·. ch. 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐨𝐱 ─── FACE
( the ／ olympians ／ vip )
──── 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒔 .
𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 . silver, only his family call him damian 𝐚𝐠𝐞 . thirty-four 𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 . pro hockey player, olympic gold medalist, and nhl all-star ─── he’s built his career as both a global sports icon and a public figure 𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 . attended top athletic prep school, then drafted straight into nhl 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 . bisexual 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 . single 𝐩𝐞𝐭 . atlas ( “at” ), a dobermann mix with his ears down. his most trusted companion.
──── 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 .
the man who lights up a locker room with his presence and commands the rink with every stride
the star who throws the wildest parties, yet shows up at dawn to run miles before practice
the athlete who never accepts second place
the olympian heir who thrives on legacy
the man who donates to charity because giving back is the only way to make it counts
the romantic who believes in true love, but doubts anyone could love him without the fame
──── 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒔 .
light blue eyes that cut like glass, dark brown hair kept close-cropped and sharp against his features. tall and built for the ice, broad shoulders and defined muscle carved from years of discipline. skin marked by jewelry in gold, silver, and pearls. his presence is charisma and control, photogenic in any frame, whether in luxury streetwear and varsity jackets or stripped down to fitted tanks that leave nothing to question. he fits anywhere: arenas roaring his name, vip lounges drenched in champagne, or early morning runs on empty city streets.
──── 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒍 ( 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒔 𝒐𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒔? )
the photographs hit the inbox first, low-resolution but sharp enough to make out the unmistakable silhouette of damian maddox. a figure like his doesn’t blur easily, even when caught by a stranger’s phone. he was seen stepping into the baccarat on park, midnight sharp, a woman trailing just steps behind him. the woman in question wasn’t anonymous: she carried a last name stitched into the fabric of new york finance. she and damian had shared stages before. charity auctions, ribbon cuttings, glossy gala photographs. this time, just a revolving glass door, two shadows disappearing in. was it a rendezvous or coincidence? damian has dismissed the speculation, his smile as clean as his record. but whispers don’t need proof. they live in the cracks between facts. sources close to the woman suggest the marriage is intact, that divorce was never on the table. others insist she and damian were inseparable for months, that what looked like a passing moment was only the surface of a deeper affair. what keeps the story alive is the husband, a man whose allegiance to damian's team fiercest rivals is as public as his fortune. so the question lingers... was damian maddox caught in the oldest trap, or was he the architect of his own scandal?
closed starter for : damian maddox & benedicto montero
location : upper west side , damian's place
@gu1nguette
damian had opened the door before the bell even finished its second chime, atlas already bounding ahead, nails clicking against the hardwood, perfectly knowing the visit was for him. the pup’s weight had filled in over the months, no longer the fragile bundle damian had first cradled with both hands like he was afraid to break him. now he was muscle and shine, tail wagging hard enough to shake his whole frame. still, damian’s eyes cut quick to the vet’s bag like one wrong look inside would tell him the game had changed. he was an athlete, after all. a tad superstitious.
“he’s been good,” damian said, stepping back to let benny in, voice pitched casual while his hand rested heavy on the dog’s back. “running me into the ground every morning, eating like he’s the one getting paychecks. nothing weird. no cough.” the list spilled out too fast, the kind of rundown a man gave when he was trying to prove he wasn’t worried at all.
damian led benny inside, and in no time, atlas was getting on his back for his favorite vet. a small grin tugging at damian's mouth as he watched the dog’s tail blur with joy. behind it, sat the same weight damian always carried in these checkups. atlas was declared healthy, but the part of him that had stayed up for endless nights watching the pup breathe would never stop worrying him.
“ i'd apologize for the mess but it's just you , ” monty briefly glanced at older brother from his shoulder , chesire grin on his face . “ the kiddo just got picked up by his mom and i haven't had time to cleaned up . ” which was code for the cleaning lady doesn't come until tuesday . “ i sadly only have the nasty low calorie version of these beers — horrible , i know . ” but damian was an athlete too , monty would assume he understood . “ you excited for the nhl season to kicking off soon ? ”
𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗱 starter for damianm addox [ @damianxmaddox ]
at monty's residence on park avenue , manhattan
his mouth twitched, a half-smile pulling sharp before he shook his head.
“yeah, i figured you weren’t about to grab a vacuum for my benefit,” he said, huffing with amusement. the grin he tossed back was easy, not an ounce of judgment behind it. monty was cocky, always had been, and damian was too used to it to get ruffled.
he sank onto the couch, arm stretched along the back. “shame i missed the kid. would’ve been good to get more than a facetime wave.” there was a flicker in his chest when he said it, a bit of disappointment, but mostly something heavier under it. the reminder that he he was somebody’s uncle now. not a role he’d figured out yet, but one he wanted to.
“speaking of,” he pulled a package out of the team-logo bag he’d carried in, and he. slid it across the coffee table with a flourish. “had this made for the little guy.” inside, the tiny onesie mirrored his own uniform, right down to the number on the back. his smile widened, pleased. “gotta start him early, you know. can’t have him thinking baseball’s the family crown jewel.” the jab landed easy, brother to brother, playful as a slapshot in warmups.
he cracked open one of the low-cal beers without a flinch, lifted it toward monty. “man, i’m buzzing. every year i tell myself to act like i’ve been here before, but once the ice hits under me, i’m eighteen again, chasing my first nhl goal. nothing beats it. you get me.” he let out a low laugh, the sound carried by a genuine spark.
his gaze swung back to monty, all warmth now. “been too long, bro. good to be here.”
𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝘂𝘀 : coraline + anyone , open ( 3/5 ) .
𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 : evening , some bar , manhattan .
" if we seat senator ocon and ambassador wyler at the same table , we wont make it to after dinner coffee and we'll have a room of undercaffienated senior members on our hands , so please , revise the seating chart , " the device lingers by her ear for a moment before she drops the call . an inaudible huff slipping past her lips , masked only as a warm smile given to the other sat beside her , just sweet enough to disarm . " sorry about that , " a brief wave of her phone in the air between them before setting the device down on the bar top -- screen down , as always . " where were we ? " her gaze flickering between them and signature drink now brought to rouge stained lips .
damian had his phone in hand the moment coraline’s call ended, thumb swiping through the thread with monty. sure enough it was the usual flood: memes that had no business being funny, screenshots with captions that didn’t make sense unless you knew the inside jokes. damian smirked to himself, dropped one back into the stream, then let the screen go dark.
elbows braced wide, posture loose in a way that only happened off-ice, off-camera, the light caught the thin pearl necklace at his throat when he lifted his gaze into hers. “you needed a break. that’s why we’re here.” he murmured, not sharp, more like he was pointing out the obvious with a thread of sympathy.
he wasn't in the trenches with her for the event she was planning, but didn't want to leave her grinding through details, holding it all together alone. “but if you need backup, i can have a look at that seating chart?” he tipped his chin at her drink, a coax without pressure. “otherwise, you let me keep you company, and you actually breathe for a second. deal?” the look he gave her was light, easy, a quiet pull back into something softer than whatever conversation she’d been fielding a minute ago.
#𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋 ›› ft. minho kwon
location: minho's townhouse or the bakery's kitchen.
status: accepting replies , currently no cap
❝ be honest, ❞ accompanied the plate being set down in front of them. variations of the phrase had been spoken throughout the cooking process and when invitation had first been extended. ego, whatever scraps of it resided within his chest, required no coddling. ❝ i only want to add it to the fall menu if it's good. ❞ a singular dessert sat upon the white ceramic, freshly made, designed as if it was a work of art destined for preservation rather than a quick end. stepping back, minho leaned against the opposite counter — waiting. reminiscent of his days awaiting a critic in culinary school.
damian was staring down a plate that looked too perfect to eat, arms folded across his chest, light blue eyes cutting from the dish to minho with a smirk. “so this is what hanging out means to you,” he teased, brushing his right thumb across his lips. “you lure me in with friendship, then put me to work.” nobody forced him to pick up the fork, though.
his discipline never let him forget macros or schedules, but rules bent easy when it was good ingredients and better company. he cut into it slow, letting the bite hit the back of his tongue, the flavor spread until he had to roll his shoulders like it was settling through every muscle.
“yeah,” he said, finally, dropping the fork with a quiet clink on ceramic. “it’s great. fantastic.” no hesitation, no sugarcoating. his honesty was sharp as the grin pulling at his mouth. “almost fits clean with my diet too, which is saying something. i can work off the rest, but,” he gestured at the plate with an open palm, and grabbed back the to polish it. “this is something i'll happily feel guilty for having”
