold air of the rink biting at your skin even though you’ve grown used to it. Every day, same routine. You’ve always found a strange comfort in that—the familiar rhythm of blade on ice, the tension before takeoff, the brief moment when you’re airborne, weightless, before gravity pulls you back. It’s your world, your escape. Everything else fades away here.

Except today, something lingers. Or rather, someone.

Sidney Crosby.

The name alone carries an echo in every corner of the sports world, like he’s already a legend and not just some kid skating circles with his team. You’re not immune to the whispers that float around the rink whenever he’s nearby—the excited murmurs from your teammates, the starry-eyed awe in the younger skaters who dream of meeting him, as if proximity to greatness might somehow rub off on them.

But that’s not you.

You’ve worked too hard to be impressed by anyone anymore. You’ve scraped your way to this point, each pirouette and double axel carved out of relentless practice, not natural-born talent. Sure, you’ve got skill, but it was earned—honed through hours of falling and getting back up again. Nobody handed you anything.

And him?

You glance toward the far end of the rink where he’s going through drills with the same cool precision you’d expect from someone nicknamed “The Next One.” It’s not that you don’t respect his ability—no, that’s not it at all. The guy moves like he was built for this. But there’s something infuriating about the way he carries himself, as if being good—no, great—comes so effortlessly to him, like it’s just a given.

You bend down, adjusting the tightness on your skates. You're focusing on the details, making sure everything is just right, because that’s what you do. That’s who you are. Everything has to be perfect, controlled. Sidney Crosby, meanwhile, looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and for some reason, that grates at you.

Your coach claps his hands, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you move into your routine. Instinct takes over as you push off from the boards and glide onto the ice, the familiar sting of cold rushing against your cheeks. Your legs pump rhythmically, each motion deliberate and precise. You lose yourself in the movement—the stretch of your arms, the swing of your leg as you enter a jump. For a moment, it’s just you and the ice, the world falling away in the face of the one thing that still makes sense.

But not for long.

Because when you land, your gaze drifts again—over to where Crosby’s skating, his sharp turns cutting into the ice with a sound that digs under your skin. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying. It’s infuriating.

You’re coming down from a series of spins when you hear a voice—your teammate. “You’re really in the zone today,” she says, breathless and smiling as she skates up beside you.

“Yeah, trying to be,” you reply, breathing heavily, trying to focus on anything but him.

Your teammate leans in a little, lowering her voice like she’s about to share some big secret. “Did you hear the news? Crosby’s making waves already. Some scouts are saying he’s the real deal—like, generational talent.”

You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. “Aren’t they all?”

She grins, nudging you playfully. “Come on, don’t pretend like you’re not a little curious. Everyone’s talking about him.”

“That’s the problem,” you mutter under your breath.

Your teammate skates off, oblivious, leaving you standing there with the weight of that name hanging over your head. Sidney Crosby. It’s like the universe just wants to shove him in your face.

Fine, you think. Let him have his spotlight. Let him be the guy everyone’s fawning over. But you? You’re not here for that. You’ve got your own goals, your own pressures, and the last thing you need is to get wrapped up in some star athlete’s orbit.

You push off again, forcing yourself back into your routine, ignoring the nagging itch that comes with every glance toward his side of the ice. But it’s impossible to drown out completely. You can feel his presence like a shadow, always there, always in the corner of your eye.

When you finally step off the ice, muscles aching in that satisfying way that comes after a hard session, you tell yourself you’re done with him. Done with thinking about the golden boy who’s probably coasting on talent alone.

Yet, as you untie your skates, his image still clings to the edges of your mind—the sharpness in his movements, the quiet intensity in his face, the way he seemed so utterly... unbothered. Like nothing, not even you, could break his focus.

In the locker room, the conversation drifts back to him, as it always seems to. The chatter is almost relentless—"Did you see how fast Crosby is? The way he handles the puck?"—and it takes everything in you not to roll your eyes again. You try to tune it out, focusing instead on the methodical task of packing your gear.

But as you sling your bag over your shoulder and head for the exit, the door swings open. And of course, there he is. Crosby, walking in with that same laser focus, gear in hand, barely acknowledging anyone around him.

He doesn’t look at you. Not even a flicker of recognition as he passes by. It’s almost laughable, how oblivious he is. You half expect him to at least give you a nod or a half-smile, something—anything—to show he knows you exist.

But no. Nothing.

You let out a huff, brushing past him as you walk out. There’s no reason for this to bother you, really. You don’t need his approval, and you definitely don’t need him to notice you.

Still, as the door swings shut behind you, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this won’t be the last time you cross paths with Sidney Crosby.

Not by a long shot.

───

“Again!” Your coach’s voice cuts through the air like a whip, sharp and biting, echoing across the empty rink. You’ve been at this for hours, it feels like—your muscles are screaming, every part of your body aching, but none of that matters. Not to him.

You swallow the frustration that bubbles in your throat, biting back the urge to snap. Instead, you skate back to the center of the ice, forcing your legs to cooperate, the burn in your calves a constant reminder of how long you’ve been doing this. It’s not good enough, though. Not for him. And, if you’re honest with yourself, not for you either.

You’re trying to perfect your triple Lutz, but every time you attempt the jump, something feels off—your rotation, your timing, maybe even your mindset. Your blade scrapes the ice as you reset, steadying your breath, forcing yourself to focus.

“Go again!” he shouts, his voice almost hoarse now, and you push off, gathering speed. The rink blurs around you as you build up momentum, arms tight, posture straight, the way you’ve been drilled to do since you were a kid. You hit the jump—lift off—but somewhere in the second rotation, it happens again. You come down wrong, your ankle buckling as you land too heavily on your right skate.

Your coach swears under his breath. “What was that? You’re rushing! Slow down, get your rotation tighter—again!”

You don’t say anything. You just grit your teeth and skate back into position. It’s not like you’re unfamiliar with this kind of pressure—no, this is your life. Perfection or nothing. You’ve heard the speeches, felt the disappointment every time you come up short. You know it’s about pushing yourself past your limits.

But right now, with every muscle in your body screaming at you to stop, you’re beginning to wonder if there’s anything left to push through.

“Let’s go, again!”

You roll your eyes but quickly hide it. He’s watching, waiting for you to slip, and he’ll never let you hear the end of it if you show any sign of weakness. So, you breathe in deeply, shake out your arms, and steel yourself. Just one more. One more and you’ll nail it.

You skate hard, the familiar whoosh of ice beneath your blades almost comforting, like the calm before the storm. As you go into the jump, everything seems to click—your body feels lighter, your rotation sharper, and you think, for a second, that you’ve got it.

Then the ice meets you like a slap to the face. Your blade catches, and you fall, hard, knees scraping the cold surface as the impact sends a sharp shock through your legs. You feel the familiar sting of embarrassment heating your cheeks before the pain even registers.

“Are you kidding me?” Your coach’s voice booms across the ice, frustration crackling in every word. “You’re better than this! Do it again, and this time, stop messing around!”

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you haul yourself up, limbs heavy and protesting. You can feel the sharp eyes of your coach drilling into you, his disappointment palpable even from a distance. And as you push yourself upright, swallowing down the lump of frustration lodged in your throat, something shifts at the edge of your vision.

Sidney Crosby.

Of course.

He’s on the ice now, on the other side of the rink, going through his own drills with an almost inhuman precision. His strides are powerful, fluid, each movement perfectly controlled. He makes it look easy. Like he always does.

You hate that it bothers you, but it does. Watching him now, so effortlessly skating through his practice, it only sharpens the contrast between his ease and your exhaustion. It’s like the universe has decided to throw him in your face every chance it gets.

You force your gaze away, back to the task at hand. You’ve got bigger things to worry about than whatever golden-boy magic Crosby is working over there. Your coach is waiting for you to try again, arms crossed, his face a storm of impatience.

“Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to land this?” he snaps.

You nod, swallowing down the irritation that’s rising in your chest. He’s right. You can’t let this beat you. You won’t.

You take a deep breath, center yourself, and push off, the sound of your blades cutting through the ice grounding you. This time, you focus harder, your mind narrowing in on each detail of the jump. Speed, lift, rotation, land. One step at a time. You block out everything—your coach, the ache in your legs, and definitely Sidney Crosby.

You launch yourself into the air, feeling the smooth power of the jump. For a moment, you’re weightless, and it feels right—until, once again, you come down a hair too early, your blade skidding out from under you. You stumble but don’t fall this time, catching yourself just in time.

“Better,” your coach mutters. “But not good enough.”

You barely hear him, though, because when you glance up, you catch Crosby watching you out of the corner of his eye. It’s subtle, just a flicker of attention, but it’s there. His face is unreadable, but you don’t need to see his expression to know what he’s thinking.

She’s struggling.

And for some reason, that thought sets your nerves on fire.

I’m not gonna let Crosby win.

The thought flares in your mind, sudden and irrational, but you grab onto it like a lifeline. It’s ridiculous—you know that. He’s not even competing with you. Hell, he probably doesn’t even care about you right now, but it’s too late. The idea’s already wormed its way in, digging deep into that part of your brain that refuses to back down from a challenge. Even if it’s one you made up.

You grit your teeth, fists tightening as you push off for another go. The anger fuels you, hot and biting, spreading through your limbs like wildfire. Suddenly, the exhaustion that’s been weighing you down all practice disappears, replaced by a sharp, laser-focused determination.

This time, when you skate, it’s different. Every movement is smoother, sharper. The ice feels like it’s bending to your will instead of working against you. As you approach the jump, you don’t hesitate. There’s no second-guessing, no nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you what could go wrong.

You launch yourself into the air, and everything falls into place. The height, the speed, the rotation—it’s all perfect. You land with a crisp, sharp sound, your blades slicing through the ice as if they were always meant to. No stumble, no misstep. Just perfection.

The rink is silent.

You glance over at your coach, and he’s standing there, mouth slightly open, completely stunned. His arms drop to his sides, the frustration and irritation from earlier replaced with disbelief. For a split second, even he can’t believe what just happened.

“That…” he starts, still catching up to what he’s seen. “That was perfect.”

You feel the rush of satisfaction, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips, but before you can fully relish the moment, your gaze slides across the ice—right back to Sidney Crosby.

And there it is.

A smirk.

Small, barely noticeable, but unmistakably there, tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches you. It’s infuriating. The heat of your anger that had just started to cool flares up again, boiling over. You know it’s ridiculous. You know you shouldn’t care. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you—like he knew exactly what just happened, like he’s somehow responsible for flipping that switch in you.

It’s smug. Too smug.

You feel your fingers curl into fists at your sides, the triumph of your flawless landing fading as quickly as it came. It’s not enough. Not when he thinks he had something to do with it. The thought of him thinking that he was the reason you nailed that jump makes you grit your teeth all over again.

Your coach calls out, voice still tinged with amazement. “Take a break—you earned it. That was the best I’ve seen all season.”

You nod, skating off toward the edge of the rink, but your eyes never leave Crosby’s. He’s back to his drills now, that infuriating little smirk gone, replaced by that same focused intensity he always has. Like you don’t even exist. Like he’s already moved on.

But you haven’t.

I’m not gonna let Crosby win. You repeat the mantra to yourself, feeling that fire spark inside you once more.

This is only the beginning.

───

“I’m telling you, he’s got it out for me,” you say, waving your glass in the air as you slump back in your seat. “It's like, every time I look up, there he is, judging me with those stupid, intense eyes. Like he’s some kind of skating god who knows better than the rest of us.”

Your teammates snicker around the table, but you can tell they’re more amused by your dramatics than actually concerned. Abby, sitting across from you, rolls her eyes, sipping her drink with an amused smirk.

“Uh-huh, sure,” she says. “Because Sidney Crosby is totally obsessed with you, out of all people. That’s what he does with his free time.”

“I’m serious!” You huff, propping your elbows on the table. “Every time I mess up, he’s there. Just... lurking in the background. Like some smug, perfectly-groomed shadow, judging me. I swear he enjoys it.”

Tasha, who’s been quietly sipping her beer next to you, finally chimes in. “Are you sure he’s not just, you know, existing and you’re projecting all your frustrations onto him?”

You glare at her, but she only grins, nudging your arm. “I’m just saying, maybe he’s just trying to live his life and it’s not all about you.”

“I don’t project,” you grumble. “I’m very rational. This is just... observation.”

Abby nearly spits out her drink, laughing. “You’re so full of it. Admit it, you just don’t like that he’s good at literally everything. It messes with your perfectionist brain.”

“You’d hate him less if you stopped watching him all the time,” Tasha adds, teasing.

You groan, dropping your head onto the table with a thud. “I don’t watch him. He’s just always there. Like a bad omen with a hockey stick.”

“Yeah, well,” Abby shrugs, “I’d be there too if I were as good as him. Honestly, if you weren’t so busy hating him, you’d probably respect him a little. Maybe you two would even be—”

“Don’t.” You cut her off, lifting your head with a glare. “Don’t even suggest we could be friends. Or worse—something else. That’s the last thing I need right now.”

Tasha grins mischievously. “Well, considering how much you’re talking about him, it sounds like he might be the only thing you need right now.”

You swat at her playfully, but before you can respond, the loud crash of a door opening interrupts your rant. The energy in the bar shifts immediately as a group of loud, rowdy voices enters the room. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is. You can feel it—the sudden frat-boy energy that seems to follow them wherever they go.

“Speak of the devil,” Abby mutters under her breath, clearly amused.

Sure enough, you glance toward the entrance, and there they are. Sidney Crosby and his teammates, rolling into the bar like they own the place. They’re loud, obnoxious, the exact opposite of what you wanted for this low-key evening. You watch as they laugh, shove each other, and call out to the bartender as if they’ve been best friends for years.

Sidney, of course, is in the center of it all—looking as effortlessly cool as ever in a black jacket and backward baseball cap. His laugh booms across the bar, and you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter. “Why are they always like this? Who gave them permission to act like frat boys in public?”

“Relax,” Abby says, still laughing at your expense. “It’s not like they’re doing anything wrong.”

“They’re just breathing, and it’s bothering you,” Tasha adds with a smirk.

“I can’t help it!” You say, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “They walk in here like they own the place. No one’s even looking at them, and somehow they just... demand attention.”

As if on cue, Sidney’s voice rises above the noise, calling out to one of his teammates with a laugh that carries through the entire bar. His presence is magnetic, drawing attention even when he’s not trying, and you hate how aware of him you are.

“I’m telling you,” you say, turning back to your friends. “This is a sign. The universe is trying to ruin my peace.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Abby teases. “The universe doesn’t revolve around you and Sidney Crosby. Just let it go.”

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” you declare, crossing your arms stubbornly. “He’s not worth my energy.”

But as soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel a pair of eyes land on you. You glance up—and of course, it’s him. Sidney freaking Crosby. He’s looking right at you, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, almost as if he knows exactly what you were just complaining about.

Your stomach flips, and suddenly, the heat rushes to your face. Great, just what you needed. You quickly look away, trying to pretend like you hadn’t been caught mid-rant about him for the umpteenth time.

Abby leans in, her voice low and teasing. “So... what’s that about not caring?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your drink and downing the rest in one go.

Tasha bursts out laughing. “You’re so done for.”

“Am not,” you grumble, avoiding Sidney’s gaze. But you can still feel his eyes on you, that stupid smirk lingering in your mind, and you can’t shake the thought that, maybe, just maybe, he does enjoy messing with you.

Or worse—maybe you enjoy it too.

Later, you found yourself alone. You lean against the bar, the cool wood pressing into your forearms as you wait for the bartender to notice you. The noise of the bar hums around you—laughter, clinking glasses, some bad country song playing in the background. But for the first time since Sidney Crosby and his squad of obnoxious teammates showed up, you’ve managed to relax a little. Maybe it’s the alcohol kicking in or maybe it’s because you’ve successfully avoided looking in his direction for the past half hour. Either way, you feel lighter.

You tap your fingers against the counter impatiently, scanning the crowd for the bartender, trying not to let your mind wander back to Sidney. You promised yourself you weren’t going to let him ruin your night, and you’re doing a decent job of it so far. No reason to let him take up more space in your head than he already does.

"Hey, can I get another drink over here?" you call out to the bartender, who finally catches your eye and nods.

Just as you start to relax, though, you feel it—that presence. It’s like your body knows he’s there before you even see him, a tingle that runs up your spine, making your muscles tense involuntarily.

You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Sidney’s voice is smooth, low, and far too casual, like he’s not already driving you insane.

You grit your teeth, rolling your eyes before you even face him. Great. Of course, he’d pick now to show up. When you’re alone. Just your luck.

Sidney leans against the bar beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, but not so close that it feels like he’s crowding you. He’s got this irritatingly effortless way of taking up space without trying. It’s like the universe bends around him, making sure everyone notices when he’s around.

“What do you want?” you ask, not bothering to hide the irritation in your voice as you finally turn to face him. You don’t have the patience for his smug attitude tonight.

He’s leaning casually with one elbow on the bar, looking at you with that infuriating half-smirk, like he finds the whole situation amusing. His backward cap is still in place, strands of hair peeking out messily, and his eyes glint with something that feels way too much like a challenge.

“What makes you think I want something?” he asks, his voice almost teasing.

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Because you don’t come over here for no reason.”

Sidney chuckles softly, and the sound grates on your nerves. “Maybe I just wanted to say hi. You know, be friendly.”

“Since when are we friendly?” you shoot back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Pretty sure we’ve never been that.”

He shrugs, still smiling, as if your hostility only makes this more fun for him. “There’s a first time for everything.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to gauge his angle. It’s impossible to tell if he’s genuinely trying to make conversation or if he’s just here to mess with you. Either way, you’re not having it.

“Look, Crosby,” you say, your voice sharp, “if you’re here to annoy me, you’re wasting your time. I’m not in the mood.”

His smirk widens, and for some reason, it makes your stomach flip in a way you don’t like. “Who said anything about annoying you?”

You let out a huff of frustration, leaning back against the bar and glaring at him. “You always do. Every time you show up, it’s like you can’t help but get under my skin.”

Sidney tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering your words, but the smirk never leaves his face. “Maybe that’s because you make it so easy.”

The nerve of this guy. You open your mouth to fire back, but the bartender finally appears with your drink, placing it in front of you. You grab it with a quick thanks, eager for a distraction. Anything to avoid looking at Sidney and that stupid grin of his.

“Why do you even care?” you ask, taking a sip of your drink. “You don’t know me. We’re in completely different worlds.”

Sidney doesn’t respond right away, just watches you with those annoyingly intense eyes, like he’s trying to figure something out about you. It’s unsettling, but you refuse to let him see that he’s getting to you. You’ve already let him mess with your head enough tonight.

“Maybe I don’t know you,” he says after a moment, his voice lower now, more thoughtful. “But you’re interesting. More interesting than half the people I’ve met in this sport.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. “Interesting?”

He nods, that playful glint still in his eyes. “Yeah. You’re not like everyone else. Most people just... try to stay out of the way, keep their heads down, play nice. But you? You don’t take shit from anyone. I like that.”

You snort, unable to help yourself. “So what, you’re saying you like me because I don’t like you?”

Sidney laughs, and the sound is so warm, so genuine, that it throws you off for a second. It’s not the cocky laugh you’re used to hearing from him on the ice. This one feels... real.

“I’m saying I like a challenge,” he says, his eyes gleaming with something that makes your heart race even though you really don’t want it to. “And you’re definitely a challenge.”

A challenge. That word lingers in the air between you, heavy and charged, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the way he said it or because of how it makes you feel. Because on some level, you know he’s right. You are a challenge. You’ve always been a challenge. And maybe that’s part of why he gets under your skin so easily—because he’s not backing down.

But you’re not backing down either.

“Well, if you think you can just waltz in here and... what? Win me over?” you scoff, taking another sip of your drink. “Good luck with that, Crosby. I don’t go down that easy.”

Sidney leans in just a fraction, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I never said I wanted you to go down easy.”

The words hang between you, thick with tension, and you feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your chest despite your best efforts to stay calm. His eyes stay locked on yours, and for a split second, you forget where you are, forget everything except the way his gaze makes you feel like he’s seeing through every layer of defense you’ve built up.

It takes everything in you not to let him see how much he’s affecting you. You keep your expression neutral, lips pressed into a tight line as you lean back, forcing some distance between you.

“You really think you can get to me with a few smooth lines?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

Sidney shrugs again, but this time there’s a hint of something more serious behind his smile. “I don’t know. Guess I’ll find out.”

You glare at him, feeling that familiar frustration bubbling up again, but there’s something else there now too—something you don’t want to acknowledge. Something that feels dangerous and thrilling all at once.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” you say, standing up from the bar and giving him one last, pointed look. “I’m not as easy to figure out as you think.”

Sidney just smiles, leaning back against the bar as he watches you walk away, and you can feel his eyes on you the whole time.

“Good,” he calls after you. “I like a good mystery.”

You don’t look back, but damn it, his voice follows you all the way out of the bar, and it’s all you can think about for the rest of the night.

───

The rink is nearly deserted when you stayed that night, after practice. The cold air bites at your exposed skin, but it feels like a relief after the stuffiness of the bar. You needed this—the wide-open space, the sound of your skates carving into the ice, the familiar rhythm of movement that helps drown out all the noise in your head.

You plug in your phone to the speaker system, scrolling through your playlists until you settle on something fitting for the mood—dramatic, sweeping classical music, the kind that builds and builds until it feels like it’s going to break something wide open. It’s exactly what you need right now.

As the first notes fill the rink, you skate to the center, closing your eyes for just a moment, letting the music wash over you. The stress, the frustration, the lingering burn from your interaction with Sidney—it all simmers beneath the surface, but here, on the ice, you know how to channel it. You’ve always been able to let the pressure fuel you, turning frustration into focus.

Opening your eyes, you push off, gliding across the ice with an easy grace that comes from years of muscle memory. The music builds, and you pick up speed, letting the intensity of the sound guide your movements. Each jump, each spin, feels sharper than before, more deliberate. There’s no audience, no competition, just you and the ice and the echo of the music in the empty arena.

You land a triple axel cleanly, but it’s not enough. Not tonight. You need more.

I’m not going to let Crosby win. The thought flashes in your mind, unbidden, but once it’s there, you can’t shake it. It’s ridiculous—Sidney’s not even here, not even part of this—but somehow, he’s still under your skin, pushing you to go harder, to be better.

The frustration builds, a knot tightening in your chest, and with a surge of anger, you launch into another jump, pushing yourself to the limit. You flip in the air, body twisting with precision, and when your skates hit the ice again, the landing is so clean, so perfect, that even you’re stunned for a moment.

Your coach isn’t here to shout or correct you, but if he were, you know he’d be speechless. You nailed it.

You stop in the center of the rink, breathing heavily, staring down at the ice beneath your feet. How did you flip that switch so quickly? One second, you were spiraling, frustration threatening to spill over, and the next, you’re here—executing moves with a sharpness you didn’t think you had tonight.

It’s almost like—

“Nice landing.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you spin around, your skates squeaking on the ice as you search for the source of the voice.

Of course.

Sidney Crosby is standing in the entrance to the rink, leaning casually against the boards with his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that same infuriating half-smirk. His dark hoodie is pulled over his head, casting shadows over his face, but you’d recognize that voice anywhere. You’d thought you were alone, but apparently, Sidney had other plans.

“Jesus—what the hell are you doing here?” you snap, pulse still racing from both the exertion and the shock of seeing him.

Sidney shrugs, as if he hasn’t just interrupted your entire night. “Could ask you the same thing.”

You narrow your eyes at him, pushing down the urge to scream. “I’m here because I’m training. What’s your excuse?”

He lifts an eyebrow, pushing off the boards and stepping onto the ice with ease, his skates gliding smoothly over the surface. “Didn’t realize you had the rink reserved.”

You cross your arms, glaring as he skates a slow circle around you, as if he’s sizing you up. The way he moves is so infuriatingly confident, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin.

“Sidney, I swear, if you’re here just to mess with me—”

He stops right in front of you, cutting you off with a grin that makes your stomach twist. “I’m not here to mess with you.” His voice drops a little, that playful edge still there but softer now. “Not unless you want me to.”

You take a step back, suddenly feeling a little too close to him. The music still plays in the background, dramatic strings swelling through the speakers, matching the tension that’s building between you two.

“Why are you really here?” you ask, trying to sound more composed than you feel. You’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline from skating or the fact that Sidney’s presence always seems to set you off, but your pulse is racing, and not just from the workout.

Sidney tilts his head slightly, watching you with those annoyingly intense eyes. “I could ask you the same thing,” he says, echoing your earlier words. “You’ve been skating for hours. What’s got you so wound up?”

Your mouth opens to snap back, but you stop yourself, unsure how to answer. It’s not like you can tell him he’s part of the problem, that every time he shows up, he stirs something inside you that’s equal parts frustration and... something else you refuse to acknowledge.

“I’m fine,” you finally say, your voice tight. “Just working on a few things.”

Sidney steps closer again, his eyes not leaving yours, and you can feel your defenses rising instinctively. He has this way of making you feel exposed, like he sees through every layer you put up.

“You don’t look fine,” he says quietly, the teasing edge fading from his voice. “You look like you’re trying to prove something.”

“I don’t have anything to prove to you,” you snap, more harshly than you intended.

Sidney doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even react to your tone. Instead, he just watches you, like he’s waiting for you to let your guard down.

“You don’t have anything to prove to me,” he agrees, his voice low, almost gentle now. “But it seems like you’re trying to prove something to yourself.”

The words hit you harder than you want to admit, and for a second, you feel the weight of the pressure you’ve been carrying—the constant need to be perfect, to land every jump, to be better than you were yesterday. And maybe, just maybe, part of that pressure comes from knowing that Sidney Crosby, of all people, has seen you falter.

Your hands tighten into fists, frustration bubbling up again, but this time it’s not aimed at Sidney—it’s aimed at yourself.

“What do you know about it?” you mutter, looking away from him, focusing on the ice instead of the way his presence is making you feel.

Sidney doesn’t respond right away, and when he does, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. “More than you think.”

Something in his tone makes you glance up, and for the first time, you see something different in his eyes—not the usual cocky smirk, not the playful teasing. It’s something deeper, something you recognize.

Pressure. Expectation. The weight of the world on his shoulders, just like you carry on yours.

For a moment, the air between you shifts, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the music still playing softly in the background or because of the way Sidney is looking at you. There’s something unspoken hanging in the space between you, something fragile and real.

“I get it,” he says, his voice quiet. “The pressure. The feeling like you have to be perfect every time you step on the ice. I know what that’s like.”

You swallow hard, the walls you’ve built around yourself trembling slightly. You’re not used to Sidney Crosby being... this. Open. Vulnerable. It throws you off balance, makes you feel like you’re standing on shaky ground.

But before you can say anything, he steps back, giving you space, and the moment passes as quickly as it came.

“Anyway,” he says, his usual smirk slipping back into place, “just wanted to check in. See if you needed anything.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to regain your composure. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Sidney grins, his playful edge back in full force. “Good. I like seeing you fired up.”

And just like that, the tension is back, simmering under the surface, and you’re left standing there, wondering how Sidney Crosby has managed to flip your world upside down in a matter of minutes.

As he skates away, you’re left with the echo of his words in your mind—and the realization that maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one who likes a challenge.

───

A few weeks later, the cold of early winter is biting harder, a constant reminder of what’s looming: the Olympics. The most important competition of your life. Every jump, every spin, every session on the ice has been building to this moment, and now, the pressure is so thick, it feels like it's settled in your bones.

You’re sitting in the locker room, your gear strewn across the bench beside you. The atmosphere is tense but electric. Today is the day they announce the official Olympic figure skating team, and though you know you've earned your spot, the nerves are impossible to shake. Even after years of preparation, the thought of representing your country on the world’s biggest stage makes your heart pound.

Your coach comes in first, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He claps you on the back, and you can feel the energy shift in the room.

“They’ve posted the roster,” he says, barely containing his pride. “You’re on the team.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and then the weight of them crashes down on you. You’re on the team. You’re going to the Olympics.

You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, your chest tight with a mix of relief and exhilaration. All the hours on the ice, the grueling practices, the mental battles—it’s all been worth it. You’re going to be part of something bigger than yourself, and for a moment, you let yourself revel in the feeling of accomplishment.

But then, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon, another thought creeps in: Sidney Crosby.

You haven't seen him since that night at the rink, but his presence has lingered, a constant shadow in your mind. He’s been picked too—you know it without even needing to check the roster. Of course he has. He's Sidney Crosby. A generational talent, just like they call you, only... more somehow. More polished, more famous, more everything. And now, the media will eat this up, won’t they? Two stars, both at the top of their games, both chasing Olympic glory, both—

You shake your head, pushing the thought away. You’re not going to let Sidney Crosby get into your head. Not when you’ve worked so hard to get here.

Your teammates rush into the room, their excitement contagious as they celebrate together. You laugh with them, letting the energy lift you for a moment, but in the back of your mind, that quiet tension still lingers. You can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning of something bigger—and that Sidney is somehow going to be a part of it, whether you like it or not.

───

The night before the team heads out for the final round of pre-Olympic training, you find yourself back at the rink, once again pushing through a late-night session. The music is quieter this time, more contemplative, as you work on fine-tuning your routine. It’s just you and the ice, and for a little while, that’s enough.

Until the door creaks open again.

You stop mid-spin, your breath catching in your throat. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is—somehow, you can always tell when Sidney’s around. It’s like your body is wired to notice him, even when you don’t want to.

“What are you doing here?” you call out, not bothering to mask the annoyance in your voice.

Sidney doesn’t answer right away, but you hear the sound of his skates as he steps onto the ice, gliding easily toward you.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, his voice calm, almost too calm, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin. “Training late again?”

You grit your teeth, refusing to let him get to you. “Yeah, well, some of us still have work to do.”

Sidney chuckles softly, skating closer until he’s just a few feet away. “You really think you’ve got that much left to prove?”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Don’t you?”

For a second, he doesn’t answer, his eyes searching yours. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something almost… curious. Then he shrugs, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice low. “But I’m not the one staying up all night to try and be perfect.”

His words hit a little too close to home, and you feel the flare of anger rise again. But before you can respond, Sidney’s already moving, skating around you with that effortless grace that somehow makes everything seem easy for him.

“You know,” he says, his tone light, “the media’s having a field day with this whole thing. Two Canadian stars, same Olympics, both at the top of their game. They love a good story.”

You roll your eyes, spinning around to face him. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Sidney’s grin widens, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s enjoying this more than he should. “You think they’ll keep us apart, or you think they’ll try to milk this for everything it’s worth?”

You cross your arms, refusing to play into whatever game he’s trying to start. “I don’t really care what the media does.”

Sidney stops in front of you, his eyes locking onto yours with that same intensity you’ve come to know all too well. “You sure about that?”

The question hangs in the air between you, and for a second, you’re not sure if he’s talking about the media… or something else entirely.

You stare at him for a moment, the weight of his gaze making the rink feel smaller, more intimate than it has any right to be. The soft hum of your music in the background seems distant now, a faraway echo compared to the silence between you. You want to say something cutting, to brush him off like you always do, but there's something different about this moment. It's not just annoyance. There's a challenge here—a tension, thick and electric, hovering just out of reach.

Sidney's eyebrow quirks up, and you feel your stomach twist in frustration. He's baiting you, but you don't know what game you're even playing anymore. And the worst part? He’s winning. Again.

"I'm sure," you finally manage to say, but your voice doesn’t carry the sharpness you intended. It's a little softer, almost uncertain, and you hate it. His smirk widens ever so slightly, like he's noticed it too.

"Good." Sidney pushes off the ice and skates a lazy circle around you, his movements fluid and deliberate, like he's taking his time to think about his next words. "Because it doesn't matter what they say. We're both here for the same reason—to win."

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but there's a part of you that knows he's right. You didn’t get this far by letting other people’s opinions get in your head. You worked for this. Hard. Late nights, endless drills, pushing yourself past your limits just to prove to everyone—and maybe to yourself—that you deserved to be here. That you belonged.

But somehow, Sidney Crosby always finds a way to make you feel like you're still fighting for that validation. Like there's always something left to prove.

"And here I thought you were just here for the cameras," you say, your words sharper now, biting back with the edge you'd been missing earlier. "They do love a good Sidney Crosby story, don't they?"

Sidney doesn't react the way you expect. He doesn’t bristle or fire back. Instead, he just smiles, a slow, knowing grin that almost—almost—looks genuine. "Maybe. But they’re not the ones I’m trying to impress."

Your heart skips, just for a second, caught off guard by his sudden sincerity. You blink, trying to keep your composure, to ignore the way your body betrays you under his gaze.

"Right." You scoff again, trying to laugh it off. "You don’t have to impress anyone, do you?"

Sidney stops, coming to a smooth halt just in front of you. He's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his breath fogs in the cold air between you. He tilts his head, that smirk fading into something else. Something more serious.

"Everyone's got something to prove," he says quietly. His voice is low, almost a whisper, like it's a confession meant for you and only you. "Even me."

For a second, you don’t know what to say. His words catch you off guard, and you feel the weight of them sink in, wrapping around you like the cold air of the rink. You've always seen Sidney as untouchable, a star so far beyond reach that nothing could ever shake him. But now, standing here, staring at him, you realize he’s just as human as you. Maybe even just as scared.

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, the walls you’ve built around yourself start to crack. But before you can respond—before you can even process what’s happening—Sidney’s already pushing away, skating back toward the other end of the rink, like the moment never happened.

"Good luck with the routine," he calls over his shoulder, his voice light again, casual. "See you in Vancouver."

You stand there for a long time after he’s gone, the rink feeling empty without him. Your mind is racing, filled with thoughts you don’t want to acknowledge. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter. You’ll go to the Olympics, skate your heart out, and that’s all that matters.

But deep down, you know things have changed. And no matter how hard you try, Sidney Crosby is already under your skin.

The weeks leading up to the Olympics pass in a blur of training, media appearances, and endless speculation. The pressure builds with every day, every practice, every headline that pits you and Sidney against each other. It’s exhausting, and yet, part of you thrives on it. The stakes, the attention, the challenge. It's what you’ve always worked for.

But it’s also terrifying. Because every time you step on the ice, you know there are a million eyes watching, waiting for you to slip. And every time Sidney’s name comes up—whether it’s in an interview or in passing—it’s like a spark of irritation flares up inside you, reminding you that he’s still there, always lingering in the background of your mind.

The final week before the Olympics, you find yourself at a press conference, surrounded by reporters. You’ve done a thousand of these before, but this one feels different. The energy in the room is palpable, buzzing with anticipation as everyone prepares for the biggest event of the year.

And of course, the first question they ask isn’t about your routine or your preparation. It’s about Sidney.

“So, Y/N, you and Sidney Crosby have both been named as Canada’s biggest medal hopes this year. How do you feel about that?”

You force a smile, even though you want to roll your eyes. “I feel great about it. Sidney’s an incredible athlete, and it’s an honor to be mentioned alongside him.”

The reporter doesn’t stop there. “Do you think the rivalry between the two of you has helped push you both to new heights?”

You want to laugh. Rivalry? Is that what they’re calling it now?

“I think we’re both just focused on doing our best for our country,” you say diplomatically, but the answer feels hollow even to you. Because if you’re being honest with yourself, the rivalry is there. It’s always been there, even before the media latched onto it.

It’s not just about skating or hockey or who wins the most medals. It’s about something deeper—something neither of you has been willing to admit yet.

After the press conference, you slip out of the room as quickly as possible, your mind still buzzing with thoughts of Sidney. You’ve seen him a few times in passing since that night at the rink, but neither of you has said much. There’s been no need. The tension is there, lingering between you, always simmering just below the surface.

And now, with the Olympics just days away, it feels like everything is coming to a head.

You don’t know what’s going to happen in Vancouver, but one thing’s for sure: Sidney Crosby isn’t going to be easy to forget.

───

The sun barely peeks over the Vancouver skyline as you step into the bustling arena, the energy already electric despite the early hour. It’s the first day of the Winter Olympics, and the anticipation in the air is palpable. Athletes mill around, warming up and going through their routines, while coaches and officials rush to prepare the rink and finalize schedules.

The ice skating events are divided by discipline, with singles, pairs, and ice dance categories each occupying different time slots throughout the day. You’re scheduled for the women’s short program later this afternoon, but you arrive early to settle your nerves and observe the competition. It’s been a long time coming—years of training, countless sacrifices, and now, it’s finally here.

As you watch the men’s short program unfold, you catch glimpses of familiar faces—skaters you’ve competed against on the international circuit. The stands fill with excited spectators, flags waving, the hum of different languages mingling in the air. You take it all in, your gaze flitting from one skater to the next, mentally noting their performances.

And then, you see him.

Sidney is seated with a group of Team Canada athletes near the edge of the rink, his attention fixed on the ice. He’s wearing the official red and white tracksuit, his posture relaxed, and his expression serious. You know he’s here to support his teammates, but it doesn’t stop your heart from fluttering. You haven’t spoken since the night at the rink, and the tension still lingers, unspoken but ever-present.

You try to focus on the skaters on the ice, but your gaze keeps drifting back to Sidney. He’s surrounded by people, but his eyes seem distant, as if his mind is somewhere else. A part of you wants to approach him, to say something, anything, to break the silence that’s grown between you. But there’s no time for that now. Not when everything you’ve worked for is at stake.

A sudden cheer erupts from the crowd as one of the Canadian skaters finishes his routine with a flawless quad jump. Sidney stands, applauding along with the rest of the crowd, and for a moment, his eyes meet yours across the arena. It’s a fleeting connection—one that sends a jolt through you—before you quickly look away, your pulse quickening.

You remind yourself why you’re here. It’s not for Sidney. It’s for the chance to compete on the world’s biggest stage, to prove to yourself—and to everyone else—that you belong.

Hours later, as the women’s short program draws near, you’re in the locker room, lacing up your skates and taking deep breaths. You can hear the muffled sounds of the arena through the walls—cheers, announcements, and the faint strains of music from other performances. Your coach is by your side, offering words of encouragement and going over last-minute details of your routine.

When your name is called, you make your way to the ice, nerves and adrenaline surging in equal measure. The arena is packed now, the crowd buzzing with excitement. You take your position at the center of the rink, the bright lights shining down on you, and as the music begins, you shut out everything else—Sidney, the pressure, the noise—focusing solely on the routine you’ve practiced countless times.

As you step onto the ice, the chill bites at your exposed skin, the cold seeping into your muscles despite the hours of warming up backstage. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, the familiar scent of the rink—a mix of ice, metal, and adrenaline—filling your lungs.

The bright lights of the arena are almost blinding, but you’ve grown used to the glare. It’s everything else that’s harder to ignore: the noise of the crowd, the anticipation hanging in the air, and the weight of every expectation you’ve ever placed on yourself.

Your name echoes through the arena, and you take your starting position at the center of the rink, feeling the world close in around you. It’s just you and the ice. You’ve done this routine a thousand times—maybe more—in practice. You know every step, every jump, every nuance of the music. But the stakes are different now, and doubt has a way of creeping in when you need confidence most.

The music begins, a soft piano melody that rises and falls like a tide. You push off, gliding into your opening spin, your body rotating effortlessly as your arms sweep out to the sides. For a moment, you feel a flicker of hope—this part, at least, feels right. But as you transition into the next sequence, the familiar pattern you’ve rehearsed starts to fray at the edges.

Your first jump, the triple flip, is where the anxiety tightens its grip. You approach the takeoff, heart racing, and launch yourself into the air. For a split second, you feel weightless, suspended above the ice, but then something feels off. Your body twists at the wrong angle, your balance shifts too soon. You land, but the landing is sloppy—your skate scrapes the ice, and you wobble, arms flailing to steady yourself.

Panic surges through you, hot and electric. It’s only the beginning of the program, and already you’ve stumbled. You try to shake it off, but the rhythm is broken, and your mind spirals into self-criticism.

You practiced this a thousand times. Why didn’t you get it right?

The next element is a step sequence, a chance to regain your composure, but the nagging voice in your head won’t let up. You force a smile, hoping to mask the growing frustration and fear. As you weave through the steps, your feet move, but your mind is still stuck on the failed jump. You feel disconnected from the music, from the ice, from the performance that’s slipping through your fingers.

You approach the triple Lutz—one of the most challenging elements in your routine. You breathe deeply, telling yourself you can still save this, but the seed of doubt has taken root. You accelerate into the jump, feeling the power build in your legs, and then you launch into the air. This time, you feel the rotation, the speed, the familiar rush of adrenaline, but it’s too fast, too uncontrolled. When you come down, you feel your left skate catch, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward. You barely manage to stay upright, catching yourself with a hand on the ice.

The gasp from the crowd feels like a punch to the gut.

I can’t believe I just did that. This is a disaster.

You’re only halfway through the program, but every second feels like an eternity. Each movement feels heavier, each step more labored. Your body moves through the motions, but your mind is stuck on replaying your mistakes. The music swells, urging you to keep going, but all you can think about is how much you’ve already ruined.

The spins that follow are supposed to be your strength, your signature—a moment when you can let go and show your artistry. But you’re too distracted, your mind racing with self-doubt. You rush into the first spin, and it feels off—your center of gravity isn’t where it should be. You struggle to maintain speed, and by the time you come out of it, your legs feel shaky. You curse yourself under your breath, frustration bubbling up. You’ve never felt this out of control in a competition before.

You’ve blown it. Everyone’s watching you fall apart.

The final jump, a double Axel, should be simple compared to the others, but the fear of messing up again overwhelms you. You take off, and for a second, you think it might be fine—until you under-rotate. The landing feels heavy, and you stumble. This time, you can’t save it. You fall, hitting the ice with a thud, the sound echoing in the silent arena.

You want to stay down, to disappear, to let the ice swallow you whole. But the music pulls you back up, and you force yourself to your feet, biting back the tears threatening to spill. Your legs feel like lead as you move through the final moments of the routine, each movement mechanical and empty.

As the music fades and you hold your ending pose, all you can think about is the silence. It’s deafening. The applause comes a few seconds later, polite but subdued, and it feels like salt in the wound. You know what the crowd saw. You know what you felt. It wasn’t the performance you’d spent years dreaming of; it was the kind that haunts you.

You skate off the ice, head down, feeling the heat of embarrassment burn through you. Your coach approaches, a hand on your shoulder, whispering words of encouragement you can barely hear over the sound of your own self-recrimination.

You blew it. You had one chance, and you blew it.

In the kiss-and-cry area, the scores flash on the screen, but you don’t need to see them to know what they’ll be—low, lower than you’ve ever had in an international competition. You feel tears prick at your eyes, and you clench your fists, willing yourself not to cry in front of the cameras.

When you finally look up, you see Sidney standing near the boards, watching. His face is unreadable, but you know he saw everything. The thought makes your stomach twist. You wanted him to see you at your best, to show him the skater you’ve worked so hard to become. But instead, he saw you at your worst.

You tear your eyes eyes away, feeling your throat forming that familiar lump. “God fucking damn it,” you mumble as you shut your eyes. You rush off to the bathroom, shutting it behind you swiftly.

It feels like your world was upside down.

You can't control the sobs that come next as you slid down the door, as your legs give out beneath you. The sobs rip through you, harsh and unrelenting, and you press a hand over your mouth, desperate to stifle the sound. The last thing you need is for anyone else to hear you breaking down. But the tears keep coming, hot and uncontrollable, and your chest tightens with the weight of your own disappointment.

You curl up on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to your chest, feeling the ache spread through your entire body. Every mistake from the routine replays in your mind on an endless loop—the missed jumps, the stumble, the fall. Each one feels like a punch, and you can’t help but berate yourself for every single one.

Why couldn’t you get it right? Why did you choke?

You lean your head back against the door, the cool wood grounding you for a moment. But then the wave hits again. You’ve worked for years—years—for this moment, and you blew it in front of everyone. All those hours of practice, all those sacrifices, and for what? For a performance that feels like it’s ruined everything you’ve worked so hard for.

The tears blur your vision, and you rub at your eyes, only to feel the sting of makeup smearing across your cheeks. It’s a mess—everything feels like a mess. You dig your fingers into your hair, pulling slightly as if the pain might drown out the thoughts that won’t stop tormenting you.

You were supposed to be better than this. You were supposed to prove you belonged here.

The worst part is knowing that Sidney saw it all. You tried so hard to ignore the tension, to push past the uncertainty of what’s between you two. But in that moment on the ice, with the lights bright and the stakes high, all you could think about was wanting to impress him, to show him the best version of yourself. And now he’s seen you fail, seen you fall apart, and you can’t bear the thought of what he must think.

The thought twists in your gut, making the sobs come harder. You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. You feel like a little kid again, like all the progress you’ve made, all the strength you’ve built up, has crumbled in an instant.

After a few minutes, the sobs finally start to subside, leaving you feeling drained and empty. You breathe in, ragged and shallow, trying to calm the storm inside your head. But the silence only makes the thoughts louder. You can still hear the crowd’s disappointed murmur, see the faces of the judges as they wrote down your scores.

You’re not sure how long you stay there, slumped against the door, before the sound of footsteps approaching makes you freeze. You quickly wipe at your face, scrubbing away the tears and trying to pull yourself together. The last thing you need is for anyone to find you like this, crumpled up and broken.

There’s a knock on the door, soft at first, and you hold your breath, hoping whoever it is will go away. But then the knock comes again, a little more insistent.

“Hey,” a voice says quietly, and your heart sinks. You’d recognize that voice anywhere—Sidney.

You bite your lip, trying to steady your breath, but it’s no use. You know you can’t face him like this, not when you feel so raw and exposed. “Go away, Sid,” you manage to choke out, but it comes out weaker than you intended.

“Please, just… let me in.” His voice is gentle, and that makes it worse. You don’t want his pity, don’t want to be reminded of how badly you’ve messed up in front of him.

You wipe at your face again, even though you know you look like a mess. “I don’t want to talk right now,” you say, your voice breaking on the last word. You feel pathetic, and all you want to do is disappear.

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, you think he might leave. But then he speaks again, softer this time. “It’s okay to be upset. You don’t have to hide.”

The words are kind, and they cut through you. You hate that he knows, that he sees you like this. You hate that part of you wants to open the door, to let him in and just collapse into his arms. But you can’t. You can’t let him see how much you’re falling apart.

“I’m fine,” you lie, voice cracking again. “Just… go.”

But he doesn’t move. “Look, I know you’re upset. I saw what happened out there, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re still one of the best skaters I’ve ever seen.”

You press your lips together, shaking your head even though he can’t see. “I don’t need a pep talk, Sid.”

There’s another silence, and then, softer still, “I just want to be here for you.”

The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest tighten. You want to believe him, want to open the door and let yourself lean on someone for once. But the fear is too strong—the fear of being seen, of being judged, of letting someone close enough to hurt you.

“I can’t do this right now,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face again.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and you can hear the hurt in his voice. “But if you need me, I’m here.”

You don’t respond, biting down on your lip as the tears fall harder. You wait until his footsteps fade away, leaving you alone in the silence once more. Then, finally, you let out a sob, sinking back against the door, feeling the weight of everything crash down on you again.

───

The hotel room feels suffocating, the walls closing in as you sit cross-legged on the bed, staring blankly at the TV screen. The Olympics news channel is on, and you can’t help but watch, even though every fiber of your being screams to turn it off. They’re showing highlights of the day’s performances, and you know it’s only a matter of time before they replay yours.

The phone is pressed to your ear, and your coach’s voice crackles through the line, rough and familiar. He’s the one who’s seen you at your best and your worst, the one who’s pushed you to reach your full potential. But tonight, his words sting more than they usually do.

“You know, that wasn’t the skater I’ve been training for the past ten years,” he says, his voice firm, the edge of disappointment unmistakable. “What happened out there? You choked, plain and simple.”

You swallow hard, clutching the phone tighter. You know he’s trying to push you, trying to get a reaction—he always thinks tough love will get you back on track. But right now, every word feels like another weight pressing down on your already heavy chest. “I know, okay? I messed up,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but you hear the waver at the end.

He sighs, and you can picture him running a hand over his face. “Messing up is one thing, but letting it get to you out there? That’s not you. You looked like a deer in headlights after that first fall. Where’s your fight? Where’s the girl who pushes through, no matter what?”

The criticism feels like salt in an open wound, and you bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry again. You’ve already spent most of the evening crying in the bathroom, and you refuse to do it now, not when he’s on the other end of the line. “I tried, but—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“But nothing,” he snaps. “Trying isn’t good enough at this level. You either do it, or you don’t. And today, you didn’t.”

You pull the phone away from your ear for a second, taking a deep breath as you try to keep your emotions in check. You know he’s right—of course, he’s right. This isn’t the first time he’s laid it out like this, and usually, it works. Usually, it fires you up, makes you want to prove him wrong, to prove to yourself that you’re capable of more. But tonight, all it does is make you feel small.

“I get it,” you say quietly, struggling to keep your voice even. “I let everyone down.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then his tone softens, just a little. “It’s not about letting anyone down. It’s about you. You know what you’re capable of, and today, that wasn’t it. You’re better than this.”

You glance up at the TV, and your stomach drops. They’re showing footage of your routine, the slow-motion replay of your first stumble, the way you clutched your ankle like it was the end of the world. The announcers are discussing it with hushed tones, one of them saying, “A disappointing performance from someone who’s been touted as a medal contender. You can see the hesitation after that initial fall—she never fully recovered.”

It feels like someone’s twisting a knife in your gut, and you have to look away, turning your attention to the wall instead. “They’re showing it on the news,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re saying I looked scared.”

“Well, they’re not wrong,” your coach says, and the bluntness hits you like a slap. “You did look scared. You were scared.”

You clench your jaw, fighting back the tears threatening to spill over again. “I know that,” you snap, more harshly than you intended. “I know I messed up, and I don’t need you or the whole world reminding me.”

There’s a long silence on the other end, and for a moment, you worry he’s going to hang up. But then he sighs, and you hear the weariness in his voice. “Look, I’m not saying this to make you feel worse. I’m saying it because you’ve got two options now: you let this break you, or you use it. You’ve got another routine, and if you want any shot at the podium, you’ve got to be perfect.”

The words hang in the air between you, and you stare down at your lap, the weight of everything crushing you. “I don’t know if I can,” you admit, the vulnerability slipping out before you can stop it. “I feel like… I don’t know, like I’ve lost it.”

“You haven’t lost anything,” he says, his voice sharp again, like he’s trying to pull you back from the edge. “One bad routine doesn’t erase everything you’ve worked for. You’ve been down before, and you’ve come back stronger every time. This is no different.”

The TV cuts to the end of your routine, the moment where you bowed your head and skated off the ice, and the announcers are speculating about whether the pressure of the Olympics got to you. You grit your teeth, feeling the shame creeping back in.

“I just— I don’t know how to fix it,” you say, your voice cracking. “I felt like everything was slipping away out there, like no matter what I did, I couldn’t get it right.”

“That’s your head talking,” he replies. “You need to get out of your own way. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about finding that zone where you stop thinking and just skate. You know how to do that. You’ve done it a thousand times.”

You want to believe him, but the doubt clings to you like a shadow. “What if I can’t? What if I mess up again?”

“Then you get up again,” he says simply. “That’s the only way forward.”

You lean back against the pillows, closing your eyes and trying to steady your breath. You know he’s right, deep down. But right now, it feels impossible to shake the disappointment and the fear. “Okay,” you say, even though it doesn’t feel okay. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” he says, and for a moment, his tone is almost gentle. “Get some rest tonight, clear your head. Tomorrow’s another day.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Yeah. Thanks, coach.”

“Hang in there, kid,” he says before hanging up.

You set the phone down on the bed, feeling the quiet of the room settle around you. The screen still shows highlights of the other skaters, and you watch as they soar effortlessly through their routines, their movements flawless, their expressions confident. You envy them—the way they make it look so easy, so natural.

But you know it isn’t. You know the hours, the pain, the sacrifices that go into making it look that way. You’ve lived it, day in and day out. And as much as you want to curl up and shut the world out, there’s a part of you that refuses to give up. A part that knows you have another chance, another routine.

The channel shifts from figure skating highlights to coverage of the hockey events. You immediately recognize the familiar red and white jerseys of Team Canada as the highlights reel begins, showing clips of their opening game. There’s Sidney, in perfect form, weaving around defenders with effortless grace. The crowd roars as he shoots and scores, the puck finding the back of the net like it was meant to be there all along.

The announcers are gushing, their voices rising with excitement. “And there’s Crosby with yet another goal—what an incredible start for Team Canada. Their chemistry on the ice is flawless, and they’re looking unstoppable.”

The camera zooms in on Sidney’s face, beaming as he’s mobbed by his teammates. There’s that calm, confident look you’ve seen so many times before, the look of someone who’s exactly where they belong, doing exactly what they were meant to do. The arena explodes in cheers, and you can almost feel the energy from the screen, the way the city has rallied behind their hockey hero.

You grit your teeth, feeling your hands ball into fists on your lap. Of course, he’s perfect. Of course, everything falls into place for him. While you’re stuck in this hotel room, replaying every mistake you made, Sidney’s out there doing what he always does—winning. Being flawless. Making it look easy.

The replay shifts to another play, this one showing Sidney setting up a teammate for a goal with a precise, lightning-fast pass. The announcers’ voices swell again. “Crosby’s vision is unmatched—he makes it look effortless. The chemistry and connection he has with his teammates are just on another level.”

You feel the knot in your stomach twist tighter. It’s not that you begrudge him his success; he’s worked hard for it, and you know how much pressure he’s under. But right now, it’s like every moment of his triumph is rubbing salt in your wounds. It feels personal, like the universe is reminding you of how far you’ve fallen, how badly you’ve failed.

And the worst part is, you can’t get his face out of your head. The way he looked at you after your routine—his expression soft, the same reassuring look he’s always given you when things went wrong. At the time, it felt comforting, like he was there for you when you needed someone the most. But now, seeing him bask in the glory of his victory while you’re drowning in your own defeat, it only makes the ache worse.

The camera zooms in again, catching Sidney in a post-game interview. He’s all smiles, his helmet still perched on his head, hair damp with sweat but eyes bright and full of that competitive fire you’ve always admired. “It’s great to start the tournament off strong,” he says, his voice full of confidence. “The guys have been working hard, and it’s awesome to see it pay off on the ice. We’re just taking it one game at a time, but we’re feeling good.”

The reporters laugh, clearly enamored with him, and you can’t help but scowl. It’s so easy for him to stand there and say that, to talk about feeling good when everything is going right. When he hasn’t been the one to crash and burn on the world’s biggest stage.

Your fingers dig into the comforter as the segment continues, showing highlights from the locker room—Sidney laughing with his teammates, high-fiving, all smiles and celebration. They look relaxed, like they’re already sure of their place in the finals. And why wouldn’t they be? They’ve got Sidney Crosby, and when you have someone like him, everything else falls into place.

You mute the TV, unable to watch anymore. The image lingers, though, and you can feel the anger building in your chest, tightening like a vice. It’s not fair. You’ve worked just as hard as he has, put in the same hours, made the same sacrifices. And yet, here you are, hiding in a hotel room, while he gets to be the golden boy, the hero.

You know you’re being unfair. Sidney was nothing but kind to you earlier. But you can’t help it—the jealousy and frustration bubble up, making it impossible to think straight. You want to scream, to throw something, to lash out at the injustice of it all.

Instead, you bury your face in your hands, trying to take deep breaths, but all you feel is the heat of your tears building again. “Why can’t I just be better?” you whisper to the empty room, the words cracking in your throat. “Why can’t I be like him?”

You know there’s no answer, and that’s the hardest part. You know that no amount of hard work or preparation can guarantee perfection. You’ve been told your whole life that you have to fight for what you want, that success doesn’t come without failure. But in this moment, it all feels so hopeless, like you’re swimming against an unstoppable current and no matter how hard you kick, you’re just sinking deeper.

You hear your phone buzz on the nightstand, and you almost ignore it, but a part of you hopes it might be a message from home—maybe your mom or your sister, someone who’ll tell you that it’s okay, that one bad skate doesn’t define you.

But when you check, it’s a notification from one of those sports apps, and your heart sinks again as you read the headline: Sidney Crosby and Team Canada Dominate in Opening Game. It’s everywhere, inescapable. Another reminder of how easily the world seems to fall in love with him, and how quickly they move on from the skaters who stumble.

You drop the phone back on the bed, shoving it away as you curl up against the pillows. You shut your eyes, trying to block out the noise, the pressure, the image of Sidney’s perfect smile and the sound of the crowd chanting his name. But it doesn’t help.

No matter what you do, it feels like you’re stuck in a loop, replaying your mistakes and wondering why, for once, you couldn’t have been the one with the perfect routine, the one who had everything fall into place.

Then, that familiar mantra repeats in your mind. I’m not gonna let Crosby win.

“Damn right,” you whisper to yourself as you lay back in the hotel bed.

───

The alarm blares, pulling you out of a restless sleep. You groggily reach over and shut it off, squinting at the clock—4:00 a.m. The room is dark, and the cold air bites at your skin as you push yourself out of bed. You’ve always been an early riser, but today is different. It’s not just about getting ahead of the competition; it’s about making up for yesterday, about proving to yourself that you can still pull it together.

You slip into your warm-up clothes, tying your hair back tightly, and grab your skates and jacket. You move quietly through the hallways of the hotel, the only sound being the soft hum of the lights and the shuffle of your footsteps against the carpet. The entire place feels eerily quiet, as if the world hasn’t woken up yet. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what you need—a chance to reset, to work without anyone watching or judging.

When you arrive at the rink, the lights are dim, and the ice is a blank canvas, untouched. You breathe in deeply, letting the chill fill your lungs, feeling the weight of your skates as you lace them up methodically. The rink is your sanctuary, your space to figure things out. Today, it feels even more important to reclaim it. You stand and step onto the ice, the familiar glide grounding you, and take a deep breath before you start.

You begin your warm-up routine—edges, spins, quick footwork. The movements feel stiff at first, but you push through, repeating them until your body remembers how it’s supposed to move. Every turn is sharper, every spin faster than the last. You skate hard, pushing your muscles to the limit, sweat starting to bead on your forehead despite the cold.

As you go through your jumps, you land a clean triple toe loop, and for a moment, it feels like progress. But then you try again, and your skate catches the ice wrong, sending you stumbling. You curse under your breath and reset, gritting your teeth as you go for it again. Over and over, you repeat the jump, and each time, it feels like it’s getting worse.

Your frustration builds, and before you know it, you’re skating full speed into your program. You launch into the combination sequence that tripped you up yesterday, determination burning in your veins. It’s messy—your timing’s off, your landings shaky—but you keep going, pretending that if you just push hard enough, you can force it to be perfect.

You don’t even realize how hard you’re pushing yourself until you skid to a stop, panting, your legs burning. The sound of your ragged breaths echoes in the empty rink, and you slam your hands on your thighs, hunching over. “What’s wrong with me?” you whisper to yourself, your voice echoing in the silence.

Just as you’re about to push off for another round, you hear a voice that makes you freeze. “Up early, huh?”

You whip around, and there he is—Sidney Crosby, leaning against the boards, still in his sweats. His hair is messy, and there’s a slight grin on his face like he knows he’s interrupting something private. You feel your stomach drop, the annoyance already bubbling up. Of all the people to show up at this hour.

“Yeah, well, some of us need the extra practice,” you snap, more harshly than you mean to. The last thing you want is to let him see how much this is getting to you, how much yesterday is still hanging over your head.

Sidney raises an eyebrow, his expression still annoyingly calm. “I figured as much,” he says, his voice annoyingly relaxed. “Saw the lights on and thought I’d come check it out.”

You glare at him, your grip tightening on the edge of the rink. “Well, you’ve checked it out. Congratulations. You can leave now.”

But he doesn’t move. Instead, he pushes off the boards and steps closer, resting his arms casually. “You know, beating yourself up like this isn’t going to help.”

“Oh, thanks for the tip, Coach.” You can’t help the sarcasm that drips from your words, your fists clenching at your sides. “I’m sure you’ve had so many moments where you just sucked and needed to figure out how to get it back together.”

He tilts his head, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes, but it only makes your annoyance grow. “Actually, yeah,” he says, his tone softer now. “I’ve had plenty of bad games. Plenty of times where I felt like I was completely off. It happens to everyone.”

You roll your eyes, looking away. “Not like this. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like everything you’ve worked for is slipping through your fingers.”

“Maybe not exactly like this,” he admits, and for a moment, you hear genuine understanding in his voice. “But I get it. The pressure, the expectations—everyone watching, waiting for you to mess up or be perfect. It’s not easy.”

You want to tell him to stop, that his sympathy isn’t what you need right now. But the more he talks, the more it feels like he’s seeing right through you, and that makes you feel exposed, vulnerable. “I don’t need a pep talk, Sidney. I just need to work.”

“Yeah? And how’s that going?” he challenges, gesturing to the rink. “You think pushing yourself like this is going to fix everything?”

“I don’t know,” you snap. “But what else am I supposed to do? Sit around and watch the highlights of you and your perfect team?”

His face darkens, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not here to rub anything in. I just—I saw you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Well, I’m not,” you admit, the words coming out harsher than you intend. “I’m not okay, and I don’t need you pretending to care. I just—” You cut yourself off, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak.

He looks at you for a long moment, the frustration still in his eyes but mixed with something else—maybe concern, maybe understanding. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” he says quietly. “You’re not the only one who struggles.”

But you don’t want to hear it. Not from him. Not right now. “Just leave me alone, Sidney. Please.”

For a moment, it looks like he might argue, but then he nods, the disappointment clear on his face. “Fine,” he says, stepping back. “But if you ever need someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”

He turns and walks away, and you watch as he disappears down the hallway, leaving you alone in the cold, empty rink. The silence feels heavier now, and the frustration sits like a weight in your chest. You push off again, skating into another spin, determined to work through it, but all you can think about is the look in Sidney’s eyes and the feeling that, for once, maybe you’ve pushed the wrong person away.

───

The next day, you walk into the rink with a heavy sense of dread. The weight of your previous performances and the mounting pressure of the competition is starting to feel like an unbearable burden. You arrive a bit later than usual, joining your teammates as they warm up. The mood feels different today—everyone is on edge, focused. No one says much; they just nod in acknowledgment as you step onto the ice.

You take a deep breath, the familiar chill of the rink grounding you as you skate a few laps to loosen up. The routine you’ve been working on still feels rough around the edges, and the more you practice it, the more you feel the lingering frustration. You can’t afford to fall apart again, not this close to competition.

As you glide toward the boards, planning to get some advice from your team’s coach, you notice a familiar figure standing there, arms crossed and a stern expression on his face. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then he steps forward, and you recognize the familiar build and the gray streaks in his hair.

“Coach?” you blurt out, stopping in your tracks. The surprise in your voice is evident, and your teammates glance over, curious.

He nods, his eyes sharp as ever. “Heard you were having some trouble,” he says, not wasting a second. “Figured I’d come see it for myself.”

You feel a mix of relief and irritation. Relief because there’s no one who knows your skating as well as he does. Irritation because, of all times, why now? “I didn’t ask you to come,” you say, trying to sound tough, but it comes out weaker than you want.

“I know you didn’t.” He steps onto the ice, his skates making that satisfying scratch against the surface. “But you clearly need it.” He gestures for you to come over, and despite everything, you find yourself obeying, gliding toward him like you’re fifteen again and still trying to impress him.

“You’re skating like you’ve got bricks tied to your feet,” he says bluntly, and you bristle. “I watched the tape, and honestly, it’s like you’re holding back. Why?”

“I’m not holding back,” you argue, feeling the defensive flare rise in your chest. “I just—” You pause, swallowing hard. “It’s the pressure. Everything feels off.”

He gives you a knowing look, one that makes you feel seen and called out all at once. “Pressure isn’t new for you, kid. You’ve handled it before. The only difference now is you’re letting it get in your head.”

You want to argue, to tell him that it’s not that simple, that the stakes are higher now, that you feel like the world is watching your every move. But then, as he stands there waiting, you realize he already knows all of that. “Okay, fine. Maybe I am in my head,” you admit.

He nods, satisfied with your honesty. “Good. Now let’s get you out of it.” He claps his hands together. “Start from the top. Show me the routine.”

You go through the motions, running through your routine as he watches with that critical eye he’s always had. He doesn’t say anything at first, just lets you move through the steps, and you try to shut out the noise in your head, focusing on the feel of the ice beneath your blades, the muscle memory kicking in as you twist into the jumps and glide into the spins.

But when you finish, you can already tell it wasn’t your best. You land off balance, your arms not quite in the right position, and the frustration hits you like a wave. “I can’t—” you start, but Ramirez cuts you off.

“Stop,” he says, holding up a hand. “You’re hesitating. Every time you go for a jump, you’re thinking too hard about sticking the landing. You can’t think. You just have to trust your training.”

He skates up to you, his eyes meeting yours. “We’re going to break it down. One section at a time. And when you hit that jump, you commit to it like it’s the last thing you’re ever going to do.”

You nod, taking a deep breath. It’s been so long since you’ve had someone push you like this, and even though it’s tough love, there’s something comforting about it. You start again, working through the steps slowly. He stops you, corrects your positioning, and has you repeat until it feels right. Then you move to the next part, and the next, until you’re sweating and your legs are burning from the repetition.

“Now, the jump,” he instructs, standing back a few feet. “No hesitation.”

You push off, feeling the adrenaline rush through your veins as you pick up speed. This time, when you go for the triple toe loop, you don’t think about the landing—you just let your body move. And for the first time, it feels right. You nail the landing, your arms pulling into the perfect position as you finish the rotation.

“That’s it!” Coach shouts, and you feel a surge of triumph. “That’s the skater I know.”

You repeat the jump a few more times, and each time it feels smoother, more controlled. The confidence builds, and by the time you finish, you’re panting but smiling for the first time in days.

Coach skates over, nodding in approval. “There you go. You’ve still got it. Just had to get out of your own way.”

You nod, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders. “Thanks, Coach,” you say, and you mean it.

He grins, clapping you on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it. Just go out there and show them what you’re made of. You know you’re better than what you showed the other day.”

As he leaves, you stand in the center of the ice, feeling the energy buzzing in your limbs. You go through your routine again, and this time, everything clicks. It feels natural, like you’re finally skating the way you know you can. The nerves are still there, but they’re manageable, and you feel like you’re reclaiming your rhythm.

Maybe you’re not back completely, but for the first time in days, you feel like you’re heading in the right direction. And that, more than anything, gives you hope.

───

The sun barely peeks through the thin curtains of your hotel room when your alarm breaks the quiet, a sharp reminder of the day that lies ahead. Today is the day, the one you've trained for endlessly. Months of repetition, muscle memory, and strategy all leading to this. You’ve imagined it countless times in your head, playing out the routine step-by-step in your mind, visualizing every move, every spin, every landing. Today, none of that changes—except the stakes.

You sit up in bed, the cool air of the room biting against your skin as you throw the blankets aside. The nerves should be overwhelming, but instead, a sense of clarity washes over you. Today, you’re ready. This is your stage, your time to shine, and no one can take that from you.

After getting dressed in your warm-up gear, you take a moment to glance at yourself in the mirror. There's something different about you today—your eyes are sharp, focused, determined. You’ve been through the pressures before, the tightrope walk between fear and success, but today, something just feels right. It has to be.

By the time you make it to the rink, the buzz of competition fills the air. The sound of skates slicing through the ice, the murmurs of coaches, and the faint cheers of early spectators start to build the intensity in your chest. But you push it aside. You’ve been in big competitions before; this is no different. It’s just another routine. You’ll hit it like you always do.

As you’re stretching in the corner, lacing up your skates, a familiar voice calls out from behind you.

“Looking sharp.”

You glance over your shoulder, finding Sidney standing there, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He always knows when you need a bit of reassurance. His presence is steadying, calming. You offer a small smile in return.

“Of course,” you reply, your voice low and even. “I’m ready for this.”

Sidney steps closer, leaning down slightly to meet your gaze. “You’ve got this. Don’t let anyone get into your head today, okay?”

You nod, feeling the confidence surge in your veins. “I won’t.”

But as you finish tying your laces and stand up, something—someone—catches your attention.

A skater from Russia, one of the top competitors, is gliding effortlessly across the ice, her movements so fluid and smooth they almost mock gravity. You've seen her before, heard the whispers about how she's one of the favorites. You wouldn't mind, except she locks eyes with you as she spins to a stop, her lips curling into a smirk that drips with arrogance.

“Aw, look who’s here,” she says, her accent heavy as she steps off the ice, making her way toward you. “I thought you’d be smarter than to show up here. You must love embarrassing yourself on the world stage.”

Your heart skips a beat as you register her words, your jaw clenching. For a second, it’s like a hot flame flickers in your chest, spreading through your veins. You know better than to engage—this is a mental game, and she’s trying to get into your head, to throw you off. But your temper simmers beneath the surface, threatening to bubble over.

You take a step forward, your fists balling at your sides as the blood rushes to your face. You're ready to fire something back, something sharp enough to cut through her smugness. Your pulse pounds in your ears, and the ice beneath your feet feels like it's shifting, unsteady, as your emotions rise.

“Excuse me?” you snap, your voice low and dangerous, but before you can take another step, a firm hand grips your arm.

It’s Sidney. He pulls you back, his expression calm but stern, as if he’s reading every thought running through your mind. “Let it go,” he mutters quietly, his voice steady, almost like a tether anchoring you to the moment.

You hesitate, your body still tense, the adrenaline begging for release. But when you meet his eyes, the storm in your chest calms just enough to bring you back to your senses. Sidney’s grip on your arm doesn’t loosen until you take a slow breath.

“She’s not worth it,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze flicking over to the other skater who watches with amusement, a mock pout on her lips. He’s right. She’s baiting you. And as much as you want to prove a point, this isn’t the time. Not now.

You let out a sharp breath, forcing yourself to relax. “Fine,” you say, your voice cold as ice, but you turn away from the smirking skater, following Sidney’s lead.

As you walk toward the locker room, the adrenaline still courses through your veins, but Sidney's presence beside you keeps you grounded. His hand never leaves your arm until you’re far from the other skater’s gaze, and only then does he finally let go.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice softer now, his eyes searching yours for any sign of lingering anger.

You nod, but the fire in your chest hasn’t fully burned out. “I almost lost it back there.”

“I know.” Sidney sighs, running a hand through his hair. “She’s just trying to get in your head. Don’t give her that power.”

You nod again, taking in a deep breath and forcing your mind to focus. Sidney’s right, and you know it. You can’t let anyone throw you off your game today, especially not someone who’s already threatened by you. She’s scared—that’s why she said what she did. You can sense it now.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, finally feeling the confidence return. “Thanks for stopping me.”

Sidney smiles softly, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. “Anytime. Now go out there and show them why you belong here.”

You feel the weight lift slightly from your shoulders, and as you head back toward the rink, you feel that calm determination return. The fire’s still there, but this time, it’s focused. You’re ready to skate, and nothing is going to stop you.

Not her. Not anyone.

And finally, the time has come.

You stand in the tunnel just before stepping onto the ice, your heart pounding steadily in your chest. Everything about the rink feels different now—the lights seem brighter, the air colder, the buzz of the crowd more intense. You close your eyes, centering yourself, taking in the familiar sounds of blades cutting into the ice and the faint murmur of the audience above.

This is it. This is your moment.

Your name is called, and a roar from the crowd erupts in response. You take a deep breath, feeling the chill of the ice underneath your skates as you glide onto the rink, your body moving with precision. Every inch of you is alive with purpose. It’s as if the weight of months of preparation, of early mornings and late nights, presses down on your shoulders. But you’re not buckling under it. You’re thriving. You can feel the tension in your muscles, that sharp edge of nervous energy, but you channel it into determination.

Before you take your starting position, your gaze drifts—just for a second—across the rink, landing on her. The skater from Russia, poised against the barrier with a smug expression painted across her face, her arms crossed as she watches you. She’s one of the best—hell, you know that. But it’s the way she’s staring at you, like she’s already counted you out, that makes something snap inside you.

You meet her eyes, and for a heartbeat, neither of you look away. There’s a flicker of judgment there, a cruel glint in her eyes that says she doesn’t believe in you. But instead of breaking you, it ignites something fierce in your chest. The fire from earlier flares up, but this time, it’s controlled, burning with a steady, focused heat. If she thinks you're going to falter under her scrutiny, she’s dead wrong.

You shift your focus back to the ice, feeling your breathing steady. You let her condescending expression fuel you. Today, you’ll give her a performance so perfect, she’ll have no choice but to remember your name.

As the opening notes of your music fill the arena, you take off, your blades biting into the ice as you begin your routine. The crowd falls silent, all eyes on you. Every step, every turn, feels deliberate. It’s not just muscle memory—it’s instinct now. Your body knows this choreography so well it feels like second nature, and you trust it. You trust yourself.

The first jump comes quickly—a triple lutz, one of the hardest in your routine. You feel the familiar rush of adrenaline as you gather speed, launching yourself into the air. For a brief second, you feel weightless, suspended in time as your body rotates. Then, the satisfying click of your blades hitting the ice. Perfect. The crowd erupts in applause, but you barely hear it. You're already moving on, focusing on what comes next.

Your mind is sharp, clear, hyper-focused on the moment. You move through your footwork sequence with precision, your blades carving intricate patterns into the ice as you twist and turn, your arms fluid and graceful. Every muscle in your body works in perfect synchronization, and for once, the nerves don’t feel like a burden—they feel like power, like fuel that’s pushing you faster, sharper.

As you glide into your next combination jump, a triple toe loop-double axel, you catch a glimpse of her again—the Russian skater, still watching you, her expression unreadable now. You wonder if she’s realizing that you’re not the pushover she thought you were. The thought brings a smug satisfaction to your lips as you execute the combination flawlessly, the landings soft and controlled.

You're in the zone now, riding the high of perfecting every element, your body responding to every beat of the music, every shift in the ice beneath your skates. There’s nothing but you and the performance, the world beyond the rink fading away.

As the music swells to its climax, you launch into your final spin. You feel the wind rush past your face as you whip through the rotations, faster and faster, your arms outstretched in perfect balance. The crowd is on its feet, the roar of applause echoing in your ears, but you don’t stop until the very last note. You strike your final pose, your chest heaving, every nerve in your body alive with the energy of the moment.

For a beat, there’s silence. Then, the arena explodes into cheers, a standing ovation. You breathe hard, your chest rising and falling as you take it all in, a rush of pride swelling in your chest. You did it. You nailed it. Every move, every jump, every spin was flawless, and you know it.

As you glide off the ice, that familiar sense of calm washes over you, but there’s something else too—a spark of mischief. You pass by her—the Russian skater—standing near the boards, her gaze still locked on you. You can see the flicker of something behind her eyes now. Is it irritation? Jealousy? You don’t care. You savor the moment, letting it fuel your next move.

With a cheeky grin, you blow her a kiss as you skate past, your lips curling in satisfaction. It’s not subtle, and you make sure it’s clear who it’s for. The boldness of the gesture sends a jolt of thrill through you. It’s petty, it’s catty, but damn, it feels good. You don’t even have to look to know the smugness has drained from her face.

By the time you reach the kiss-and-cry area, Sidney is there, waiting, his grin wide and proud. “That was incredible,” he says, his voice low with admiration as you slip off your skates.

“I know,” you reply, your breath still catching up to the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You can’t help but throw another glance toward the Russian skater, who’s still staring after you, no longer smirking.

Sidney chuckles when he catches your look. “Did you really blow her a kiss?”

“Of course,” you say with a laugh, unbothered. “I mean, someone had to put her in her place.”

You sit down next to Sidney in the kiss-and-cry area, letting the coolness of the seat and the reality of the moment settle over you. Your chest is still heaving from the effort, but a euphoric calm is taking its place. The roar of the crowd lingers in your ears, a distant hum compared to the electric rush that’s been running through your veins since the moment your blades touched the ice.

You sit down next to Sidney in the kiss-and-cry area, letting the coolness of the seat and the reality of the moment settle over you. Your chest is still heaving from the effort, but a euphoric calm is taking its place. The roar of the crowd lingers in your ears, a distant hum compared to the electric rush that’s been running through your veins since the moment your blades touched the ice.

Sidney leans closer, his arm resting casually on the back of your seat, his familiar presence comforting. “You were incredible out there,” he repeats, his eyes bright with pride. His grin, that cocky confidence that’s so quintessentially him, makes you feel a surge of warmth. There’s something grounding about having him here with you, someone who understands what it means to perform under pressure, to feel the weight of expectations, and to still rise above it.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice breathless but light, and you meet his gaze, feeling a smile tug at your lips. “I felt it. Everything just… clicked.”

Sidney nods, his hand gently squeezing your shoulder. “It showed. That last jump? Nailed it. And that spin? Pure magic.” His grin widens. “And the kiss at the end? Bold move. But hey, if anyone deserves to be a little petty, it’s you after that performance.”

You laugh, the tension from the performance finally starting to melt away. “You know, it wasn’t planned, but she just…” You glance back toward the other skater, who’s now talking to her coach with a tight expression on her face. The same smugness she wore earlier has evaporated. “…she pissed me off,” you finish, shaking your head. “I wasn’t gonna let her get in my head.”

Sidney gives you a knowing look, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “That’s the spirit. You didn’t just show her up—you owned the ice. She’ll be thinking about that kiss for a long time.”

You lean back in your seat, still riding the high of the moment. The judges are deliberating now, your scores coming up on the board any minute, but you’re not stressed about it. Not like you usually are. You already know you gave the performance of a lifetime, and no number they flash on the screen will take that away from you.

Still, as the numbers begin to appear, you hold your breath, your fingers nervously drumming on the armrest. Sidney glances up at the screen, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“Here we go,” he murmurs.

The scores start rolling in—technical, artistic, execution—and they’re good. Really good. The kind of scores that make your heart skip a beat, that tell you everything you need to know.

You’ve done it. You’ve not only secured a personal best, but you’ve set yourself up as a true contender for the top spot.

The arena erupts in applause once more as your final score flashes on the screen, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, a mix of relief and joy. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible, the weight of all your hard work crashing down on you. You feel Sidney’s hand slip into yours, a squeeze of congratulations, and you turn to him with a beaming smile.

“See?” he says, his voice thick with pride. “Told you.”

You shake your head in disbelief, glancing back at the ice, as if you need to see it again to believe it. “I knew I could do it, but… seeing it up there, hearing them cheer like that…” You trail off, emotions swirling in your chest.

Sidney doesn’t let you stay in that awe-struck moment for too long, though. He smirks and nudges your shoulder playfully. “So, what’s next? Gonna blow more kisses at the competition?”

You roll your eyes, but the grin stays plastered on your face. “Maybe I’ll save that for when I win gold.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ll have to up your game for that.”

“You think?” you tease, arching a brow.

He leans in, his voice low and teasing, “Maybe save a kiss for me when you do.”

His words send a warm flush up your neck, but you manage to keep your composure, glancing sideways at him. “Oh, you think you deserve one, huh?”

Sidney flashes you a grin, leaning back with that easy confidence. “If anyone’s getting a victory kiss, it should be me. I did keep you from tearing someone’s head off this morning.”

You laugh, unable to argue with him on that one. “You’ve got a point.”

Before you can say more, your coach approaches, eyes gleaming with pride, and you’re pulled into a round of congratulations. The victory, the adrenaline, the applause—it’s all so surreal. You’ve done it, and as you sit there, surrounded by your team, Sidney’s presence grounding you amidst the whirlwind of excitement, you realize just how far you’ve come.

But there’s something else. Something that lingers in your chest, stronger now than it’s ever been. This wasn’t just about proving yourself to the judges or the audience or that snide Russian skater who thought she could rattle you. No, this was about you. About finding the strength within yourself to push through, to rise above the doubts, the pressure, and the competition.

As the celebration continues around you, you find Sidney’s gaze once more. There’s a look in his eyes—something deeper, something that tells you he’s proud of more than just your performance. He’s proud of you.

And in that moment, with the weight of your accomplishment settling in, you know that this is only the beginning. There’s more to come—more competitions, more challenges—but right now, you’re ready for all of it.

You stand, pulling Sidney up with you, and before the moment can pass, you do something bold, something just for you. You lean in, pressing a soft, quick kiss to his cheek, the kind of kiss that says more than words ever could.

Sidney’s eyes widen in surprise, but his smile is immediate, warm. “Told you I’d get one,” he teases, though there’s a touch of tenderness in his tone.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Don’t get used to it.”

But as the two of you walk away from the rink, the roar of the crowd still echoing in the background, you know deep down—this is only the beginning of something even bigger.

───

The energy in the locker room is a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. Your teammates are sprawled out on benches, some still cooling down from their routines, while others are glued to their phones, checking social media and results. You’re still riding the high from your performance, your mind replaying every step, every leap, and that perfect kiss at the end—both of them, in fact.

"Hey, turn that up!" someone yells from the other side of the room.

The television, mounted high on the wall, is blaring Olympic coverage, and everyone’s heads swivel toward it. You don’t pay much attention at first, too busy lacing up your shoes and chugging water, but the buzz of your name from the TV catches your attention.

"And in a stunning turn of events, it seems like all eyes are on Y/N L/N today!" the announcer’s voice booms, and your head snaps up.

“Wait, is that about—”

“Yup,” your teammate grins, elbowing you in the ribs. "They’re talking about you."

The screen shows a slow-motion replay of your final move on the ice, your body twisted into that perfect final pose, followed by the triumphant blow of the kiss aimed squarely at that other skater. The commentators’ voices narrate over the footage, practically salivating over the drama of it all.

“It wasn’t just her skill that had the crowd roaring,” one of them says with a chuckle. “That was a statement, folks. The kiss at the end was dripping with attitude. It’s all anyone’s talking about. People are calling it the ‘kiss seen ’round the world’ already!”

“Not to mention, did you see who she was aiming that at?” the other commentator adds with a laugh. “That wasn’t just a kiss for the audience—that was personal. Our sources are buzzing with rumors about the tension between her and the Russian favorite, and this just confirmed it.”

“Definitely adding some heat to the competition. This is shaping up to be a rivalry for the ages.”

The camera cuts to the Russian skater, her expression still cool and composed, though there’s an undeniable tightness to her posture, a simmering frustration just below the surface. It’s clear to anyone watching that your little display got to her.

“Whooo! She’s probably seething,” one of your teammates laughs, tossing her head back. “You really got under her skin with that one.”

The room fills with laughter and playful jabs, your teammates leaning into the cattiness of the moment. You’re not one to shy away from a little drama when it’s warranted, but you can’t help but roll your eyes, pretending to be above it all—even though a small part of you secretly loves it.

"Yeah, yeah, it was a moment,” you say, waving them off with a smirk. “It’s not that serious.”

“Oh, come on,” another teammate pipes up, sitting across from you. “You know that was the most iconic thing to happen all day. The commentators are practically obsessed with you now.”

You grin, unable to help yourself, but then you hear it—the kiss. The real kiss.

"And speaking of kisses…" the commentator’s voice lowers conspiratorially, as if he’s about to deliver some juicy gossip. “We’ve got some footage from after the routine that’s definitely got people talking."

Your heart skips a beat. They couldn’t be talking about that kiss. The one you shared with Sidney, could they?

The camera cuts to footage of you walking off the ice and into the kiss-and-cry area, and sure enough, there it is, caught on film—the quick, playful peck you gave Sidney on the cheek. The kiss that felt so impulsive but so right, in the moment.

Your teammates erupt into laughter, their eyes wide with delight. “Ohhh, no way!” someone shouts. “They caught that!”

The commentator’s voice returns, sly and teasing. “Looks like our gold-medal hopeful isn’t just a fierce competitor on the ice—there’s clearly something going on off it as well. A little victory kiss for someone special?”

“Is that Sidney Crosby?” the other commentator jumps in, clearly trying to contain his excitement. “It is! I’m calling it now: the hottest couple of the Olympics.”

Your face flushes red, and your teammates lose it. The locker room turns into a frenzy of laughter, teasing, and playful shouts.

“Oh my God, you’re in the tabloids now!” one of them cackles, clutching her sides. “They’re going to eat this up!”

"Seriously, we should be charging people for front-row seats to this drama," another teammate jokes, tossing a water bottle at you.

You cover your face with your hands, trying not to let the embarrassment take over, but you can’t help the smile creeping across your lips. You knew this was coming—Sidney is a massive deal, and your relationship was bound to catch the media’s eye at some point—but having it aired like this, right after one of the most important performances of your life? It feels like a lot.

“That was a cheek kiss, people,” you say, voice muffled as you shake your head. “It’s not a big deal.”

"Sure, not a big deal at all," your teammate mimics in a high-pitched voice. “Just a cheek kiss with Sidney Crosby, no biggie.” She winks. "But seriously, you two are adorable."

You groan, sitting back and letting the playful teasing wash over you. It's all in good fun, but your mind can’t help but wander back to Sidney. The way his cheek had felt warm against your lips, the way he’d smiled at you like you were the only person in the room. The commentators could speculate all they wanted—only you and Sidney knew what was really going on.

“Well,” one of your teammates says, pointing at the screen, “whether you like it or not, the world’s got its new favorite Olympic couple. You’re officially a thing.”

You raise an eyebrow, your lips quirking into a smirk. "Guess that means I’ll have to win gold now, doesn’t it?"

The room bursts into cheers and whoops, and even though you’re still a little embarrassed, you can't deny the spark of pride warming your chest. You may not have asked for the attention, but if people were talking about you, it was because of your performance. The kiss—both kisses—were just the icing on the cake.

As the chatter dies down and your teammates go back to their phones and conversations, you glance at the screen one more time. Your face is still up there, smiling, skating, kissing. The cameras are still following you, and now the world is watching your every move.

And somewhere in the crowd, watching all of this unfold, is Sidney. You can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking, whether he’s amused by all the media buzz or quietly rooting for you to rise above the chaos, like he always does.

───

A couple of weeks have flown by, and life feels like a whirlwind. The days blur into each other, each one filled with intense training, interviews, and media attention, but you’re thriving in it. You’ve hit your stride—the moment where everything just clicks. The routines you’ve practiced for years feel effortless, like second nature, and every time you step on the ice, the crowd roars just a little louder.

You’ve gone from being an underdog to the one everyone’s talking about—the name on every commentator's lips. They’re calling you a "generational talent" now, comparing you to the legends of the sport. It’s surreal.

At every competition, you push yourself further. Your performances are more than just technical mastery—they’re performances, filled with personality, elegance, and a certain kind of fire that no one else has. The crowd can feel it. So can the judges. Your scores reflect that, each one higher than the last, inching closer to the perfect mark.

But the real magic is in how you’ve taken control of the narrative. It’s not just about your skating anymore; it’s about you. The girl who sent shockwaves through the arena with a playful kiss, the figure skater who got her get back. You're unstoppable right now.

The media follows your every move, dissecting each routine, each interview, each glimpse of you with Sidney. They’ve dubbed you "The Queen of Ice"—a title that feels daunting but fitting. You’re skating with a newfound confidence, and your momentum is undeniable. It’s almost like you’re skating for something bigger now, fueled by the pressure and expectation, but instead of letting it weigh you down, you thrive under it.

On top of that, the Canadian hockey team is doing just as well, if not better. Sidney and his teammates are on a tear through the tournament, steamrolling the competition with a precision and intensity that’s impossible to ignore. The headlines are full of glowing reports about how the team is clicking, playing like a well-oiled machine, and Sidney’s name is front and center. Every game, he’s putting on a clinic, and just like you, people are starting to use the word legendary.

It’s crazy to think about how things have shifted so quickly. Not long ago, you were just hoping to make an impact, and now you and Sidney are always in the headlines, dominating in your respective fields. The media plays it up, of course—every now and then you catch an article about "Olympic royalty" or some speculative piece about your friendship-relationship-rivalry (you're not sure what it is, anymore), but you’ve learned to tune it out.

Still, it’s hard not to feel proud when you see your name in another headline. It’s not just about the gossip or the hype—it’s about what you’re doing. You’re succeeding at the highest levels of your sport and you’ve worked your whole lives for this moment, and now, you’re in it. Living it.

You’re in the Olympic Village after practice, sitting with your teammates in the common area, watching the latest round of highlights on TV. The hockey team had just demolished their last opponent, and the commentators are practically swooning over the way Sidney’s been playing.

"Another incredible game from Crosby," one announcer says, his voice full of admiration. "The guy is playing out of his mind. He’s always been good, but this? This is something else."

“Yeah,” another commentator adds, shaking his head in disbelief. “If he keeps this up, there’s no doubt they’ll be in the finals. And honestly? I don’t see anyone beating them.”

One of your teammates nudges you, grinning. “You hear that? Your boy is killing it out there.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you felt a flush rise in your cheeks. “He's not my boy, shut up.”

Your teammate just laughs and shrugs, looking back up at the TV.

The screen cuts to a highlight reel of you from the most recent competition, and the room quiets as everyone watches. The slow-motion shots of you mid-jump, your spins and edges so crisp and precise, make it look almost effortless.

“Look at that,” the commentator gushes. “She’s redefining what’s possible on the ice. It’s not just about her technical skill—it’s the way she connects with the audience. She’s performing at a level we haven’t seen in years. You can see it in the way she moves—the confidence, the passion. She knows she’s the best right now, and she’s skating like it.”

Your teammates break out into cheers, some of them even clapping. You hide your face in your hands, half-embarrassed, half-proud.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” you say, laughing. “It’s just one performance.”

One of your teammates smirks. “Nah, sweetheart, you’ve had like ten of those just one performances. Own it.”

You lean back, still smiling, but your mind wanders for a second. All the attention, all the pressure—it’s a lot. But then you think about Sidney, how he handles everything with such grace and focus. You’ve watched him lead his team to victory after victory, never letting the noise get to him. It’s inspiring. And it makes you want to keep pushing yourself, to live up to that same standard.

As the hockey highlights come to an end, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You glance at it, and your heart skips a beat when you see Sidney’s name.

Sidney: Saw the kiss thing on TV again. Apparently we’re the new "it couple."

You can’t help but smile. You ignore the weird butterflies that begin forming in your stomach—it's just Sidney.

You: Oh, so now you’re famous because of me, huh?

Sidney: Obviously. Also, everyone’s calling you the GOAT now. When are you going to start teaching me how to skate?

You: I’m already teaching you how to win.

There’s a pause before his next text, and you can practically hear him laughing through the screen.

Sidney: Touché. But seriously—you’re killing it. Proud of you.

You stare at the screen, his words sinking in. It’s such a simple message, but coming from him, it means the world.

You: Right back at you.

You tuck your phone away, feeling a quiet surge of giddiness. You glance at your teammates, looking at you almost expectantly—you immediately regret it.

“Oh, shut up!”

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

is it chill that you’re in my head?

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: You’ve been alone all your life so moving into a tower of people who considered each other family wasn’t ideal, already not being able to spark a connection with anyone you were alone most of the time searching for the feeling of home… Then again do you really know what that feels like? Maybe not until a late night accidental meeting with the most timid member fills you with nothing but these so called sparks.

WC: 2.1K

The Thunderbolts Tower didn’t exactly feel like home.

It had walls, sure. Expensive ones. Reinforced steel, soundproof panels, panic rooms tucked behind sliding concrete. It had amenities too, an espresso machine Yelena had nearly gone to war for, a rooftop garden Alexei insisted needed “more nature” a gym Bucky used at 3 a.m. when he thought no one was watching.

But it didn’t feel like home. Not in the way people always talked about it in books and movies. The way they described a home as something you felt comfortable in, regardless the place. This… This place to you was shelter. A bunker. A glorified holding cell for the world’s sharpest, most broken tools.

Home had always been a delicate concept to you. Something you brushed against in dreams and woke up aching from.

You weren’t built for places like this. Maybe if really was just shelter to the rest of the team, you wouldn’t feel like you were alone.

You moved like smoke and silence, with eyes that had seen too much and lips that rarely curled into something that resembled softness. You haunted hallways instead of walking them. Shadows slipped around your shoulders like a second skin. And even though no one ever said it out loud, you knew what they whispered when they thought you couldn’t hear:

“She doesn’t sleep.”

“She never eats with us.”

“Doesn’t even flinch when Alexei sets off the dummy mines…”

You weren’t cruel. Just… quiet. Always on the outside looking in. Ava was the only one who tried sometimes passing you energy drinks like peace offerings, leaning against walls near you without pushing conversation. Even then, her ghost skin sometimes glitched if your gaze lingered too long.

So you stayed to yourself. Up late. Headphones in. Music low enough to hear your own heartbeat, just loud enough to drown the past.

Until that night.

⸻

It was the kind of night that pressed against the windows like breath, thick and humid, the air barely cool enough to pass for midnight. The city was still awake below, glowing soft and gold, like someone forgot to dim the lights before sleep.

Bob Reynolds hadn���t meant to leave his room.

He was used to the nightmares by now. Most of them started the same, the Void dragging his name across black skies like a warning, cold sweat trickling down his neck, the echo of screams that had long since blurred into static. He usually stayed curled up on the edge of his mattress, white knuckled and wide eyed, talking himself back from wherever he was. The Other.

But tonight, the weight was heavier. He could feel it clawing under his ribs, thick as tar, breathing down his neck.

So he ran.

Barefoot, hoodie half zipped over his threadbare sleep shirt, hands still trembling from the remnants of the dark. He didn’t even realize he was heading for the roof until he felt the air shift. Third floor, westside. The door creaked open, and—

There you were.

Perched on the ledge knees tucked to your chest, one headphone in, hair stirring slightly in the breeze, swimming in dark jeans and sweater a colour of blue he’s never seen. The moonlight poured over you like it had been waiting all night just for this moment, soft silver across your cheekbone, dancing along your collarbone. You looked like a memory. Or maybe something from one of his dreams, the rare kind that didn’t end in screaming.

You barely glanced at him.

Not startled. Not wary. Just… curious. Then you looked back at the skyline like he was nothing more than another part of the silence.

Bob froze.

He hadn’t seen you like this. No one had. You were a myth at best. A name on a file at worst. A flash of movement out of the corner of a bloodied mission. But this? This was something else.

Still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t disappear into smoke or shadows. Didn’t pull a knife or raise an eyebrow or ask what he was doing there.

Instead, you pulled one earbud out, a gentle movement, deliberate, like offering someone the last piece of chocolate without saying a word.

“…Can’t sleep either?”

Your voice was softer than he expected. Nothing like the precision of your fighting or the clipped orders you gave on missions. It was fragile. A little sad. And something about it made something in him crack.

“…No,” Bob said quietly. “Nightmares.”

You nodded once. Just enough to say I know.

And then you did something that made his heart ache a little.

You patted the space beside you.

He walked over slowly, cautiously, as if he might spook you. But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t vanish.

And when he sat beside you, legs dangling off the ledge, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie… he realized something.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room. (At least felt like it)

But for the first time, that didn’t terrify him.

It comforted him.

Because beside you, wrapped in moonlight and a silence that felt like safety, Bob Reynolds didn’t feel like a monster.

He felt human.

And somehow, that felt like the most dangerous thing of all.

⸻

It became a pattern.

Not the kind that wore out, not the kind that dulled with repetition… But the kind you traced with your fingers in the dark, over and over, just to remind yourself it was real.

Every night, like clockwork, around 1:30 a.m., your phone would buzz. Your phone lights up your nightstand in the black more than the actual lamp.

Roof?

Just one word. No punctuation. No signature. As if he knew and maybe he did, that anything more might scare it all away.

You never replied.

You didn’t have to.

Five, sometimes ten minutes later, you’d climb the stairs barefoot, hoodie half zipped, music still humming low in one ear. There was never an announcement, no grand entrances. You just… appeared. Like the breeze. Like the hush before rain.

Bob would already be there. Perched on the ledge or leaned back against the wall, that soft, faraway look in his eyes like he was already a million miles into his own head.

And you’d sit beside him, not touching, not asking.

Just existing together in the quiet.

It became your rhythm.

Two ghosts in the night, finding each other again and again.

You talked.

Just thinking of all the fun things you guys could do. Sometimes it was nonsense, constellations, movie soundtracks and why Alexei even insisted on a garden if he won’t tend it. Other times, it cut deep. He told you about the Void and how it felt like being strangled by your own reflection. You told him about the first life you ever took, how the blood didn’t scare you, but the stillness afterward did.

“I didn’t flinch,” you’d whispered, like it was a confession.

He hadn’t judged. Just nodded, like he understood that kind of stillness.

He told you he liked your laugh.

The way it caught in your throat and crinkled the corners of your eyes, like you were surprised by the sound.

You told him you liked his voice low, patient, like warm hands wrapping around your ribcage and holding everything inside together.

And slowly, so slowly, something inside you began to thaw.

Like frost giving way to spring.

⸻

By daylight, you were still the same.

Guarded. Sharp edged. Vanishing before anyone could hold on too long. When John teased or Alexei roared with that too-loud, too-big laughter, you smirked, nodded, and slipped out of the room like you’d never been there.

But Bob noticed the changes.

The subtle ones.

Sticky notes on the fridge reminding him to get the oat milk he liked. An extra tea packet slipped beside his thermos. Your hair which you’d always tied back with clinical precision, now down more often, curling in the wind just like it had that night on the roof when he’d told you it looked soft.

He noticed everything.

And your phone…

It didn’t just light up your nightstand anymore.

It lit up you. Your heart. Your whole damn being.

Sometimes, when you were alone in the lull between missions, curled on top of too-starched sheets, you found yourself replaying his voice like a secret song you weren’t supposed to know the lyrics to.

You caught yourself smiling.

“Sometimes I wonder,” you whispered to no one in particular, “when you sleep… are you ever dreaming of me?”

You hated that you felt like this.

You weren’t supposed to.

This was a foreign feeling. Truth be told you didn’t really know what it was, just that you’ve never felt this good, this nice. People like you didn’t get nice. Didn’t get soft or safe or whole. You were a blade, and blades didn’t get to love things. They cut them.

But still. You relay the echoes of his footsteps coming up the roof stairs. You wanted long nights with his hands up in your hair… Just want him to stay with you and not share him.

Every night when that single word lit up your screen, your heart raced like it had something to lose.

⸻

And then came the night everything shifted.

You’d been laughing, breathless, aching laughter about nothing at all. Something he said. Or maybe it was the way he’d said it. His hoodie was too big on him, his hair curling at the ends from rooftop humidity, his eyes glowing soft in the starlight like he’d swallowed a sunbeam.

And suddenly, your laughter faded.

You just looked at him.

Watched him in that long, quiet way that made the air feel thinner, like the moment itself was fragile and sacred. You memorized every inch, the scar on his chin, the faint stubble on his jaw, the way he sat so still like he didn’t want to startle the peace between you.

Your voice barely made it above the wind.

“Sometimes…” you breathed, “when I look into your eyes… I pretend you’re mine.”

The silence cracked.

“All the damn time.”

Bob blinked. Like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

You laughed, soft, nervous, filled with static.

“Is it cool I said all that?” you rushed. “Is it chill that you’re in my head? I know this is all… delicate. But I think about you all the time. And I know you probably don’t feel—”

You didn’t get to finish.

He kissed you.

Gentle. Unrushed. The kind of kiss that felt like a question. Like he was afraid of breaking something sacred.

And when you kissed him back, your hands in his hair and his breath catching against your lips it didn’t feel like fire.

It felt like falling.

Like walking into the sea and letting it swallow you whole.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“I’ve been dreaming about you,” he whispered.

“Every night. Even when I’m awake.”

⸻

Yelena was the first to know.

You came to training the next morning late, hair slightly windblown, smile lingering at the edges of your lips like a secret you weren’t quite ready to share.

“She’s glowing,” Yelena muttered to Ava, who gave a smirk that said finally.

Even Bucky, ever the skeptic, raised an eyebrow when he saw Bob in the hallway.

“So…you and our little shadow, huh?”

Bob turned the color of his hoodie. But he didn’t deny it.

No one teased. Not really. Maybe they all understood something unspoken:

That sometimes, the softest things grow in the harshest places.

That even steel can bloom if you leave it in the right hands.

⸻

Now, some nights, you still go to the roof.

But you don’t leave alone.

Bob’s already there, hoodie sleeves too long, arms open, waiting like you’re the only thing he’s ever waited for.

You crawl into them like you belong there. Because maybe, just maybe, you do.

The city hums below.

The stars blink above.

And somewhere between everything you were taught not to want and everything you’ve dared to feel, you realize—

Your reputation’s never been worse.

But when he looks at you like you hung the damn moon?

He must like you for you.

And no, you can’t promise this will last. You can’t promise you’ll survive this world with all your pieces intact. You don’t know if happy endings are real for people like you.

But maybe that’s what makes it matter.

The most delicate thing in the world…

is choosing someone in the dark,

and letting them love the parts you were sure no one ever would.

And he does.

Night after night, word after word, kiss after kiss.

Bob Reynolds loves you like it’s the only truth left in the world.

And you’re finally letting him.

⸻

A/N: Uh so if theres like a part here where it looks like its missing a paragraph or sum lemme know bc my tumblr has been acting nuts and i had to lay this out like 100 times and i genuinely cannot read this one more time again I’m crashing out

[chlmtsdoll]

Guys I loved writing the first short n sweet inspo fic so here’s more bc that ovulation album is too good <3

WHERE ART THOU ? WHY NOT UPONETH ME ?

౨ৎ Summary: your hosting a slumber party at Art’s mansion. But you can’t quite stay away from your pull to get the man in a room where there are no others. Inspo from Bed Chem by Sabrina Carpenter 🤍

+ 18 | very much smut !, unprotected sex, age gap, (reader early 20’s) dilf!Art, size kink, first daddy kink fic (omg) semi-public sex, oral (f) reviving, pet names, this made me feel a bit slutty just writing it, needy!reader, fatherly Art ;)

A/N: the fucking edits on tiktok of Mike to Bed Chem are making me go insane ! just when I thought there was no possible way for me to be crazier over this man omfg. So I had to give the girls a fic to go w it ofc <3

It was like fate. The day you met him.

Nothing could of been more perfect when the stars aligned to bring you to accompany your solid group of trust fund friends to one of his tournaments that evening. You were like most girls your age, makeup, pop music, nice ornaments for your wardrobe — you weren’t the kind of girl that could say she knew much about sports, and certainly little to nothing to be caught landing a seat at the us open... but eventually that grew to be a substantial part of what found him to be so drawn to you.

It was that day when you’d been in the bleachers watching the blonde play like it was his life’s greatest prophecy. For the first time in your still too little years of living, you’d never felt that aroused by a man you’d only saw from the mere view of him hitting a ball with a racket.

But he was unearthly.

Built like how men used to be. Face like it came straight from heaven. Serve like he knew a thing or two in bed.

You were drunk on want, need for him. You were damn lucky your friends were loaded enough to go to all the after parties with most of the star athletes. It was insane to you that you would follow the vip and your most sports driven friends (enthusiast if you will.) to where the elites spend their time. You wanted a nice hang out. Good food. Expensive drinks. But it was between you and the universe that you’d leave with so much more.

You were in a sheer dress and kitten heels when he spotted you. Just his star studded sly smile from across the event hall, when he saw you and your friends conversing in mostly a pretentious manner like most kids your age did when they could afford the lifestyle most people only dreamed of. But not you, you were entranced, pulled away. By his wide, blue eyes that you assumed filled with the same yearn you’d been struck with. And to your quick manifest, Art was gazing right back at you.

Only sharing a couple brief exchanges with the tall and stature, modest but kindly — beautiful and magnetic man around mutual friends, before you’d both been rushed to leave. Him with his team, and you with your entourage.

Like that you were tied to the tennis star in the blink of a moment. And Soon enough — being photographed with him around the heat of the city.

Games, athlete dinner parties, press events. Even photos of you two sharing more than a couple of words, maybe even kisses, behind menus at glamorous rooftop restaurants. Magazine outlets went crazy through the roof in just a few weeks time. Milking whatever they could out of Art Donaldson and his controversially younger girlfriend.

They didn’t have enough tabs on what you two had officially been to one another and that was perfect for the two of you. Because now that time has pushed you and the blonde closer and more into each other — you’d spend days and nights locked away with Art in his new found mansion post his former divorce. Home so beautifully articulated and big enough for you to be extra generous with your time with the dream boat of a man.

It would go down in history what the two of you had done in every room.

Now, a gorgeous weekend ahead of you after your week that was always filled with Art treating you to the finest cooked dinners, at home date nights filled with breezy smiles and full closeness to balance your dates out on the town. Going wherever you felt just to hold hands under umbrellas and traffic lights. With all the new adorned love in your life, and man with too much mystic taking up your time, it had been a good minute since you saw your girlfriends, caught up or shared a drink. You were just so wound up in Art and the way he treated you like a princess to, and in your own world.

So you’d asked Art if you could host a sweet little sleepover for you and your girls at the mansion — and of course he complied. It was anything for his perfect girl since the beginning.

“I could ask the chef to whip up some,” Art spoke into you as he held your hips in his vast hands running carefully over the hem of your satin bottoms as you stood in the middle of the spacious kitchen with him.

“That’s okay, I wanna do it.” You laughed softly, as you stared up at the man. “Nothing says fun girls night like making our own home made friandises”

Art had tilted his head in slight confusion with eyes in question to your tone when you’d practice what you’d been learning in your French courses on him. It was all the most adorable to you really. Your laugh echoed.

“Treats, baby.”

“I- - I knew that,” He scoffed and your giggles were infectious with delight to him.

“It’s gonna be fun. We’ll watch movies, paint our nails, share snacking tips. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the girls.”

Art grinned at the way you lit up with excitement, and his icy eyes looked down at your figure below him. He tried not to bite down on his lip at the way you were in the pajamas usually he only saw you in. Pink lace two piece jammies. Completely recognized because he got them for you. The transparency to them was way too easy on the eyes.

Arts tongue darted out to wet his lips before he questioned, “Is that what you’re wearing ? There aren’t gonna be any boys.. right ?”

“No, silly. That of course counts out you — if.. you wanna join us.” You looked up at him through your lightly mascara coated lashes, it felt as if the flirtatiousness through your gaze just hooked Art by the belt.

“No, no. I’ll give you and your friends your space, doll.” The blonde gave you a chary little smile, “I really doubt they’d want an old man around while you’re trying to have fun.”

“Quit it ! You’re not old. And they adore you.” You stood on the tips of your toes, Art met you so you could leave a sweet kiss on his cheek, with a blush to your own.

“Thank’s for letting me have this little party, baby.”

“Course, what else would be better use for all this space ? Other than for the amusement of twenty something girls.”

Art chuckled and you surely were in agreement, because when your girlfriends did arrive it was immediately shrieks of girlish camaraderie and chatter of awe as you brought them around the place of posh and eloquent nature. Your laugh could of been heard from the other side of the place where Art had eventually been stored away for the night while your hands were knee deep in cookie dough and rainbow sprinkles. Pj sets all from the brands you and your friends never stopped talking about. Having your night filled with reruns of classic movies to sipping champagne.. and the wine, red, (your pick) was certainly slipping through you as the moments went on.

You’d been with your best friend when you two had a moment alone to catch up in one of the halls of the buoyant abode. Whispers and giggles coming from between the two of you as a glass of wine hung from your palm.

“God, he was a such a cutie.” She coo’d as you two had found a very special wall of framed photos of Art from back in his prime tennis days. The blonde around your age who seemed filled with joyfully energetic faces and awards from across the globe. A smile woke upon your face as you folded your arm to admire the man you’d now call your own.

“Sometimes I wish I’d known him then,” you simpered. “But I’m beyond lucky now. Because he’s still cute, and sexier.”

You tittered fondly and your friend laughed with you as she playfully tugged on your shoulder. “You gotta lock that down, y’know… you’ll be like- - hella famous just from being a world class tennis superstars hot young wife.”

She announced as she sipped on something burgundy and you thought with a heightened grin. She couldn’t have been farther from right. And as the months go by you would fall farther and farther head over heels for Art every day. You’d be his wife in an instant. That was the dream after all, and you could certainly say you’d been living one.

“I guess I’ll just have to wait for him to put a ring on it..” You smiled with a dazed shrug as you embarked your wine glass to your lips again.

“He better.” Your friend chirped with a proud glint and you couldn’t help but stay stuck in your thought of your boyfriend who’s been just a few rooms away for the past couple of hours while you’d been enjoying all the perks of your girls making the most of their time with you. But you couldn’t help but want Art to be nearby now, and the red wine in your system maybe hit more than just your head — you couldn’t even try to fight it.

You missed your man.

So after you’d take in a few more drinks and a bit sensually themed games with your friends, you’d made your attempt escape off to find Art. Slipping away from the girls was easy when you’d have every necessity needed to execute a very graceful grown up girl sleepover provided for them.

You’d been walking down the hall heading to where his office and master bedroom would be at the end of the home, and as you passed by the lush kitchen area, to your surprise, there he was. Muscles looked enchantingly delicious in this light as they flexed to pull on the fridge handle and when he turned, his eye line met your glance staring back his way (of course you’d both arrive at the same time.) Arts lips began to curl in an amours grin when he saw your petite figure making it’s way over to him with the same like of smile across your face.

“Hi, baby. You having fun?” He glanced down at you through his blonde lashes to meet your nod, only following up with a soft titter as you stepped closer to the man. He almost immediately picked up on the lust laced within your eye and the way you slightly leaned onto the fridge door with your aura basically gooing with sex at him now. The blonde had an eyebrow furrowed as he chuckled just a bit and he sized you up.

“Are you drunk, princess?”

“No. No… no,” you shook your head.

It had been true. You weren’t drunk. But a little wine tipsy and horny ? Definitely.

Art hummed and put the back of his hand to your forehead gently as he observed your state. “Did you eat?”

“Mhm, did you ?”

“No. That’s why I came down, not to stalk you. I promise.” The man laughed, to which you did as well and you only raised your arms so they could embrace your boyfriend’s shoulders with a soft hum.

“Y’know, if you’re hungry, you can eat me.” Your finger tips grace Arts neck unashamed as you smile into the crook, and he took in a breath, proceeding to hold you close.

“Oh- -” his chuckle matched your giggle as he noticed you’d changed again. His hands were gliding up the ruffle of the even more transparent sheer cover on you’d been dressed in. Lime tinted. The shorts were near pantie like.

“Mmm, I miss you, I want you.” You peppered kisses as close as you could to his earlobe from your height and Arts breath hitched as he was weak to your slow but enticing touch to him. Fogging up his knowledge that you’d been right in the middle of the open kitchen that was just a few ways down from the living area your friends had been in.

“Here, sweetness ? Your friends- -” Art murmurs down to your ear, but you just locked your arms just above his shoulders without a care.

“And- - ? What about them ? I need you,” you whined. “I want your touch.”

“Yeah? You want me to touch you?”

You nodded again with a naughty giggle and the blonde was smirking now, his hands roamed your body. Large and groping your curves. As much as he knew what was rightful, Art just couldn’t deny your cling to him in that damn near lingerie that had him going almost unbearably hard beneath his jeans since you walked in. Feral even. It was beginning to get miserable as you pressed your dainty chest against his, he felt your nipples grow hard and sensitive against the cloth. So into his aroma, presence, like you were a moth to a torch.

He’d fallen into your pecks merging with his now. Kissing you against where the cupboards stand like your lips were candy. Your small legs stumbling as the man towered over you “Fuck, you look amazing in that set.” Art pulled away from your plump lips to view your gorgeously perfect body. You batted your lashes once. And his attain just couldn’t be stopped. Art slid his hands across your soft ass cheeks, massaging and kneading it in his palms before leading up to laying a solid smack which made you hiss out an excited squeal-like giggle. Your fingertips slid down his ample biceps brushed with virile bristles of hair.

“If I had known you’d like this set so much, I would of worn it much sooner for you.”

Art leaned into you and he held a sly smirk, “this was your plan all along, yeah? Wearing that to get my attention so I would come out here and fuck you in the middle of your slumber party.. you’re such a naughty girl.”

You only giggled more into his skin with a slow exhale, your freshly painted french tips exploring him as he explored you. Art took his sweet time just feeling the way your ass jiggled in his palms and you felt like you’d been going weak in the knees before his tender contact turned rough when he turned you around without warning, making you gasp.

Art made sure you could feel how hard you’d gotten him as he pressed himself to your core. Facing the counter, you lost yourself in complete bliss just to the feeling of not knowing where he’d pleasure you next — Arts restrained bulge against your clothed cunt was just something else. The blonde pushed up your sheer top just a bit and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, you made a soft noise with it.

“Feel what you do to me, pretty girl.” Art nibbled on your earlobe and you sunk your teeth into your bottom lip to subtle your smile. His hands bracing your hips as he stared down at your lacy panties and your minx-like eyes followed Arts famished expression while he licked his bottom lip.

“All yours, daddy.” Your sweet voice immediately made Art go nearly lightheaded and that was it. He melted.

The man tucked both his thumbs into the fabric and pulled your panties down clean with raucousness, followed up with him getting down on his knees before spreading you with his palms and your hands reached for the marble with a soft whimper.

“That’a girl, stay open for me.. Let me taste you.” Art huffed out before he pushed one of your legs up on the counter and you breathed out at the feeling of him making your body his toy for amusement. Art took his fingers and ran them up your folds, getting them wet with the slick of your pussy. Your cheeks started to heat up just at the wonderful pad of his index running against your core like that , making you let out a soft, “oh..” by the way he moved to rub around your clit. Arts lips kissed on your exposed inner thighs, and your jaw became unlocked extraordinarily far when his tongue finally rolled on the soft tissue.

He was splitting you clean open on the counter as tiny whimpers escaped your throat. You were lost in the draw you had to the man making you feel surpassing of even the way you played it all out in your head. “Mmm, yeah- - yes” you panted and the man flicked his digit over your bud at the same time he’d been making out with your cunt. Letting deep groans flow throughout your opening. You’d been on the tip of your toes for him. Letting him suck where you pulsed till you’d been overstimulated if he wanted.

Your head had been spinning from the friction of his perfectly sculpted nose rubbing against your sensitive area. Art was known to be gifted with his mouth so much so, you almost wondered if your friends would have heard if you just couldn’t keep your moans level — but with the way Art held your hips, fucked his tongue into your cunt like you’d been his last meal, your anxiousness washed away. All you could do was let the shake of your thighs and Arts dripping oral member lead you to a crisp pleasurable cry.

“Shit,” Art took a brief exhale as he pulled away from your entrance, dampened lips of your juices going wide with a grin and he ran his palms over your slick thighs again,

“you’re so fucking wet for me, princess. You gonna take my dick? Let me make you feel good?”

“Mmm, please. Fill me up, Art. I wanna feel you.”

“You gotta be quite for me, baby.” Art stood to his feet.

You didn’t care. All you could think about was dick. Arts phenomenal dick. You wanted him to toss you over and split you open till you were sobbing on his thick member, your wine drunk friends would understand. A girl has her needs.

The risk made your blood pressure rise as the moment went on, when Art reached over you to tug your panties dangling from your thighs all the way down — he kicked them off to the side. Taking note of his own belt buckle and undoing it quickly, which you only grew more greedy by the sound of him unzipping his fly. The blondes aquamarine orbs swam with the need to pump you fuller than you’d ever taken him.

“Bend over for me, sweet girl..” Art breathed out softly as his slightly calloused hands ran from your hip up your spine while you did so, bending over fully and displaying your sweet dripping cunt for the mans lidded eyes. He sucked in his breath and his now aroused dick twitched when it unveiled from his boxers — going barmy with just how tiny and soft you looked beyond him.

“So fucking tight and small- - your amazing with the way you take me when I barely fit in, sweets.”

You bit down on your finger as you watched Art run his hands over your ass. Take your hips and line his cock up with your hole. He hissed at the way your soaking cunt wet his tip, you almost croaked out a deep moan at his gestures to tease your pussy. Just nodding along as you’d gone cock drunk before he’d even been in you. Your nails run at the marble counter as Art slowly burrowed into your drooling core. Working you open as his cock disappeared into your body inch by inch — he pushed your thigh higher onto the ledge as you whined at the stretch.

“Ah.. mmm- - fuck, fuck, fuck,” you groaned as you adjusted to the size of his warmth finally filling you full. Art was big. And he’d never want to put you, his sweet doll in discomfort for long, never. So when he started to plunge into you, he watched as your face scrunched up from ache to pleasure in time. His name sputtering from your mouth as you clawed at the counter top and he watched your pussy lips that were just throbbing around his erection like it was begging to be so sporadically fucked by him.

“That’s it baby doll,” his own groans heightened as his hips knock into your cervix, chasing that spot of yours till you were moaning and whimpering like a slut around him. Hole so full with yours and his pre-cum and you sucked in your bottom lip, tussled hair going wild on your back. You just had to look over your shoulder to watch him — see Arts gorgeous face as he snapped against you all shimmering with light sweat as he focused on the way a ring of your wetness pooled around his base.

“You love this, hu? Getting me to fuck you while your friends carry on without you- - At your party. But you just had to come.. looking for daddy’s cock, yeah? You love being a dirty, dirty girl for me.” Art rasped as he clenched his jaw with the overwhelming feeling of your tight cunt clenching him. It made your skin feel like it had been sparked with fire, so exhilarated. He put his hands in your hair to fuck into you as your jaw dangled open.

“Oh! F-fuck! I needed that big fucking dick, daddy… w-want you to cum all over me, mmm- -” you were choking out whimpers and your pretty little hole dripped with Arts pre-seed slipping from you, making it drag out when he pulled out of your pussy to turn you around and pick you up in one swift motion. Your high pitched gasp echoed as you wrapped your legs around the mans abdomen and Art set you on the counter. His lips curl up into a smirk and his eyes met your wide doe set ones. Slipping back into you he watched you cry out his name. Rutting into your heavenly body at this angle, hands go squeezing your thighs, and Art kept them apart as he took you at a wild pace. Hitting that gooey spot till you didn’t remember your own name. “Good fucking girl. That’s it- - such a sweet thing for me, taking all of my cock. It was made for you, doll.”

You couldn’t even catch your self as you’d leaned back on the counter and let Art pound into you. Your tits bounced with each thrust and you were shuttering as your orgasm ripped through you without warning. “Yes ! Ooh- - shit, yes yes yes…” you were whining out as you came on Arts dick. He held your legs spread as he grunted and watched you soak him uncontrollably. You loved it. Feeling like his perfect little gift. Art licked over his lips at the sight of your beauty, throwing your head back in bliss, he pulled out of you and pushed up your dainty little baby doll top — making space as he pumped his throbbing dick over your stomach till he himself came hard. Ropes shooting out on your candescent skin and making sure some got on your pussy just for the fun of it, he grinned and trailed his thumb up your gentle inner calf that had been dangling by his side.

You were whimpering like you’d gotten your brains fucked out to the sweetest soundtrack you’d ever heard. Art was so cinematic in moments like these, he leaned up to kiss at the nape of your neck, cheek, and lips.

“Pretty, perfect girl.. I love you.” Your gentleman muttered against your mouth. You smiled and sunk your teeth into your bottom lip as Art brought your panties up to help you slip them back over your thighs and to your feet as steady as you could. Dressing himself as well, he glanced down at you through his hooded eyes to see your impressively only slightly disheveled state. You were just always glowing, it was hard to make that go away anyways.

“You sleeping down here tonight?” Art buckled his pants again as he questioned you with a soft raised brow. You started to smirk at the way he was heading. You shrug.

“Maybe, maybe not… I’ll sneak into your room when they’re sleep, if you want.” You offered the man, the glint in your eye saying you’d suck his cock and let him have you in as many different positions as he’d like in a couple hours till you were all tapped out. The blonde only scuffed and towered over your presence that was still taken by your hoyden attitude, just to turn you back towards the doorway.

“Go host your party.” he taunted almost fatherly, to then leave a light slap on your ass that made you giggle on the way out.

[aninipanin1]

HOW DID YOU TWO MEET?

Notes: Nothing but pure fluff! AU about Adult Miss or rather Mrs. Manager with each love interest hehehe. Also, since this is an AU it might not be accurate to the future of the BLLK players so please forgive me.

LAVINHO

"What do you want now, mi niña y niño?" A deep chuckle left his mouth, catching the two who crashed beside him on the couch, laying their upper bodies on his lap. 6-year-old Rey and 3-year-old Ana found themselves splayed across their father's hold.

"Papa! Papa! Guess what?" The energetic boy asked, bouncing on the couch to which the blonde man just raise an eyebrow at.

"What? What's got you two so energetic so early?" He laughed, booping both their noses which only made the two flinch before pouting at the ticklish feeling.

"We asked Mama how you two met, but she told us to ask you instead... Can you tell us, por favor?" The meeker of the two, Ana asked a little shy. Now that got Lavinho's attention, smirking at the two, albeit teasingly.

"Por què? What's got you two so curious, huh?"

"Our friends all know how their mama and papa met, but we don't. Please, Papa?" He was not planning to hide the story on how you both met, but the siblings' case became a little stronger when they gave him their irresistible puppy eyes. He knew he can never say no to their puppy eyes.

He was always impressed with how you managed to say no to their cute eyes, but alas, someone has to be the strict parent, and he was not built to be that parent to the two.

"¿Por què no? Come here." He pulled the two in and started to tell them about his time in Blue Lock and how you saw him first at a party (child friendly version of a bar), but seriously met at the Facility.

"What's Blue Lock, Papa?" Rey asked curiously.

"You two were not born yet then, but it was a place where young brats competed in Football."

"Ooh! Did Papa win?!"

"Yeah! Papa is the best player ever!" The man just laughed heartily, definitely feeling his ego being boosted by the enthusiastic praise from.his bel9ved children.

"Right?! But Papa did not compete. He only taught some people there, like your Uncle Bachira and Uncle Otoya." And to that, they gasped, after all these years you remained in contact with the Blue Lock players, but due to Bachira and Otoya playing for Barcha and your family living in Spain, the kids were the closest to the two.

"Really?! Wow...Papa is so cool!"

"Yeah! Uncle Bachira and Uncle Otoya are very good players! So that means Papa is good too!"

"Of course! But, the moment I met your mama, I was so stunned you know? She was very smart and pretty, so Papa felt a little starstruck."

And there was no lie to it. He did remember his team laughing and mocking him for being too wonderstruck whenever you talked to him that he would shut his mouth up, which was weird and so not his usual cool and energetic self.

But, then again, who can blame him? You were always so hot, and even after so many years, that did not change.

"Mama is always pretty!" Ana exclaimed, always looking up to her beloved mother. After all, you will always be the prettiest woman in her eyes, and she wishes she could be like you when she grows up.

"Mama is smart! She helps me with homework." Rey nodded, remembering the many nights you would stay up with him just to help him with all of his schoolworks or teaching him lessons he did not get.

"She is. Buuuut, Papa did have to win your mama over, since there were other men like me who liked her." He said with a laugh, remembering the old days where his fellow mentors and some other players would try to win you over. The several shenanigans from him and the others were definitely entertaining and he did miss the competition a bit.

However, he loves his life with you now even better. And, he would never let his ex-competitors live the fact that you became HIS wife and not theirs.

"Mama...Papa's laughing like a maniac again." Rey pointed out. Lavinho has been laughing evilly for a few seconds now as he remembered his pathetic ex-competitors. Unbeknownst to him, you already walked in the living room from the kitchen, raising an eyebrow at your husband.

"Mama...is Papa okay?" Ana asked, holding unto your pants, worried for her father. Meanwhile, you just rolled your eyes at the man, before carrying the little girl while holding the little boy's hand.

"He's fine, that's just how your Papa is. Let's eat breakfast, shall we?"

CHRIS PRINCE

"Please, Daddy! Tell us!"

"Aww, of course! What do you want to know, my little princesses?" Chris asked, patting the twin girls' hair. Alice and Elise are both curious kids, getting their father's athleticism and mother's curiousity and intelligence.

It was definitely both a blessing and a curse, seeing as to how they are always so full of energy, running around in full speed while also talking everyone's ears off with the most ridiculous questions a person can ever ask.

However, to Chris, his little girls were the cutest to ever live! No single part of them was annoying to him, no matter how many questions they asked (mainly because he was also annoying), and he is almost always the one to quickly entertain any of the girls' questions.

"How did you and Mommy meet?!" Elise asked from her place on her father's chest, her little hands busy with playing with his blonde hair, the same hair that mirrored that of the twins.

Now that got him smirking, tuning to both the twins, who looked more than eager to hear the story.

"Do you really wanna know?"

"Yes! Yes please daddy!" Alice cheered, abandoning her busy work at playing with her father's larger hands. The two snuggled close to Chris' chest, eyes wide while looking up at him expectantly, which only made the man laugh.

He then started to recount the moment he met you, how you were oh so oblivious to him and the rest of the men's attempts at winning you over and how, eventually, you started to return his feelings.

"What did you do, daddy? How did you make mommy love you?"

"Weeell, it was not easy. The first time I asked your mommy on a date, it was because it was all a huge mistake. I asked her out on a date, but she thought I meant by a meeting and...well, I wore a fancy outfit while she wore her cute tracksuit. Turns out I was a little too vague, buuut it all worked out in the end, and she ended up agreeing on a second date." He sweatdropped at the memory, feeling so bad to see you so confused.

He did act like a pussy, not being clear enough with his intentions but till this day, he is oh so thankful he made that mistake. Else, if he did ask you clearly out on a date, then there could have been a larger possibility of you saying no to him. That meant the domino effects that happened would have never happened.

And, at the end of it all, he probably would not have the beautiful family he currently has now. He could not even imagine not having his three beloved girls, they were his everything, his pride and joy.

"So that means Daddy is happy even if it all started as a mistake?" Elise asked to which the man just patted her head.

"Of course! If it did not happen, then both of you wouldn't be here. Besides...it did not seem like your mother minded me on that date-"

"Minded you on what?"

You asked, entering the front door after going on a quick run to a nearby store, only to find your family giggling away on the couch while in the middle of talking about something entertaining it seems.

Well, as entertaining as something relating to you, that is, because you did hear your name earlier.

"Mommy! You're back!" You smiled at the greeting, hugging Alice, who immediately stuck on your leg.

"Hi, pumpkin. What are you guys talking about?" Sitting on the couch beside Chris, you turned to them with a questioning look in your eye. The man just wrapped one arm around you before turning to the girls on both of your laps.

"I'm just telling the kids about how we met, darling."

"Oh...well, did you tell them about how you threw a tantrum when Snuffy-san took me out on a date before you did?" Now that made him stop, eyes turning into a glare of jealousy as you and the girls started to chuckle at his reaction.

"Hey, in my defence, I met you before he did! And I have been flirting with you ever since I met you. Don't I deserve a date before him?" He frowned, his arm wrapping around your shoulder before placing his head ontop of your shoulder.

"I guess. But hey, who's ahead of who now, right?"

Chris' eyes looked down at you, his beautiful wife of years now, and the twins whom he love very much and thought, yeah you were right. He did win in life, didn't he?

MARC SNUFFY

"I'm home!"

The player stored his shoes on the rack before plopping his bag on the couch. Looking around the living room, he was a bit confused seeing as to how it was so unusually quiet.

"Dear? Matteo? Where are you both?"

He raised an eyebrow at this. Going up the stairs, a smile slowly appeared on his lips the moment his ears picked up on soft, familiar giggles and laughs coming from one of the rooms.

Opening the door, there he found you sitting on your shared bed with him while holding up with what seemed to be an old photo album. Beside you was Matteo, who was unblinking while looking at the pictures in awe, sometimes nodding to what you told him or even laughing at some stories you told while he laid his head comfortably on your pregnant belly.

"Oh, welcome home, love! Sorry we didn't hear you." You said the moment you lifted your head and found your husband standing in the doorway. The moment Matteo noticed his father, he jumped off the bed before hugging Snuffy's leg.

"Welcome home, Dad! Did you know? Mom is showing me pictures of what Blue Lock is." Now he raised an eyebrow at that, very much amused and curious of what you told the little boy.

"Hm, is she now? What did she tell you?"

"Teo was curious about how we met and well... I told him about Blue Lock, what happened, and how we met." You answered for the boy, patting the space on the bed beside you. Getting the signal, Snuffy carried Matteo in his arms before sitting beside you, looking down on the pictures.

"I also tried to explain the hard words Mom said to little sis!" Matteo bragged, caressing your stomach once again.

Ever since you started showing, Matteo has been obsessed with talking and touching your belly, showing his excitement to meet his little sister. Snuffy laughed at the enthusiasm before reaching his hand over to pat his head.

"You're a really great big brother already, Teo. You're doing so good, buddy."

The boy's smile brightened, eyes wide in satisfaction before nodding his head excitedly. Finding his place next to you again, the boy pointed at another picture on the album.

"Ooh, where did you go this time, Mom?" His little finger pointed at the picture of you in the familiar museum from Kamakura, a place you will never be able to forget. After all, it was where your love story started, and it is the reason why you have the beautiful family you had now.

"That is where you and your mother had our first date. Well, to me, it was, since she was too oblivious for her own good. And well...it's also where I fell in love with her." Snuffy answered for you, his eyes filled with blissful nostalgia. Just remembering that time, where it felt like time slowed down and it was only just you and him.

Where attraction turned into something deeper, and it started his eventual deep fall for you. The time and place where the start of something more meaningful than just finding you beautiful. It felt just like yesterday, but now, he is happily married to that same woman, who gave him a beautiful son and is preparing to give him another wonderful blessing in a form of a baby girl.

"Wow... Mom's hair was (shorter/longer) before..."

"It was. She looks pretty, doesn't she?"

"Yeah!" A chuckle escaped your lips before ruffling both their hairs away.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, you two." Looking at the two, you sweatdropped seeing the same grin both on their faces. Dang, Matteo really is just a copy of his father. In fact, it was a running joke the moment you gave birth to the boy, teasing Snuffy about how he did not need a DNA test to verify that Matteo was his.

"I just hope our little girl won't get both of your mischievousness because I need an ally too, you know?"

Your husband just shrugged at that before giving you a back hug, rubbing your swollen stomach.

"We'll see. But we all know you prefer when we act this way."

"Hmm, maybe. But don't count too much on it." And with one last bickering argument, you both turned to the questions your little one still kept barraging you both, his little mind filled with wonders and inquiries about how such a facility managed to bring in the two most in love people that he has ever seen in his yet short life.

NOEL NOA

"What happened..?"

Noa blinked his eyes at the two little boys who looked up at him innocently, offering an old memory card. Emile and Yves were absolutely covered from head to toe in dust and cobwebs, a sight that would probably have you shrieking and scolding the two boys for being messy and him for being irresponsible.

"We found this papa..!"

"Did you two go to the attic unattended again? You know your mother won't be happy about that, especially since she forbid you two many times from going up there."

"But we wanted to find new toys!"

Noa sighed. To anyone else, he may look like the helicopter parent, the one who makes the rules and punishes the kids for breaking the rules. But actually, he was akin to more of an old and done father, who just lets the kids while you were left to do more of the parenting in the house.

Mostly because he believed that trial and error was the best teacher. He did not want his kids to experience the hardships he went through, yes, but he also does not want to spoil them so much that they can not stand on their own foot. So, he finds more of the balance when it comes to it.

Although, he does get scolded by you sometimes for being too lenient at times. But, he always did reason that boys will be boys, especially due to the age of the two.

"Just remember, if your mother finds out, I won't get in the way of her scolding you two, so I suggest you take a shower now before she comes home." He sighed, voice not threatening but more of warning them of the consequences, and that he wanted them to solve the problems they created themselves rather than have him help them in everything they did.

"Oh... right! Okay, Papa! C'mon Yves, I'll prepare a bubble bath for us!" Emile, being the oldest, naturally took more of the lead, holding and guiding his younger brother's hand to the bathroom where they both took a shower (although a bit messily).

While the two busied themselves on the tub with Noa guarding outside the door in case something happened, he noticed the memory card that the two placed on the side table momentarily.

Picking it up, he found it quite familiar. Ah, it was your memory card of some pictures and videos you took back when in Blue Lock. You used to obsess over filling the space of the card with memories of the facility, and now it became like some sort of time capsule for you to look back upon.

"Papa! We're done...what do you do with that?" Yves, who was trying his best to dry himself clumsily with a towel, looked at the weird chip in confusion. Of course, they did not know what a memory card is anymore.

"It's a memory card. There are pictures and videos here. It's your mother's." He answered, helping to dry the boy and urging the two children into new clothes.

Due to the curiousity of the two, Noa pulled your old laptop from under the bed (that to his surprise, still worked) before plugging in the memory card to be bombarded with dozens of folders filled with pictures of videos. Some unfamiliar like the ones from before the Neo Egoist League, with some familiar and even included him too.

"Ooh! Papa, it's Uncle Kaiser and Uncle Isagi!" Yves cheered, remembering the two men who would always visit you and in turn meet up with the two boys. Although, Uncle Isagi will of course, always be the favourite (he spoils the two A LOT, unlike intimidating Uncle Kaiser).

"It is."

"Is that Mama?!" Emile pointed at the picture of younger you. Noa blinked at this and nodded, pulling the two kids closer to his chest as they started to slip from sitting on each of his thighs.

"It is your mama when she was younger."

"No Yves or Emile?" The younger boy asked to which their father shook his head.

"No. This was also before me and your mama were married or even together." It has been a while since he reminisced about the past. Noa, after all, is not the type of person to dwell in the past, especially his messed-up past.

But, all his firsts and moments with you were definitely something he deemed worth looking back on, especially now that he carried in his arms the testament of how far you both truly came, asking him with innocent questions about the time where they did not exist yet.

And for once, he found a small smile appear on his face. One with satisfaction about the whole result. Because, no matter how much he tries to look at it in a logical perspective on how a family will kust hold back his already booming career, the emotions were just too strong for him to just abandon you and the kids.

And for once, Noel Noa let his emotions rule instead of cold, hard logic.

Blue Lock is WRITTEN by Kaneshiro Muneyuki and ILLUSTRATED by Nomura Yusuke. All credits to the both of them.

[floraisunwell]

Promise | s.r

who? post-prison!reid x ex gf reader (

category: angst

summary: Spencer left you 5 months ago without a word for undisclosed reasons but he comes teary eyed to your door after seeing a girl that looks a little too much like you.

based on (very loosely lol): promise by laufey. the fic does not follow the events of the song at all but i love the "if it weren't for the sight of a boy who looked just like you standing out on Melrose avenue" part right at the end so it's all on that line.

word count: 1.6k

a/n: my first fic ahhhhhhh, i'm so nervous and happy rn, this is my baby and ik there's a lot of space for improvement but i'm proud of my writing, this comunnity is full of amazing people and if it wasn't such a lovely space i would have never posted this. shoutout to @lilacsandlavenderhaze for being the first to hear my idea and telling me i should go ahead and write it; @spencersbabymama for telling me to cut the bullshit and self deprecation and post this; and to @esote-rika for being my first readerrrr. love y'all <3

dividers by @aquazero

English is not my first language pls tell me about any spelling and grammatical mistakes. enjoyy!

The air was cold and crisp, a light drizzle could be felt dampening the streets – a scene typical for this time of the year in Washington. Spencer had gone out with the team to get some drinks after a hard but successful case, he was happy, of course, the fact that they had caught the killer pleased him but everything inside the building felt overwhelming: the voices, and the drunk conversations, all the limbs touching a little too much, the overly loud music. He was out of it and to be honest he had been out of it for quite some time now, actually some months, everyone noticed how the breakup made him feel.

Funny, because he was the one to leave.

After you came back from a long shift at the hospital excited to cuddle with the love of your life (or so you thought) but the only remnant of him you found was a sticky note placed on the cover of a book you were reading at the time:

"I'm sorry, I can't do this anymore"

That was all he said before destroying everything you two had built over 3 years, 3 years of love, pain, and learning, 3 years of giving everything for each other, destroyed in less than 24 hours like nothing.

He hadn't been the same for a long time, though—not since prison. You didn't blame him; you tried to understand him, give him space, time, and everything one could need to heal. He was not the same, of course. You weren't expecting the same Spencer to come back, sure, but you also were not expecting whoever he had become: some cold and distant version of the person you used to know.

Your relationship with Spencer is divided into two eras: Before Millburn and After Millburn.

Before Millburn, you guys were somewhat happy. Both of you were overworked and stressed but happy. You would tell him about your work, and he would tell you about his. In the rare times, he got a day off work, he would hug you whenever he could, like he was making sure you wouldn't slip away.

After Millburn, you didn't talk much, not unless it was necessary, he didn't hug you a lot anymore, in fact, the last time he hugged you was when you went to pick him up at the correctional facility, all the emotions running high, you remember thinking he looked and smelled different, you didn't know he would be so different when you wrapped him in your arms, placed a kiss on his shoulder and whispered that everything would be fine. But everything was not fine. It was all so not fine and everyone around you two could tell. Yet you could have never imagined that Spencer, the man who made the hopeless romantic in you thrive would leave in such a disheartening way.

Back at O’Keeffe’s, the team was still at it. The count of how many rounds of drinks Rossi had paid long lost, Emily and JJ leaning suspiciously close to each other, Rossi nursing some unnecessarily extravagant drink, Garcia and Morgan somewhere on the dance floor and Hotch nowhere to be seen. Spencer had gone outside, hoping the sensory overload would ease with the fresh air, it did slightly but the agglomerate of people was no better than the one inside, so many people, reeking of alcohol, walking like zombies, and saying nonsensical things. As he was standing near the entrance, hands stuffed into his pockets, the soft rain dampening his hair, Spencer let his mind wander and it ended up where it always does: him contemplating if leaving was the right decision.

He was so deep in this thought that didn't even notice the man approaching until it happened- a hard shoulder bump that took him away from his thoughts.

"Sorry dude" the man muttered not even caring to glance back as he moved past. Spencer blinked, shocked as he watched the man move swiftly toward a small group of people nearby. A group that included you.

His heart jumped to his mouth. No - not you. But she looked like you, uncannily so. She even acted like you, the way she threw her back when she laughed or how she scrunched her nose in an attempt to put her sliding glasses in place - he could've sworn it was you.

For a fraction of a minute, he actually thought it was you. His breath caught in his throat and he took a step forward before reality sank in and he retreated. It wasn't you; it was never you.

But as he watched her wrapping her arms around the man's neck, as his hands almost automatically moved to her waist, and they both smiled like idiots in love. He couldn't help but feel like he had been stabbed and the knife was being twisted inside him. Was this some type of fucked up joke by the universe? "This could be you, bad thing you lost her" The thing is, he didn't lose you- he gave up on you which was worse because maybe if he had stayed, and tried a little harder, you would still be together.

He staggered back a few steps, and if he hadn't reached the wall, he would've fallen considering he already felt his knees buckle as all the bottled-up emotions from the past five months came crashing onto him; he was overwhelmed by his own feelings, eyes blurry with tears as a lump formed in his throat and the weight on his chest got heavier.

Blindly, almost unconsciously, he reached for his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket. His thumb hovered above your name in the contacts list. The message he typed was brief:

"Are you home?"

He didn't get a reply, he wasn't waiting for one. The moment he hit send his legs were already moving, practically running towards the street to hail a cab. He gave the driver your address, and it came out of his mouth easily, as if he had never stopped saying it.

You were in the shower when his message came through, you didn't pay the loud notification much attention, not even caring to glance at the device when you heard the familiar ding. You prioritized the small occasions you got to take care of yourself when your job is to take care of others.

Now freshly showered and in the kitchen making tea- the next step on your little routine- you hear a knock on the door, a distinct knock, a knock you could never forget, not even a billion years from now. Your heart stopped for a moment, heartbeat pounding in your ears, you didn't quite register you were moving towards the door until it was open and he was standing there, his brown eyes open wide once he registered your presence, reacting as though you opening the door was the last thing he expected. You just stood there for a few seconds, staring at each other until Spencer wrapped you in his arms like he used to, his nostrils flooding with the smell of your shampoo and body wash, smells he recognized all too well, smells that felt like home.

You pushed him away, shattering the brief feeling of happiness he had started to feel.

"What are you doing here?" You asked almost a little too loud in an attempt to hide the hurt in your voice

"I miss you" he replied eyes searching for yours.

You stood there, arms folded, trying to hide how weak those words made you feel. He had no right to miss you, not after leaving the way he did.

Why should I care? You thought to yourself. He made it clear that he didn’t care about you, but you cared, you cared so deeply that it made your heart ache.

You were not going to let him in.

"You can't just stop talking to me and then come here like nothing happened, Spence." You couldn't help using the nickname, your voice falsely steady, trying to hide the pain.

"I know, I just-can I come in?" No reply "Please"

You hesitated, gripping the door handle tighter as a tornado of emotions swirled on your chest. Anger. Hurt. Loneliness. You wanted to slam the door in his face, make him feel a small fraction of what you felt over the past 5 months. But buried beneath all these harsh feelings, there was something softer, something you felt ashamed to acknowledge: the echo of all the nights you stayed up worrying about him and what could happen in his work, all the mornings you woke up without the smell of coffee lingering through the apartment.

You let him in.

You tried to convince yourself that letting him in was about answers- you deserved an explanation, some sort of closure at least. But as you stepped aside and watched him walk past you knew that wasn’t the whole truth.

Because no matter how much he’d hurt you, part of you still longed for the man he used to be.

“This doesn’t change anything.” You muttered, as much to yourself as to him. He gave a slight nod in reply, eyes watering. Damn him and his big brown eyes.

 As you were turning around after closing the door behind you, he captured you in a hug again and you couldn't help but wrap your arms around him too.

★

Somehow, he ended up asleep in your bed and as you gaze at his peaceful resting face, your mind tells you to wake him up, tell him to go home and never come back, tell him that he doesn't get to leave and reappear whenever it suits him, tell him that he can fuck off for breaking your heart like that. Yet, you don't do any of that, because your heart tells you not to.

tysm for reading, likes and reblogs are always deeply appreciated

@angellic4l it's finally here bestieee!

[giselleloversclub]

NCT SMAU REC PT.3

mark lee

dm for prices @susicheng

small lifestyle influencer yn, who also happens to be a stressed college student, runs into a life threatening dilemma: plug moved to a different state post grad. having developed a crippling dependency on her weekly smoke sesh, she needs someone new, FAST. luckily, chenle seems to know just the guy. enter: mark lee, an astoundingly reliable plug with an interesting texting style. 

plug! mark x fem! reader

personal fav !

⋆ you. @fairyoflia

in which a biology major and a basketball player lock eyes on the train after getting caught in the rain. unfortunately for them, they hate each other.

basketball player! mark lee x fem! reader

from the rooftops @peterm4rker

in which biochemistry major mark lee didn’t have time to be swinging around the city fighting crime when he had a chemistry report due in two days and a whole plan to make the girl of his dreams to fall in love with him before the new years party.

or

in which journalism major y/n l/n needed her ground breaking story of the year before fuckass yuna took her place in the college newspaper and decided her favorite superhero was the answer, all while trying to get that cute biochem student to notice her.

spiderman!mark x journalist!reader

_______________________________________________

huang renjun

starlight @suhnandmoon

after an unexpected night at the movies, you’re left turned into a vampire. with the help of park jisung and his friends, your new lifestyle adjustments are thankfully made a lot easier. that is until your friends start to call out your flaky behavior. quick, how are you going to cover up your secret? a fake boyfriend taking up your time? perfect! huang renjun is just the right guy!

huang renjun x fem!reader

vampire au

crush culture @suhnshinehaos

ln yn has always flirted with huang renjun. but they do that with literally everyone else too, they couldn’t possibly be serious about pursuing him, right? on their final year of university, yn is determined to show that they are. with all the walls that renjun has built around himself, will they be strong enough to succeed in tearing them down?

huang renjun x gn!reader

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐞 @sungbeam

you and renjun are pen-pals-turned-best-friends, except, no one knows that you know each other. at the same time, both you and renjun are also trying to survive being set up with people by your own separate friend groups. turns out, maybe you both just want each other and no one else.

huang renjun x fem!reader

_______________________________________________

lee jeno

LOVE ON THE (DANCE) FLOOR @v1si0n

jeno was not thrilled about you joining his dance team, especially because he starts messing up every time you’re around. is it really his fault that he gets distracted by how good you look when you dance?

enemies to lovers

dancer!jeno x bookworm!reader

ᝰ.ᐟ off the record @strrykais

someone had to write for the sports column in your schools paper, and unfortunately it falls onto you. only knowing very little about basketball - thanks to your friend chenle, this shouldn't be so bad!

well, that was until you meet the team’s captain and he rudely asks if you are deaf.... funny thing is, you are!

lee jeno x fem!reader

personal fav

good graces @106alibi

y/n knows she's petty. so when she found out her (secret) celebrity boyfriend of a year had been cheating on her, through a news article to make things worse, she decided to cook up an action plan to get back at him, and what better way to take revenge than to get together with his all-time favourite athlete?

or, in which y/n involves an unsuspecting lee jeno into her little revenge scheme on her now ex-boyfriend.

boxer!jeno x magazine-editor!reader

personal fav

secret admirer @diaphamin

in which ncit’s star basketball player lee jeno is your secret admirer

lee jeno x reader

my youth , your kitchen @cigsaftersuh

in which y/n, a pre-med student, who loves to cook & feed people, meets jeno, the quiet sports science major with a soft smile, and discovers that the way to someone’s heart really is through their gastrointestinal tract, their stomach.

non-idol! jeno x f! reader (.◜◡◝)

good boy @fullsunstrawberry

New year's resolution leads to you hitting the gym with your two muscle-head friends. But things get complicated when feelings and emotions are involved.

Jeno x Reader (some anton x reader)

underneath the tree @winwintea

you’ve heard enough of the word ‘christmas’ and it was only the beginning of december! sometimes you’d wish people would just throw their cheerfulness out the window and focus on reality. unfortunately for you lee jeno has just drawn your name for the company’s annual secret santa swinter swap and he’s going to make sure you get a gift you’ll never forget. (and maybe even get you to appreciate christmas along the way?)

co-worker!lee jeno x female!reader

oh , pretty please ? @nislost

After being scolded by a teacher y/n decides she’s sick of failing her classes. she knows if she doesn’t get her act together she might not even make it in life. she decides to seek help from the one student that that can potentially help her, jeno the valedictorian. jeno would only accept if y/n helped him in some way too.

valedictorian!jeno x bimbo!reader

_______________________________________________

lee haechan

on the same page @johnnysuhbmarine

Knowing a change of scenery was what your mental health needed, you transferred to where your brother, Mark, goes to college. The good news is, he’s not too cool for his younger sister, so he lets you join his friend group immediately. The bad news is, Haechan is in that friend group, and a brief encounter four years ago was enough for you to understand he does NOT like you. Even worse news, he’s a lot hotter than he was four years ago…

Haechan x reader

personal fav

lab rats ! @106alibi

graded internship season has finally rolled around for biology student y/n, and with a current gpa of 4.0 under her belt and an extremely high possibility of graduating valedictorian, she's fairly confident that acing her research internship will be just what she needs to secure that spot. of course, that was until a certain someone came into the equation.

or, y/n finds herself partnered with the last person she'd ever want to work with for her research internship, lee donghyuck.

biology-student!donghyuck x biology-student!reader

how not to be a virgin 101 @diaphamin

college is about gaining further education, to some, but to y/n it means she is finally free to explore the side of life she was never able to. parties, relationships, and sex. she was tired of being dull, tired of being the only one around her who hasn’t experienced anything romantic. she was ready to be the exact opposite of what she wasn’t. the only problem being… she doesn’t know how. that’s when she calls upon haechan, someone notoriously known for having a bit too much fun… and asks him for guidance.

where you are @luvmahae

what the absolute fuck is up baby! fall semester marks the peak of greek life at ncu. the campus quad is filled with tents representing various fraternities and sororities with their letters proudly presented in front of each booth, all eager to recruit new members. as students return to campus, they are met with a flood of fliers and invitations to parties, mixers, and rush events. while you were walking through the crowd of eager freshmen to join these organizations, you bumped into someone very unexpected...

what do you do when you bump into the guy you hooked up with after a music festival during summer break? instead of the royal blue basketball jersey you first met him in, it was replaced by a varsity jacket with the letters reading "ΝΧΘ".

"haechan?"

fratboy!haechan x fem!reader

personal fav

nerf this ! @injvns

in which overwatch streamer yn ln is on a winning streak one night, and sorta kinda ends up killing professional overwatch player lee haechan on stream…multiple times. she didn't even know who he was, let alone that he was super hot?! c'mon, she wouldn't have smoked him THAT hard if she knew!

or

yn starts overwatch beef with haechan accidentally. romance ensues.

progamer!haechan x streamer!femreader

cruise of love @mixxiew

yn, a scholarship student, finally gets the opportunity of her life to join her friends for the Semester at the Sea. every thing looks like a dream until the arrogant rich boy lee haechan crushes into her.

haechan x reader

just pretend ! @nislost

y/n gets hit up by her ex and in a desperate attempt to have him leave her alone she gets a random picture of a guy on pinterest and pretends he’s her bf. turns out the picture she used is of an up and coming youtuber lee haechan.

nonidol!haechan x f!reader

sunshine and starlight @lavndrystudios

haechan gets more than he bargained for when he meets chaeyoung’s new roommate. turns out he loves you, he really does. too bad you’re with ten.

haechan x f!reader

APT @sourrpatched

“Don’t you want me like I want you baby?”

After a uni party full of too many drinks and party games, y/n meets the love of her life. Only the next morning she can’t remember his name, his face, or anything besides his very attractive hands.

Lee Donghyuck lives a simple life, work, school, and sleep. He has no business in being dragged into parties every weekend. Which is why bumping into his complete opposite is enough to bring him out of that shell, albeit with force.

LEE DONGHYUCK X FEM!READER

you’re losing me. @najaemism

it’s been six weeks since you ended your six-year relationship with haechan, and it seems like he’s already moved on.

angst, ex!haechan, hurt/no comfort

it's the way you are @inurnctdreams

y/n suh is going into her second semester of her sophomore year at snu. as a self-proclaimed snu lions fangirl, she can’t believe there’s a new player on the team she hasn’t met yet, especially one as cute and funny as lee donghyuck, who nearly everyone she knows seems to already be friends with. how did she manage to avoid him (even if unintentionally) for almost an entire year and a half? he seems way too good to be true… and then she remembers; he’s in the frat.

haechan x fem!reader

_______________________________________________

na jaemin

builds @moonslie04 In which streamer! Jaemin joins a random player's world and starts to roast their build without knowing that the innocent player was another genshin content creator.

˙⋆✮ bed chem ✮⋆˙ @wonbin-truther

when jaemin saw the big red "16%" on his first organic chemistry test, he knew he needed a tutor, fast. enter l/n y/n, a chemical engineering student who is determined to raise his grade. but as study sessions turn into late-night library marathons, jaemin is starting to realize he’s got more than just organic chemistry to worry about.

college student yn x college student jaemin

movie nights @nana4nena

while you’re having weekly movie nights with the dreamies, you and jaemin are falling in love, but someone is falling for you

jaemin x fem! reader

✮⋆˙ .exposure. @susicheng

a member of the up-and coming pop-punk / emo band, reverie: yn finds herself falling in the deep end with the band's new (much needed) photographer, na jaemin.

na jaemin x fem!reader ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

_______________________________________________

zhong chenle

run your mouth @doughyk

chenle has a worm in his ear;not a good worm either, and it doesn’t seem to go away. But there you are, the worm in his ear. Yapping his ear off during work, absolutely smitten by him…chenle not so smitten by you.

nonidol!chenle x fem reader

personal fav

say it @sqh3e

you and Chenle are in the same music class at SMU, you write the songs, he sings them. for a few weeks you stopped showing up and no one realized you hadn’t been showing up until your friend mentions your name.

singer!chenle x fem!reader

_______________________________________________

park jisung

SCUM'S WISH 𓆩♡𓆪 @jungaji

struggling with unrequited feelings, you and park jisung agree to a fake relationship to ease your loneliness, filling the gaps left by others. with promises not to fall for each other and to part ways if your affections are reciprocated elsewhere, you jump into this arrangement. can you both stick to the rules, or will the lines between pretense and reality blur?

or, in which you and park jisung turn to each other for comfort in an attempt to soothe your unrequited loves.

park jisung x fem!reader feat. jeong jaehyun & cho miyeon

_______________________________________________

[banzonism]

YOU BELONG WITH ME

one-shot

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: romance, drama, comedy, angst, fluff, slow burn, love pining

tags: football player! jk, photographer! jk, student leader! reader, high school au, chilhood friend, boy next door jk, bff drama, friends to lovers, yeontan cameo

synopsis: Beneath the light banter and playful teasing of childhood friends lies a deep well of unspoken feelings, simmering just out of reach. Quick glances shared during laughter hold more meaning than anyone dares to acknowledge. But everything shifts dramatically when a heartfelt letter reveals unexpected truths, shattering the carefully constructed lives they have built. Will they find their way back to each other and uncover the truth of their feelings? In the end, they must find out if they really belong with each other.

words count: 10k

notes: hello everyone! here's another one-shot from me, and let me tell you i've been thinking about this fic a lot lot lot bc i'm a sucker of this kind of romance, sorry.... inspired by TS "you belong with me” mv but with a twist! if you’re a swiftie, you’ll probably notice quite a few nods to the iconic mv—incorporated some of its most memorable scenes into the story. hope you enjoy this fun, nostalgic ride <3

p.s. dont come for my girl Sana—she might be a little extra in the beginning scenes, but trust me she’s worth it! & threw a Yeontan moment to honor him... fly high, little one 🕊

The gym buzzed with energy as students rushed around, their laughter and conversations creating a lively atmosphere for the school’s event preparations. Colorful decorations filled the room, and tables were piled high with craft supplies. As the student council leader, you moved through the crowd with a clipboard, checking off tasks and motivating your excited team.

“Hey, Miss Y/N!” called out a freshman, her face showing worry. “Can you help us with this banner? It’s too high!”

“Got it!” you answered with determination, quickly heading to where a sturdy ladder was leaning against the wall. You set it up under the spot where the banner needed to go and felt a surge of confidence as you grabbed the banner in one hand and some tape in the other.

Climbing the ladder, each step brought you closer to the colorful paper reaching up to the ceiling. But as you neared the top, your foot slipped a little on the rung. In that quick moment, everything seemed to slow down. “Oh no—” you gasped, trying hard to steady yourself. Before you knew it, you slipped down the ladder and landed with a thud on the polished gym floor. The loud noise echoed in the sudden silence that followed.

Laughter erupted around you, filling the air with amusement. At the center of it all was Sana , the cheerleading captain and your former bestfriend. Her laughter rang out, almost mocking, as she stood with her friends, arms crossed and a smug smirk on her face, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Be careful, Y/N," she mocked, her voice thick with sarcasm. "Being busy might make you grow old faster." Her laughter felt sharp, and it stung even more when you noticed she didn’t offer to help you up.

Heat flooded your cheeks, mixing embarrassment with frustration, but you fought to keep it under control. Taking a deep breath, you stood up and brushed off your shirt, straightening your back. “Alright, everyone, let’s get back to work! We have an event to make special!” you said, putting on a genuine smile that energized the team.

The room buzzed with renewed focus as your enthusiasm spread, pulling everyone back into the excitement of preparing for the event. Sana rolled her eyes and turned away with her group, their giggles trailing behind, but you didn’t let their laughter get you down.

“Y/N, are you okay?” a familiar voice called through the noise. You turned to see Kim Namjoon, the student council secretary and the head editor of the school paper, approaching with a concerned look on his face, a notebook tucked under one arm.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you replied with a grin. “Just stumbled a bit, nothing to worry about.”

“Impressive,” he said, chuckling. “Not many can fall like that and still walk away with confidence.”

"You think?" you grin. "Add it to the school paper column. Speaking of which, I need your help editing later." Namjoon smiles, his warmth reassuring.

While being the heaď of the student council was a big responsibility, you believed that your writing skills were really what helped you lead. Every meeting, every plan for events, and every motivational speech was shaped by your years of writing experience. It wasn’t just a hobby; it was a vital tool that helped define your leadership style.

As the day went on, you guided the team with determination, turning your fall into a funny story rather than a moment of embarrassment. With the gym transforming into a lively celebration of school spirit, you felt a swell of pride in both the team and yourself for staying true to what really mattered.

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

The following day was the big foundation day event, and it turned out to be a tremendous success. As the sun set, you breathed a sigh of relief, feeling proud of how everything had gone. You had led your team to pull off one of the year's most important events, and now you could finally focus on your studies again, catch up on assignments, and enjoy some much-needed relaxation.

But then, things took an unexpected turn.

That evening, the school's football team had a crucial game against a rival school, which brought a huge crowd to the stadium. At first, you had no plans to go; you were determined to finish your essays and study for your upcoming exams. Just as you were about to dive into your books, you received a call from Namjoon.

“Hey Y/N, I know this is really last minute, but can you come by the office?” he asked, sounding urgent.

Curious and a bit worried, you made your way to the editorial office. Being part of the school publication was something you loved, but tonight, you hoped it wouldn’t mean too much extra work.

When you arrived, Namjoon greeted you with a stressed look. “Y/N, I really need your help. You're one of our best writers, and we’re in a tight spot.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s happened?”

“Yunjin, who was supposed to write about tonight’s football game, is sick and can’t make it,” Namjoon explained, urgency in his voice. “We need someone to fill in and write the article for tomorrow’s paper. I know it’s short notice, but you’re our best option. Can you take it on?”

You paused, thinking about all the homework and studying waiting for you at home. “Namjoon, I’m not sure I can do this. Writing sports articles isn’t really my thing.”

Namjoon shot you a reassuring smile. “You just have to write down what happens during the game and maybe ask a few of our players about it afterward. You’re a fantastic writer, Y/N. I know you can handle this.”

Feeling torn, you considered the school, the players who had worked so hard for this moment, and how important it was to share their story with everyone.

“Okay, Joon,” you said with newfound determination. “I’ll do it.”

Namjoon visibly relaxed and handed you a notebook and a press pass. “You’re a lifesaver, Y/N. I know you’ve already put in a lot of effort for the school. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

You smirked and raised an eyebrow. “You better. I’m counting on you for lunch for a week.”

Namjoon laughed. “Deal. Now go make it a great article. Good luck!”

With that, you headed towards the stadium, notebook in hand, ready to take on another challenge.

Later, under the bright lights of the stadium, you were caught up in the exciting atmosphere of the game. The crowd's cheers surrounded you as you walked along the sidelines, your press pass hanging around your neck. The lights created dramatic shadows over the players as they warmed up, and you could feel their energy in the air. You stopped for a moment, heart racing, to write down your initial thoughts about the buzz surrounding the upcoming match and the rival team's arrival.

Then, you saw him.

The golden boy everyone had been talking about. He was someone you had known since you were kids—the one who always made it difficult for you to hold his gaze for long. Memories flooded back of sunny afternoons spent playing in your backyards, the shy smiles exchanged during those brief encounters, and that unmistakable flutter in your stomach whenever he was near.

He stood in the middle of the field, naturally drawing everyone's attention, with his dark hair damp from practicing, strands sticking to his forehead. His jersey fit him perfectly, showcasing his athletic build. You could see the fire in his eyes from where you stood—a mix of determination and passion that made him even more captivating.

When the game ended with an exciting win for your school, the stadium roared with cheers. A wave of pride swelled inside you—not just for the team's victory but for the chance to capture this moment through your writing.

As you lingered on the sidelines, you felt torn about whether to approach him. You had enough material for your article, but a small voice inside you urged that this opportunity was too special to miss. Just as you were about to decide, a familiar voice broke into your thoughts.

“Hey, Y/N!”

You turned sharply, your heart nearly leaping out of your chest. There he was, striding towards you with that effortless confidence you both admired and envied. His jersey clung to him, damp with sweat, his hair tousled, and that bunny-like smile brighter than the stadium lights surrounding you.

“Hey, Jungkook,” you replied, trying to sound calm even though you felt anything but. “Congratulations on your win!”

“Thanks,” he said, tilting his head with a curious look, making you feel both exposed and energized. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Did you enjoy the game?”

“Of course! For the article tomorrow,” you replied, clutching your notebook like a lifeline. “You know, school paper stuff.”

“How did you find the game?” he asked, his tone light yet genuinely curious as if he wanted your opinion.

“That’s cool. I mean, you’re cool. I mean—you’re great,” you blurted, the words tumbling before you could stop them. Your thoughts were a tangled mess, and the soft chuckle that escaped his lips didn’t make it any easier to compose yourself.

“Thanks,” Jungkook replied, tilting his head slightly as he studied you.

Trying to regain your composure, you cleared your throat. “Could I ask you a few questions about the game?”

“Sure,” he replied effortlessly.

You began asking him the standard post-game questions, scribbling down his answers. But as he spoke, your focus wavered. His voice was smooth and warm, carrying an understated excitement that made you lose track of your notes. You couldn’t help but notice how his eyes sparkled when he talked about the team’s victory, how the corner of his lips curled into a smile that made your heart skip a beat. Your attention drifted, and your writing soon became a mess of half-written sentences.

“Hey, babe,” a voice interrupted, snapping you out of your daze.

You looked up to see Sana, the head cheerleader—of course she would be here—striding over with her usual charm. Her cheer uniform fit her perfectly, highlighting her athletic build. In that moment, the butterflies in your stomach shifted to a sinking feeling.

“Oh, hey, Sana,” Jungkook greeted her, and you noticed a change in his tone.

“Great game! You were amazing out there,” Sana said before throwing her arms around him in a sudden hug. Jungkook’s body stiffened briefly, and his expression showed mild discomfort as he pulled away.

When she finally let go, Sana’s gaze shifted to you, her smile on a sharper edge. “What’s this?” she asked, nodding toward your notebook.

“It’s for the school paper,” you replied, keeping your tone neutral.

“Last time I checked, you weren’t into sports writing, Y/N.”

Her words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you debated whether it was worth responding. You were exhausted from the long day, and the last thing you wanted was to engage in her petty comments. But something about her smug tone lit a fire in you.

“And the last time I checked,” you shot back, your eyes lockig onto hers with a glare, “was a year ago. So, you don’t know much about what I’m doing now, Sana.”

The tension in the air thickened, but before you could say more, Jungkook stepped in, his voice calm yet firm. “Hey, what’s going on?”

You forced a polite smile, snapping your notebook shut. “Thanks, Jungkook,” you said abruptly, needing an escape. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go now.”

“Thanks, Y/N,” he replied softly, his eyes lingering on you. “See you around.”

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but feel a sting. Jungkook and Sana had been linked ever since she became the cheerleading captain, though rumors swirled that they weren’t officially a couple. You tried to convince yourself it didn’t matter, but deep down, it did—just a little. This wasn’t just anyone; it was your former best friend and the boy who had unknowingly captured your heart for years.

Later that night, you sat at your desk, struggling to finish an article you had started. The soft light from Jungkook’s room peeked through your curtains, reminding you of how near yet far he felt. His smile and the sound of his voice echoed in your mind. As you lay there, sleep refused to come, and you found yourself thinking about what could have happened if you had ever had the courage to tell him your true feelings.

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

After weeks passed and final exams wrapped up, you threw yourself into your studies. It wasn’t just about making your parents proud or keeping your position as a student leader; it was about getting a scholarship to the university of your dreams, something you had worked toward for years. After weeks of sleepless nights and exhausting tests, your final stretch as a high school senior came to a close.

That afternoon, completely worn out, you headed straight to your room and collapsed onto your bed. When you woke up three hours later, it was dark outside, and your mom called you for dinner. Rubbing your eyes, you stretched and turned toward your window. That’s when you saw that your curtain was slightly open, revealing Jungkook’s room across the way.

He was there, his face faintly lit by a desk lamp, talking animatedly on the phone. Even from a distance, you could see the tension in his posture—his brows were knitted together, his jaw tense, and his hand was tugging at his hair in frustration. Concern rose in your chest. Without thinking, you grabbed a notepad and marker from your desk and quickly jotted down a message.

"Are you okay?"

You held it up to the window, feeling anxious as you waited. It took him a moment to notice you, but when he did, his expression softened a bit. He sighed and wrote back:

"Tired of drama."

Unsure of how to reply, you eventually wrote:

"Sorry."

He looked at your note, and a faint, tired smile flickered across his face. He shook his head gently, as if to say it wasn’t your fault. The simple exchange left a strange heaviness in your chest despite the silence between you. You wondered what troubles he was facing, and for a brief moment, you wished you could reach out and help him.

Jungkook then waved at you, a small gesture that felt like a goodnight. You waved back, signaling for him to get some rest. He smiled again, this time it felt more genuine, before closing his curtain. The room immediately fell silent, but thoughts of him lingered long after he disappeared from view.

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

On a laid-back Sunday afternoon, you decided to take a break from your busy life by diving into a book that had caught your interest. You found a quiet spot on a bench in the park, where the calm surroundings helped soothe your busy mind.

Out of the blue, you were startled by a loud bark. Looking up, you saw a tiny, fluffy Pomeranian running towards you. Its shiny black and brown fur sparkled in the sunlight, and its bright eyes shone with playful energy. A smile spread across your face as the little dog, looking like a cuddly stuffed animal, stopped barking and approached you cautiously.

“Hey there, little buddy,” you said softly, reaching out your hand. The dog sniffed your fingers for a moment and then nuzzled against you, clearly enjoying the attention. Feeling a rush of affection for dogs, you scratched behind its ears and laughed as it playfully licked your hand.

Just then, a voice called out from a distance, “Yeontan!” You looked up to see Jungkook jogging toward you, looking a bit rushed.

“There you are,” he said, picking up the dog and holding it in his arms. “I’m sorry if he bothered you.”

“Oh, not at all,” you replied with a smile, still petting Yeontan. “He’s so cute!”

Jungkook chuckled and scratched Yeontan behind the ear. “He’s not actually mine, though. Taehyung asked me to look after him for a while. He can be quite a handful sometimes.”

“I don’t mind at all,” you said, charmed by the little fluffball. “I love dogs. He’s just too adorable!”

“Right?” Jungkook grinned. “He can be a bit of a troublemaker, though. So, what are you doing here? Just reading?”

“Something like that,” you shrugged. “I needed a break to clear my mind. It helps.”

“That's good to hear. You deserve some time off,” Jungkook replied, his tone growing softer. “So, what’s your plan after graduation? Are you staying here for college?”

You paused, closing your book as you considered your response. “Honestly, I’m not sure. My mom and I haven’t talked much about it, but I’m applying to a few schools that are far away. What about you?”

Jungkook sighed, absentmindedly petting Yeontan. “My dad wants me to stay here and take business classes while focusing on football. He has this whole plan for me to take over his business.”

“Is that what you want?” you asked, tilting your head to study his expression.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, frustration creeping into his voice. “I don’t want to let him down, but…”

“But what?” you prompted.

“I really loved photography and film,” he said quietly. “I told my dad I wanted to study film, but he wasn’t too excited. He thinks football is my best chance at making it to the national team, and that everything else is just a hobby.”

You frowned, feeling a twinge of sympathy for him. “That sounds rough, Jungkook. It’s great that your dad believes in you, but it’s your life. You should do what makes you happy.”

“That’s what your dad always said, right?” Jungkook remarked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I miss Uncle Seojun. He always encouraged me and was so excited about my photography projects.”

“He really was,” you replied, smiling at the memory of your father. “I remember how thrilled you were when you got that camera for your birthday. You couldn’t stop talking about it!”

He laughed softly, nostalgic. “Yeah, those were good times.”

Jungkook’s gaze softened as he looked at you, momentarily distracted by a stray hair that had fallen over your face. Without thinking, he reached out and gently tucked it behind your ear. The unexpected touch made your heart skip a beat.

“There,” he said softly, almost whispering as if the moment needed a certain quiet. “Now I can see you properly.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you scrambled to find words, but your mind went blank. His hand lingered for a brief moment before he pulled away, and the faint smile he gave you sent your heart racing.

In that moment, everything else faded away—the sounds of the park and even Yeontan’s soft breathing seemed to disappear. You wondered if he could hear how loudly your heart was beating.

You both sat there quietly for a while, with Yeontan curled up between you. It felt like a snapshot of the past, a brief reminder of simpler times before life got more complicated.

But before long, the moment was disrupted. A red car pulled up nearby, and you recognized the girl stepping out—Sana. Of course, it had to be her. With her stylish cap and polished look, she approached like she owned the place.

“Hey, Jungkook! What’s taking you so long to grab Yeontan?” she called out, shattering the peaceful moment you had shared with Jungkook.

Jungkook stood up, brushing off his jeans as if to shake off the experience you’d just had. “I’ve got to go now,” he said, a hint of regret in his voice. “It was really nice talking to you again.”

“Yeah, sure,” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual despite the whirlwind of feelings inside you. “Time to go now, buddy,” you said softly to Yeontan, giving the little dog one last affectionate pat.

Jungkook sank back onto the bench, his smile brightening the moment as he gently took Yeontan’s paw and waved it toward you. “Bye, Yeontan,” you said, unable to suppress the flicker of a smile that danced on your lips despite the weight in your chest.

When Jungkook got on the passenger seat, Sana suddenly whispered to Jungkook, making them like they are kissing on your view, which made Jungkook laugh. You quickly dropped your gaze back to your book, pretending not to notice, acting as if it didn’t bother you. But it did. It always did.

The car pulled away, taking them with it, leaving you alone once again with only your book and the lingering ache in your chest.

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

The office was filled with a low hum of activity, with the sounds of papers being shuffled and keyboards tapping away. You were sitting at your usual desk, surrounded by notes, layout plans, and playlists for the upcoming graduation celebration. It was your last year of school, and as the leader of the organizing committee, you were determined to make the event truly special.

“Hey, Y/N, have you had lunch yet?” a familiar voice cut through your concentration.

Looking up, you saw Namjoon standing there with a warm smile, holding a neatly packed lunchbox.

“I’ll eat later. I was thinking of heading to the cafeteria,” you replied, forcing a tired smile.

“No need for that,” he said, placing the box down in front of you. “I brought you lunch. You’ve been working yourself to the bone lately.”

“Thanks, that really means a lot,” you said, genuinely appreciative.

“Not a problem. You deserve it,” he replied, pulling up a chair to sit next to you. “By the way, have you heard anything about your application to your dream school?”

You leaned back in your chair with a sigh. “No news yet. I’m just waiting and hoping for that scholarship. It all depends on this.”

Namjoon nodded, his expression confident. “You’ll get it. I believe in you.”

“I hope you’re right,” you said quietly, feeling the pressure weighing on you.

“It’s you, Y/N. You’ve been juggling so much—school, committee duties, everything. If anyone can handle it, it’s you,” he said earnestly, and his encouragement brought a small smile to your face.

You talked about school and Namjoon’s plans for college, enjoying the easy flow of conversation. For a moment, the stress you were feeling seemed to lift.

“So… about prom?” he asked casually, tilting his head. “Are you going? Has anyone asked you to go with them?”

You hesitated, playing with your pen. “Not yet. I’m not sure I’ll even go.”

“Why not?” he inquired.

“I’ve been so busy, and I really need to focus on studying for the scholarship. That’s what’s most important for me right now,” you explained, looking away.

Namjoon frowned a little but nodded in understanding. “I get it. But you know… you’ve worked really hard. Maybe you deserve one night to just have fun. Prom is an important event, especially for someone like you who’s given so much to this school. Just think about it, okay?”

You smiled softly, touched by his concern. “Thanks, Namjoon. I’ll think about it.”

He stood up and gave you a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Good. Now eat your lunch. You need the energy for everything you’re handling.”

As he walked away, you looked down at the lunchbox and smiled to yourself. Namjoon always seemed to know exactly what you needed, even when you didn’t realize it yourself.

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

Weeks passed, and the gentle light of your desk lamp lit up the messy spread of notes and open textbooks in front of you. You had been studying for hours, going over every possible topic for the entrance exam—a big test that could determine whether you got into your dream school. The clock struck midnight, but you were so focused that you barely noticed the time.

Even so, thoughts of prom kept sneaking into your mind. It wasn’t just that your friend Namjoon had encouraged you to go; it was the fact that prom, the highlight of your senior year, was happening on the same day as your exam. The test was in the morning, and there would be time to get ready afterward, but you wondered if it was worth the rush. Should you focus on your future or let yourself enjoy one night of celebration after all your hard work?

Your thoughts were interrupted when you heard a door open from the other side. You saw Jungkook walked into his room, his hair slightly damp, probably from football practice, and his gym bag hanging over his shoulder. He looked a mix of tired and effortlessly cool.

You quickly turned your attention back to your notes, trying not to seem obvious, but you could sense that he was watching you. When you glanced up again, you noticed him grab a notepad and a marker from his desk. He wrote something down and held it up to his window.

“Are you going to prom tomorrow?”

You froze for a moment, caught off guard by his direct question. Slowly, you grabbed your notepad and wrote back:

“No, studying.”

He read your response and his expression changed—was that disappointment? He sighed and quickly wrote another note, a small smile appearing on his face as he held it up:

“Wish you were"

Your heart skipped a beat. The simplicity of his words affected you more than you anticipated. You smiled back, feeling a mix of flattery and frustration. Prom had only been a distant thought until now, but Jungkook’s quiet hope made you reconsider.

You stood up and waved goodbye, signaling that you were heading downstairs for dinner. Your mom greeted you warmly and asked how your studying was going. You nodded, trying to focus on the meal in front of you, but your mind was elsewhere. Between the entrance exam, the upcoming prom, and Jungkook’s note, you felt like you were at a crossroads, unsure of which path to take.

That morning, your mom took you to the university for an important exam. The car ride felt both long and too short at the same time, with the scenery rushing by as your nerves tightened. This was the moment you had been working towards after many sleepless nights and self-imposed pressure. There was no turning back now.

“I know you’re feeling anxious, sweetheart,” your mom said gently. “But no matter what happens, I’m proud of you. And your dad? He would be so happy.”

You nodded, trying to push down the lump in your throat. Her comforting words eased your anxiety, even as your mind raced with worries about what could go wrong.

When you entered the exam hall, the quietness was almost overwhelming. Other students, just as nervous as you, bent over their papers. Once the exam started, it was just you, the questions in front of you, and your pen. You poured all your effort into each answer, determined to do your best.

As you walked out of the hall afterwards, doubt began to creep in. Did I do enough? you wondered. You took a deep breath and reminded yourself, “I’ve done my best. Now it’s in the hands of fate.”

Back home after lunch, you tried to distract yourself from the exam, but the thoughts kept returning. It wasn’t until exactly 1:00 PM, hours later, that your phone buzzed with a notification. An email awaited you.

Your heart raced as you opened it, and the words “Admission Results” jumped out at you. As you read through the letter, one word stood out: Congratulations.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, and then exclaimed more loudly, “I passed!”

Your mom rushed in, startled by your shout. When she saw the email on your screen, her face lit up with joy. You both started jumping around the room, laughing and crying together.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said, wrapping you in a warm hug. “Your dad would be so proud too. I just know it.”

Later, in your room, you began to imagine the life ahead of you at your dream school. New friends, exciting opportunities, and a fresh place to learn and grow. The possibilities felt endless, and for the first time in a long while, you felt truly excited about the future.

Your daydream was interrupted by a loud knock on your door. Startled, you turned to see someone you didn’t expect: Sana.

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

She stood in the doorway, exuding her usual confidence, but her face was hard to read. "We need to talk," she said, crossing her arms.

The happiness from your recent achievement quickly faded as you wondered what she wanted. You stood frozen at your door, staring at Sana, completely shocked by her unexpected visit. It felt like ages since she’d last been in your house, let alone your room.

“What are you doing here?” you finally managed to ask, still trying to process her sudden appearance.

Instead of giving a straight answer, she crossed her arms and shot you an intense glare, her voice trembling with emotion. “How could you just leave me in this town? I thought we were going to college together!”

Her outburst hit you hard. “People change, Sana. Plans change. Everything changes,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady even as your heart raced.

“You didn’t even tell me?” she said, her eyes shimmering with tears that threatened to overflow.

You let out a heavy breath, feeling the weight of this tense moment. “How was I supposed to? We weren't really on good terms.”

Without another word, she walked past you, frustration clear in her body language, and sat down on the edge of your bed. “So what? Just because we weren’t talking doesn’t mean you could just vanish on me. Even if we were both acting foolish, you could’ve at least figured out a way to let me know.”

You followed her, feeling unsure whether to comfort her or give her some space. “How did you even find out I was going to another school? I’m not even sure I could pass the entrance exam.”

Sana wiped her eyes, and her frustration melted into vulnerability. “I overheard your mom mentioning it…and Jungkook told me too. And you think so little of yourself. Do you hate me that much?”

Her words cut deep. “I don’t hate you, Sana,” you replied softly, feeling your heart ache with her pain. “I’m really sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, Y/N,” she responded, her voice shaking. “I know I haven't treated you well this year. I—” Her voice broke as she buried her face in her hands, regret washing over her like a tidal wave.

You paused for a moment but then sat down next to her. “I was going to send you a letter,” you admitted. “To explain everything before graduation.”

“A letter?” she repeated, her eyes widening with curiosity. “Let me see it!”

With a heavy heart, you opened your cabinet and took out a box filled with letters you had written to people who had meant a lot to you. With shaky hands, you handed one to her.

As she started to read the letter, you noticed her expression change. Tears filled her eyes as she processed the words you had written from deep within your heart. “Y/N, I had no idea you felt this way. I’m so sorry for making you feel alone. If I could go back in time... I would give up cheerleading if it meant keeping you in my life.”

“Please don’t say that,” you replied quickly, your voice filled with urgency. “Cheerleading was your dream. I regret not being more supportive. I should have been there for you.”

Sana shook her head, a realization dawning upon her. “And I should have been there for you, too. I had no idea what you were going through with your dad’s illness. I thought you were pushing me away, but really, I just wasn’t paying attention.”

The two of you sat together, unpacking the hurt and misunderstandings that had built up over the past year. You shared how your father's health struggles had taken over your life, creating a distance you didn’t know how to overcome. Sana opened up about feeling lost when you stopped responding to her messages, believing you no longer cared about her.

“Remember that time we were supposed to hang out? I saw you hugging Jungkook, and I… I thought maybe you didn’t need me anymore,” you reminded her, the memory still vivid.

Sana’s eyes widened in surprise. “Jungkook? Oh my God, Y/N, he was just comforting me! I was upset about my parents fighting, that’s all!”

As the ridiculousness of it all hit both of you, laughter erupted, slowly easing the tension that had lingered for so long.

“And then,” you added, “I got a call from the hospital. My dad was in surgery, and I couldn’t stay.”

Sana’s expression softened, guilt showing on her face. “I thought you ditched me. I waited for you until I couldn’t anymore.”

When you finally returned home after your dad’s funeral, you had wanted to explain everything, but seeing Sana laughing with her new cheerleading friends had hurt you deeply. “I thought you’d moved on,” you admitted, trying to hold back the pain you still felt.

Sana groaned and covered her face, genuine sorrow washing over her. “We were so foolish.”

You nodded, a smile starting to emerge despite everything. “Yeah, we were.”

As the laughter faded, the weight of the past year began to lift, replaced by a sense of ease that had been absent for so long. Hours passed as you both reminisced, catching up on everything you had missed in each other’s lives. When you looked at the clock, you were surprised to see it was already 4 PM.

“Wow,” Sana said, leaning back with a playful sigh. “We just spent hours untangling a whole year’s worth of misunderstandings. Classic us.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, feeling lighter than you had in a long time. “Classic us! So, what’s next? How are things going with you and Jungkook?”

Sana's face shifted to one of mock shock. “Me and Jungkook? Oh, no! I think you mean me and his best friend.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “Wait, Kim Taehyung? Jungkook’s best friend?”

A sheepish smile appeared on Sana’s face. “Yep! Don't act so surprised. I was always around Jungkook because Taehyung and I... well, there’s definitely more happening there than with Jungkook.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Really? This whole time I thought—”

“Thought what? That Jungkook and I were secretly in love?” Sana laughed dramatically. “Ew, no! He’s like a brother to me. Gross.”

You felt a wave of relief, though a hint of irritation bubbled up too. “Well, how was I supposed to know? You two always hung out, and there was that time you called him ‘babe’ during the football game!”

Sana grinned mischievously. “Oh, that? Totally just messing with you. I wanted to see if you get jealous.”

“Jealous?” you repeated, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “Why would I be jealous?”

“Oh, come on, Y/N. It’s obvious. I have known you since we were little, and you have liked Jungkook since middle school, right?”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “You’re the worst.”

“And you’re just in denial about it. It’s painful to watch,” she teased.

Before you could respond, Sana leaned in closer and said, “But honestly, your face every time I was with him? Not subtle at all.”

“Well, excuse me for being human,” you muttered, glaring at her.

Sana just smirked. “Anyway, there’s nothing between me and Jungkook, but there’s definitely something between him and you.”

Your heart raced at her words, but you quickly shook your head. “You’re imagining things.”

Sana rolled her eyes. “Right. I’m the one imagining this. Not the girl who’s been crushing on Jungkook for years.”

“Can we talk about something else, please?” you begged.

“Nope! You can’t get out of this. People always thought we were a couple, but it’s silly because there’s nothing there. The only person I’m into is Taehyung.”

You blinked, trying to grasp all the new information. “So... you and Taehyung?”

“Yep!” she said, grinning. “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure Jungkook knows you’re interested. Not that he doesn’t already.”

“Sana!” you shouted, throwing a pillow at her.

You both burst into laughter, the earlier tension completely gone. For the first time in ages, things felt normal between you and Sana, just like they used to be.

Suddenly, Sana spoke up enthusiastically, crossing her arms like it was settled. “You need to go to this prom!”

You sighed, leaning back against your bed. “No way. I’m not ready for this. I don’t have a dress, I didn’t make plans, and prom starts at 6 PM. Do you even know what time it is?”

Sana rolled her eyes dramatically. “Seriously, Y/N? You know they never start right at 6.”

That made you laugh. “Okay, true.”

“But I still don’t have a dress!” you protested, looking down at your jeans and oversized hoodie. “Even if I did, it's too late to get ready now.”

Sana grinned mischievously and dashed out the door. “Don’t worry! We’re the same size, remember? I’ll grab a dress from my place and be back in no time. Bye!”

Before you could argue, she was gone, leaving you surprised and somewhat amused.

As you leaned back, you reflected on how just hours ago, you wouldn’t have imagined reconnecting with Sana and laughing like old times. Life can be full of surprises.

Moments later, Sana burst through your door, a garment bag draped over her arm, grinning widely. You perked up, but then noticed what she held—a white sparkly long gown.

“Wait a second,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “Where’s the other dress? I thought we were going together!”

Sana winced, her smile faltering. “About that... I actually have plans tonight. With Taehyung.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re skipping prom for a guy?”

She raised her hands in mock defense, laughing. “I’m sorry! I can’t help it; I’m just a flawed human!”

You couldn’t help but laugh along, shaking your head at her antics. “Fine, but you owe me—big time.”

Sana smirked and shoved the garment bag into your arms. “Deal! Now go take a shower. We have a lot to do to make you look stunning.”

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed the bag and headed for the bathroom. “You better not do anything weird while I’m gone.”

“Me? Weird? Never!” Sana feigned innocence.

But as soon as you closed the bathroom door, you could hear her giggling outside.

Curiosity got the better of her. Her eyes landed on a small stack of letters sitting on your desk, and one in particular caught her attention. It had Jungkook’s name written on the envelope.

She hesitated for a moment, then grabbed it. “Curiosity kills the cat, but satisfaction brings it back,” she muttered as she opened the letter.

As she read, a sly smile spread across her face. “Oh, this is perfect.” With a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, she tucked the letter into her bag, already planning how to make her night—and yours—unforgettable.

When you returned from your shower, wrapped in a towel and ready to get started, Sana was all business. “Alright, sit down. Let’s work some magic.”

The next hour was a flurry of hairspray, brushes, and accessories as Sana worked diligently, turning you into someone who looked ready for a fairytale. By the time she was done, you hardly recognized yourself in the mirror.

“Oh my god,” Sana exclaimed, stepping back to admire her work. “You’re gorgeous! I’m so proud to call you my friend.”

You rolled your eyes, feeling your cheeks warm. “Stop it, Sana. You’re just flattering me.”

“I’m serious, Y/N. You look amazing.”

Before you could respond, there was a knock at the door. Your mom peeked in, her eyes going wide in surprise.

“Wow,” she said, placing a hand on her chest. “You’re... stunning, my darling.”

“Thanks, Mom,” you replied, trying to hide your blush.

“I thought you weren’t going,” she added, tilting her head in confusion.

“Change of plans,” you said casually.

Your mom turned to Sana. “What about you? Aren’t you going out?”

Sana grinned, ready with her excuse. “I have something important to do tonight.”

You smirked, catching onto the little fib. “Yeah, important,” you teased quietly, getting a playful shove from Sana in return.

As your mom stepped out, Sana handed you your sandals, the final touch, and gave you an encouraging smile. “Alright, Cinderella, it’s time for the ball. It’s almost 7 PM!”

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

Jungkook tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited at a red light. The lights from the cars in front of him blurred as his thoughts drifted back to a note he had received from you the night before. It simply said, “No, studying.” It was straightforward and so very “you.” You were focused on your future and not swayed by a high school dance. That dedication was just one of the many things he admired about you—your ability to stay on track and ignore distractions.

But part of him selfishly wished you would go to the dance. It wasn’t about the glitz and glamour; he just wanted to see you there, enjoying yourself for once. You had worked so hard all year, and no one deserved a moment of fun more than you. And if he was honest, he simply wanted to see you smile.

He laughed quietly to himself, shaking his head at his own thoughts. What was he imagining? He wasn’t your boyfriend or anything like that. He was just your neighbor, your friend—the guy who chatted with you casually and often caught glimpses of you through your room window when your light turned on.

A car behind him honked, snapping him back to reality. The light had changed to green. He pressed the gas and moved forward, only to hear his phone buzz in the passenger seat. He took a quick look at the screen during the next stop—texts from Sana.

Sana: Sorry, I’m gonna ditch you tonight. Sorry not sorry.

Sana: But I’ve got something to give you right now. Please meet me. Thanks.

Jungkook sighed, feeling a mix of frustration and disappointment. He wasn’t surprised that Sana had backed out. It was typical of her behavior, probably running off for some adventure with Taehyung. He didn’t really care; he didn’t have high hopes for the night anyway. The excitement of prom had faded the moment you decided not to attend.

Still, the weight of his disappointment settled deeper in his heart. For a brief moment, he had imagined that tonight could be special—his chance to finally tell you how he felt. It was his last year of high school, and if he didn’t speak up now, he might never get the chance.

With a sigh, Jungkook turned his car toward Sana’s house. His thoughts raced, torn between the reality of you not being there and the small, foolish hope that maybe—just maybe—you might change your mind and show up. Although, he thought bitterly, what were the chances you felt the same way about him?

Yet, there was a little voice in the back of his mind encouraging him to take the risk. To go for it, even if it meant putting everything on the line. Because if not tonight, then when would he ever find the courage to say anything?

It all started when you moved into the neighborhood. Jungkook had heard some talk at school about a new student joining their class, but honestly, he didn’t care much about gossip. That changed one afternoon when Jungkook found himself in a bad mood after spilling his favorite treat—banana milk. As he grumbled about how his day couldn’t get any worse, you appeared, handing him a fresh carton with a simple, “Here.”

At that moment, Jungkook thought you might be an angel. He didn’t know you well yet, but your quiet kindness left a mark on him. It wasn’t something big or flashy, just a small gesture of support that meant a lot. From then on, you became friends—not best friends like you were with Sana, but close enough for him to pick up on little things about you, like how much you loved reading, how your face lit up when you talked about your favorite subjects, and how determined you were in everything you did.

You were one of the few who encouraged him to take photos, aside from his dad. When Jungkook got a camera for his birthday, he was excited that you agreed to model for him. Over time, you became one of his favorite people to photograph. There was something special about the way you carried yourself—elegant yet strong—that made every picture meaningful.

As time went on, Jungkook noticed a change in you. He would see you walking home from school, looking down and seeming to shut the world out. It wasn’t until later that he found out the truth: your father had passed away after being ill for a long time. Jungkook wanted to reach out, but you had withdrawn from school and social life. He understood that you needed time alone to grieve. Still, he couldn’t shake the concern he felt. Things had changed between you and Sana too; you weren’t talking as much anymore, and Jungkook wondered what had shifted.

He thought about asking Sana about it, but hesitated. It didn’t feel right since she had her own things going on. For a while, Jungkook even thought Sana was interested in him because she was always around, laughing and chatting. But soon he realized her attention was focused on his best friend, Taehyung. Ever since he introduced them, Sana had been trying to get Taehyung’s attention, and Jungkook ended up as her unintentional sidekick.

That sometimes frustrated him, especially when Sana interrupted moments he wanted to share with you. Like that one day you were sitting together on a bench while he was walking Taehyung’s dog, Yeontan, who had a lot of energy. Suddenly, Yeontan broke free and darted away, and Jungkook had rushed to catch him, unexpectedly running right into you. At that moment, it felt like fate.

When senior year began, you returned as a new person—stronger and more confident, with a spark in your eyes that caught everyone’s attention. As the newly elected student leader, you tackled every challenge with determination. Jungkook watched in awe. How could someone who had faced so much come back even brighter? When he found out you were watching the school’s big football game, he played like it was the most important game of his life. Every move was made with the thought of impressing you. When the team won, he secretly hoped that you had noticed him.

But it wasn’t just your accomplishments that captivated him. It was the way you hummed while studying, the light in your eyes when discussing your future, and your unwavering determination. The more time Jungkook spent with you, the deeper his feelings grew.

It wasn’t just a crush anymore. It felt complicated and overwhelming, and he couldn’t ignore it. But along with those feelings came frustration. Jungkook often felt unworthy of you. You were amazing in every way, while he thought of himself as just Jungkook. Even when he tried to pull away from his feelings, they would rush back, like waves that wouldn’t stop.

Jungkook arrived at Sana’s house, where she greeted him with a big smile. She held up an envelope, waving it around excitedly.

“Here,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Make sure you read this at the prom. Or else.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “Or else what?”

Sana leaned in, lowering her voice for dramatic effect. “Or else I’ll share that karaoke video of you singing ‘Baby Shark’ at the top of your lungs last summer.”

Jungkook groaned, grabbing the envelope from her. “Seriously? That was for my little cousin’s party!”

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that,” she teased, barely holding back her laughter. “Now go! And don’t mess this up.”

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

After your mom insisted on giving you a ride and your friend Sana decided not to come with you for some unclear reason, you figured a late arrival would be alright. As you walked into the venue, the lively music greeted you, and then you spotted Namjoon, who had a huge, welcoming smile on his face.

“Oh, wow, you actually made it!” he exclaimed, practically lifting you off the ground with his excitement.

“Someone talked me into it,” you replied, thinking about Sana’s enthusiastic pep talk earlier.

“Whoever that is, I owe them one! By the way, how did your entrance exam go?”

You smiled. “I passed!”

His face lit up even more. “Oh my god, I knew you would! I’m so proud of you!”

“Should we celebrate?”

And celebrate you did. The night turned into a blur of music, dancing, and laughter. Namjoon had a knack for making everything feel light and fun. For the first time in what felt like ages, you felt like yourself again—free from stress and the heaviness of the past year.

But even while dancing and singing along to the songs, you couldn’t help but wonder about Jungkook. You remembered Sana saying he was supposed to be here—and even more confusing, that he was going to be her partner. The thought of him with her nagged at you, even though she had assured you there was nothing romantic going on.

Why are you even thinking about him? you thought, scolding yourself. Just because Sana said everything is fine doesn’t mean he feels the same way about you. Your thoughts were interrupted when Namjoon handed you a drink and pulled you back into the moment. “Come on, no sad thoughts tonight!” he said, grinning widely.

You laughed and accepted the drink, allowing yourself to be swept up in the music and the joy of the evening. Whatever happened later, you decided, could wait until tomorrow. For now, you were going to dance the night away.

Meanwhile, Jungkook was sitting away from the dance floor with his football teammates, lazily holding a drink. He wasn’t really paying attention to what they were saying until Jimin leaned over with a cheeky grin.

“Hey, I just saw Y/N on the dance floor,” Jimin said casually, almost like he didn’t just drop a huge surprise.

Jungkook sat up straight, surprised. “You’re not kidding, right?”

“Nope,” Jimin replied, dragging out the word for more suspense. “But... she’s with Namjoon.”

The smile that had started to form on Jungkook’s face vanished. Of course you were with Namjoon. He felt a familiar wave of jealousy wash over him, even though he knew it was silly—there was nothing romantic between you two, right? Still, he couldn’t help his mind from racing.

As he glanced down at the dance floor, he spotted you right away. You were laughing, your face bright in the colorful lights as you danced with carefree joy. Despite the sting in his chest, Jungkook couldn’t help but smile. You looked so happy, and that mattered to him.

“She looks amazing,” he thought, feeling a bit of a ache in his heart.

Jimin leaned closer, grinning playfully. “You’re so down bad, man. When are you going to tell her? Keeping it inside for years is painful to watch.”

“Shut up, Jimin,” Jungkook muttered, grabbing the drink from Jimin’s hand and standing up quickly.

As he walked away, something slipped from his pocket and fell to the floor.

“Uh, Jungkook? You dropped something,” Jimin called out, picking it up.

Jungkook turned around, snatching the envelope before Jimin could look closer and shoved it back into his pocket.

He made his way to the restroom, his thoughts racing. After closing the door behind him, he leaned against the sink and pulled out the envelope again.

He had completely forgotten about it in the excitement of the night. Slowly, he opened it, curiosity bubbling inside him. As he read the first few lines, his breath caught in his throat.

You excused yourself, telling Namjoon that you needed a break and wanted to find the comfort room. He nodded and kindly pointed you in the right direction. As you walked away from the crowd, the noise of the venue faded slightly, and you welcomed the moment of solitude.

But before you could push the door open, you stopped in your tracks. Jungkook was standing there, looking like he’d just seen a ghost. His eyes widened as they met yours. You gave him a small wave, unsure of what to make of his expression, but before you could say anything, he grabbed your wrist and gently pulled you outside.

“Jungkook, wait! What’s going on?” you protested, but he didn’t stop until you were far away from the venue, out of sight and earshot of the crowd.

Finally, you tugged your arm free, your breath slightly uneven. “What’s going on? Why did you bring me here?”

He looked at you, his jaw tightening like he was wrestling with something he couldn’t hold back any longer. Then he blurted out, “Do you still like me?”

You froze. “Pardon?”

“Do you have feelings for me?” His voice was more urgent this time, his eyes searching yours.

“What—Jungkook, I’m confused! What’s happening?” you stammered, until your gaze dropped to his hand. He was holding something—a letter. A very familiar letter. Your heart sank. No, this can’t be happening, you thought.

“Where did you get that?” Your voice was barely above a whisper. It was the letter. The one you wrote when you thought you had no chance with him. The one you hesitated to give because it felt too vulnerable, too raw. And now, he was holding it.

Dear Jungkook,

There’s so much I’ve been meaning to say, but I never quite found the right moment—or maybe I just didn’t have the courage. You’ve been such an important part of my life, and honestly, I can’t imagine it without you.

We’ve known each other for so long, and I still remember the little things—like the time when we were kids, and you cried because your favorite drink spilled. I gave you mine, and you smiled like the world was okay again. It might sound silly, but that moment has stayed with me.

As time has passed, I’ve come to realize that my feelings for you have deepened in ways I didn’t expect. Maybe it was during those awkward moments in middle school when you were there to help me out without making things weird. Your kindness in those moments really meant the world to me and made me like you even more.

I want to assure you that I’m not writing this to complicate our friendship because that means the world to me. I just felt it was time to be honest, especially with all the buzz around you and Sana. Regardless of what’s happening between you two, your happiness is what truly matters to me. She’s great, and you deserve nothing but the best.

Most of all, I want to thank you. Thank you for being my friend, for capturing memories through your photos when I didn’t know how to see myself, and for being there when I needed someone, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. Thank you for being a part of my dad’s life as well—I know he would be proud of the person you’re becoming.

I’m sorry for the times when I pushed you away or made it hard to talk. I know you wanted to connect, and I regret not opening up sooner. You know I’ve had my struggles, but I hope we can still be just like before.

No matter what happens, I hope you always choose what makes you happiest. You deserve that, Jungkook. I hope I’ll get to see you thriving, chasing your dreams, and smiling that smile that makes everything feel okay.

See you around.

Love,

Y/N

You should’ve known better. She always had a knack for getting involved in things she shouldn't, and this time was no different.

“Answer me,” Jungkook urged again, his voice softer now but still serious.

You took a deep breath, your heart racing. “Yes, Jungkook. I did have feelings for you,” you confessed, your voice shaking. “And... I still do.”

Before you could say anything else, Jungkook stepped closer, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that was gentle yet charged, filled with all the feelings he hadn’t found the words for. It felt like time stopped, the noise of everyone else fading away until there was just the two of you.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he smiled—a real, open smile that lit up his face. “I like you too, Y/N. I’ve liked you for so long. I just… didn’t know how to tell you.”

Your breath caught, not in surprise this time, but in the overwhelming realization that maybe, just maybe, this was the moment you had been waiting for.

He kissed you again, and it felt deeper and more passionate, your mouths moving together as if they’d always belonged that way. Jungkook pulled back slightly, both of you catching your breath while still holding onto each other, his eyes shining with joy. "I can't believe this is actually happening," he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow, still reeling from everything. "Neither can I. You dragged me out here, kissed me, and now what? Do we just head back to prom like nothing happened?"

As you stood there with Jungkook, still processing everything, a voice crackled over the speakers from inside the venue.

“Attention, everyone! The moment you’ve all been waiting for—the announcement of our prom king and queen!”

You turned to Jungkook, your hand still in his. “We should probably head back.”

Jungkook shook his head, grinning. “As if I’d win prom king. And there’s no way you'd win, unless you consideration of just how breathtaking you are tonight."

You tilted your head, smirking. “What if I do win prom queen? Don’t you want to be there for my big moment?”

You both laughed at the thought. But before you could say anything else, the emcee’s voice rang out.

“And this year’s prom king is… Mr. Jeon Jungkook!”

You both froze. You stared at him in disbelief. “No way.”

Jungkook blinked, confused. “Did they—? Are we hearing the same thing?”

The crowd inside erupted with cheers, and before Jungkook could react, the emcee continued, “And this year’s prom queen is none other than Ms. Y/N L/N!”

Your jaw dropped as you looked at Jungkook, astonished. “Okay, now I know this is a joke. Sana definitely set this up.”

Jungkook grabbed your hand and began leading you back toward the venue. “Well, come on, Your Majesty. Let’s go claim our crowns!”

As you entered the hall, all eyes turned to you, clapping and cheering. Jungkook’s friends were the loudest, practically bouncing with excitement.

You and Jungkook were brought up onto the stage, where the emcee placed crowns on your heads. Jungkook leaned down and whispered, “I guess we’re more popular than we thought.”

You snorted, trying not to laugh in front of everyone.

As the first notes of a slow song filled the air, the emcee gestured to the dance floor. “And now, the prom king and queen’s dance!”

Jungkook extended his hand to you, his grin widening. “Shall we, Your Highness?”

You rolled your eyes playfully but took his hand. “Let’s not trip over our crowns, Your Majesty.”

As you both danced under the sparkling lights, the crowd faded into the background, leaving just the two of you. This wasn’t just any dance—it was a moment that felt timeless, a memory forming in your heart.

You hadn’t even wanted to come tonight, yet here you were, wrapped in Jungkook’s warm embrace, feeling as if everything had led to this unexpected moment. Looking into his eyes, you understood—this wasn’t just the end of the night; it was the start of something even greater.

For the first time, it all made sense. Like two pieces of a puzzle that had been searching for each other, you fit together effortlessly, naturally, as if this was where you always belong to each other.

end.

[omorithedreamermod]

JUNE DEVLOG

June DEVLOG time for OMORI THE DREAMER and...some big things have happened.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION:

In even more contrast to prior optimism, it seems the entire DREAMER release timeline will be overhauled. Due to the size of the story, the assets that relies on other's to complete, and the large amount of new assets far outweighing the amount in the PRELUDE...

From now on, we will be following a "CHAPTER BY CHAPTER", or in accordance to DREAMER's naming conventions, a "BOOK BY BOOK" release schedule. So, instead of waiting for the entire game to come out and getting overloaded with way too much content, books will be released in this sequence; BOOK 1 - KEL BOOK 2 - AUBREY BOOK 3 - HERO BOOK 4 & 5 - BASIL + ???

The final release of Book 4 & 5 will be the entire game. Each new release will include the chapters before, and save files will carry over. I believe this will be better overall for development, and for you guys to experience the story without being overwhelmed. The current plan is for BOOK 1 to release in the fall, and for BOOK 2 to release before the end of the year. I want this project completed in 2026, and with the additional time, hopefully everything will be at a higher quality. The narrative was already built in this book by book format, so nothing is actually changing besides release dates!

I'm sorry if this is frustrating to hear, but I'm confident this is better overall for both players and definitely for the team. We are not in development hell–people just have actual lives and are not being paid to work on this, so it can't be a priority. Still, the goal is a timely release schedule, with each book getting its own release trailer. I hope you can still look forward to the releases ^^

PROGRESS (BOOK ONE):

Due to the time of the year and a certain game releasing, a lot of the team was busy. Progress significantly slowed, but will hopefully pick back up again. Unfortunately, I cannot help with tile-set creation as it's outside of my wheelhouse (though I'll do my best to learn in the future!) so that team has a lot of pressure on them to handle SECTION TWO tile-sets on their own. Hopefully in the future I can help carry the burden. For now, it'll take as long as it needs to to avoid stress, but hopefully the internal deadlines can still be met!

Music is coming along amazing, and once again, there is going to be a large soundtrack coming with the chapter. Lots to see and lots to hear!

As of now, I'm making as much art and surrounding assets as I can while waiting for SECTION TWO to be ready for programming and writing. Progress is steady but certainly not at the breakneck pace it used to be. I got severely burnt out after continuing to work on THE DREAMER right after PRELUDE release and churning out SECTION ONE...but I am recovering! I'll bounce back passionately soon enough! I'm learning more and more how to rely on others and be patient with myself.

Battling is in the process of being overhauled and fixed up, and that will be available for the Book 1 release still!

For SECTION THREE, progress is also steady, though similarly significantly slowed. Still, nearly all maps are actively being mad, so it's looking very promising. Bug fixing still needs to happen for SECTION ONE, though...

CONCLUSION:

Wish us luck. A lot of luck. And for more pixel artists to sign up. This mod is on the right track and will certainly be completed! Just...at a more steady pace than originally assumed. On the bright side, that means you guys don't have to wait as long for more of THE DREAMER! Yay!

[gghostwriter]

Something where the reader is like sunshine, but gets cornered by an unsub and takes them down nosweat, the reader used to play ice hockey so they brawl like hell?

And at a dinner Rossi hosts, the reader offers to help cook but Morgan keeps poking the bear, teasing reader about their crush in spencer so reader asks if she can take this outside and Rossi is like "be my guest, knock him down a peg" and reader almost immediately pins Morgan and gets him to tap out

"Motherfucker I played ice hockey, I'll always win" Penelope is just gushing over reader and reader gives a wink to Spence before heading back to the kitchen to help plate up dinner

Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader Trope: Friends who Flirt (?); A bit heavier than my usual fluff but still fluff, I guess Warning: CM violence, vague descriptions of fight scenes A/N: Anon, going to be honest, I had a hard time writing this. I don’t have much knowledge on ice hockey or any sport in general so I tried my best to google moves from hockey and defense that I can incorporate here. Also I know you mentioned Reader to be a sunshine type but I kinda tweaked it so the Reader can be sweet and snarky both at the same time. No further editing was done, hope that’s alright and I hope you still enjoy this! Main masterlist

Ice Princess. // Spencer Reid

You’d like to think you were hired to join the highly sought after, golden child of the FBI—The BAU—due to your well rounded resume and skill set. But a year into being part of the team, you were starting to get the feeling you were hand selected to match Dr. Spencer Reid’s intellect and observation skills. In most cases, the two of you were always teamed up, working on geographical profiles, visiting the autopsy labs, and setting base in the police stations. All were an integral part of the job, you understood plus you’ve built an incredible rapport (crush) on the 187 IQ genius, but sometimes you miss the adrenaline and physical leg work that goes through catching an unsub. How is it that Morgan gets to kick down as many doors as he wants and you can’t? 

“Princess, is that what i think it is?” Morgan asked, spotting you enter the bullpen with a large pink Tupperware on hand. “It is isn’t it?”

“Uh huh, but they’re not all for you!” You reached inside to grab two pre-packaged home made cookies and tossed them in his direction. 

He looked at the two pieces he had on hand and back to the Tupperware. “That looks like it holds more than twenty pieces. So how is it I only get two?”

You giggled. “Congratulations SSA Derek Morgan, you know how to estimate.”

“Ha ha very funny, Ice Princess,” he stood to take a peek over your shoulder. “But I was right, what gives Y/N?”

A cup of steaming coffee was placed on your desk, courtesy of Spencer. “Hey Y/N. How was your weekend?” 

You blushed. “It was great! I spent my time at the ice skating rink and baking. Look, cookies!” 

“I see how it is,” Morgan teased, watching the two youngest members blush and flirt with each other. “Does pretty boy over here get more than two pieces?”

“Yes, he does. He gets four to be exact since he’s really nice—”

Morgan averted his eyes and fake coughed ‘crush’ causing you to blush even more than you thought possible.

“—and Hotch gets four, too.” 

“Wait wait,” he held up his hands. “Reid, I get. But Hotch?”

You shrugged. “He is our boss, after all.”

“I can smell the lie from a mile away, Princess. What is it really?” He paused, making eye contact with Spencer before turning back to you.

“Bribery,” they both stated.

You stomped your boot clad foot on the ground, in defense. “No it’s not!”

He laughed. “Face it, Y/N. The big man will never put you in the line of fire, not if he could help it. Don’t you think so, Reid?” 

“He does have a point. The percentage of you being partnered up with Morgan in the past cases was at a measly 3% and you were only partnered up with him because Hotch was also there to cover your back—” the glare you were giving him was enough for him to backtrack. “—Not that you can’t take care of yourself—that’s not what I’m saying, you’re a great agent, you have the skills—” each word intensifying your gaze. “I’ll stop now.” He squeaked out.

Morgan patted his back. “What he meant to say was, Hotch has a soft spot for you and your lean, glitter wearing build. Which reminds me, when will we ever see videos of you twirling and jumping on ice, Princess?”

You laughed, his assumption of you being an ice skating princess never failed to make you chuckle. If only he knew the truth. “Never, Morgan. Never.” 

———

In the grand scheme of things, maybe the universe had heard your grumbles and finally decided to throw you a bone. It happened during the latest case in Florida, a narcissistic male unsub was loose on the streets attacking and kidnapping women that all shared the same physical traits as you. This information was pointed out when the team had found the third victim’s body—mangled and throat deeply slashed that her head was almost severed. They all shared similarities with you—slight build and delicate features. So it came as a no surprise when the unsub set his eyes on you as the next victim.

“You’re so pretty, sweetheart,” he whispered to your ears, having been caught in a bear hug attack. “I bet I could snap you in half, like a toothpick. I’ll enjoy breaking you.” 

Bending forward, you twisted your upper body to elbow his face, and breaking free. “Try me.” 

You cursed your luck, having left behind your holster in the hotel room. You were just stepping out to grab a case file left behind in the SUV when the unsub cornered you and made his move.

The smirk on your face seemed to enrage him, enough for him to come charging at you like a bull. You kept your mind cool, feinting to the left—a body fake move from hockey before throwing a heel palm strike straight to his nose, causing it to break and bleed. The unsub howls in pain and while he was pre-occupied, you quickly twist his arm throwing him to the ground.

By the time the remaining members of the team came to your rescue, you were sitting on the unconscious unsub with your hair mused and a saccharine smile on your face. Morgan says nothing, eyebrows raised, as he all but drags the unsub to the nearest police car.

It was during one of the dinner parties hosted by Rossi where the dark skinned, muscular agent goaded you into showing him your moves. 

“C’mon Princess, you can flirt with Lover Boy here later,” He slyly said, noting how close you were standing to Reid who was busy steering the pasta sauce. “I got to know how you took down that unsub.”

You laughed. “Spence, do you hear someone whining? Sounds like a yapping Chihuahua.” 

Spence laughed having spied the indignation on Morgan’s face. “You’re right, Y/N. I didn’t know Rossi got a new family member.”

“Oh hell, I’m no Chihuahua. Do you see these muscles—” He flexed his arms. “I’m more German Shepherd than anything. All the flirting with genius over here has clouded your eyesight, better get that checked out.” 

You scoffed before turning to Rossi for permission who chuckled at the irritation on your usual angelic face. “Be my guest Bambina, knock him down a peg for me but please, do it outside, I’d rather not get blood on my authentic Persian rug.” 

Morgan whooped with glee as he all but ran out to the backyard with you right behind him. He rolled his neck and waved you close. “Hit me with your best shot, Ice Skating Princess.” 

You smiled, not wanting to correct his favorite nickname of you. Before he could utter another word, you ran straight to him, exerting force on your legs and bracing your arms for impact. The tackle making him lose footing which was what you were aiming for then you proceeded to hook your leg behind his, causing him to tumble down and before he even hit the grass, you twisted making him fall chest first and his hands pinned behind him.

“What the—” Morgan struggled to get up. “Alright, alright. You win.” 

You laughed, helping him stand, as the team members all cheered behind you.

“Did they teach you that in skating school or something?” 

“Morgan, I played ice hockey, not ice skating and—” you smirked as his mouth dropped open. “—I always win, motherfucker.” 

“Bambina, language.” Rossi, the mother hen of the group, chided.

You laughed, sending Spencer a wink before skipping to where he was, awestruck and blushing beet red from Penelope’s teasing.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!