── ❨ ⸝⸝ 𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑. ❩ they’re your boyfriend— and this is how they love you!
ೀ 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 - mentions of yearning, pet names, mentions of manipulation and gaslighting, reassurances, overprotective, affectionate, showing off to others, admiration?, little rushed and short, fluff, unedited.
ೀ 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 - rudo┆ enjin ┆tamsy┆zanka┆corvus ┆august┆ gris┆ follo┆fu ┆zodyl┆jabber
𝐑𝐔𝐃𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐂 -
at the beginning of the relationship, rudo isn’t cold — just careful.
he doesn’t say much about how he feels. he keeps his hands in his pockets, keeps his tone steady, keeps his distance just enough so it doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard.
he walks you to your room, but claims it’s “on the way.” he stands slightly in front of you in crowded halls, but pretends he just likes being ahead.
if someone looks at you too long, his eyes narrow for half a second before he looks away like it doesn’t matter.
it’s not that he doesn’t care, it’s that he’s scared to.
when he was in the sphere, he trusted people who ended up breaking him in ways he doesn’t talk about. erm.. CHIWA..
trusting someone meant giving them something they could crush, and he learned that the hard way. so with you, he moves slowly.
so he watches, he waits, he studies the way you talk, the way you laugh, the way you get quiet when you’re overthinking. he tells himself not to get attached.
but he already is.
one night, when it’s colder than either of you expected, you’re shivering slightly and pretending you’re fine.
he notices immediately. he doesn’t comment on it — just shrugs off his hoodie and drops it over your shoulders like it’s nothing.
“don’t make it weird,” he mutters when you stare at him. “you’re distracting.”
but he keeps walking a little closer to you after that.
over time, the small things change. he starts reaching for your hand without thinking, like it’s natural. he doesn’t let go quickly anymore.
when you get hurt during missions, or practice, or in general — even if it’s something small — his calm expression tightens in a way that gives him away. his voice lowers, more serious, more focused.
“who did it?”
it isn’t aggressive or anything that bad.
he still struggles with words. sometimes you’ll tell him you care about him, and he’ll go quiet for a second too long, eyes flicking away like he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of softness.
but then he’ll squeeze your hand once — firm, grounding — like that’s his way of answering.
the first time he says he loves you, it isn’t during some big moment.
it’s after a long day. you’re tired, half asleep, leaning against him. he thinks you’re not fully listening when he says it under his breath.
“…don’t leave.”
when you look up at him, surprised, he looks tense — like he regrets letting that slip — but you don’t laugh. you don’t tease. you just stay.
and that’s when something in him shifts.
after that, he stops pretending he doesn’t care. he still isn’t overly affectionate, still calm and steady, but now when someone steps too close to you, he doesn’t hesitate to place a hand at your waist and guide you away.
now when you’re upset, he doesn’t sit in silence — he pulls you into his chest and lets you hide there, his chin resting lightly on your head.
𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍 -
enjin isn’t quiet about you.
from the very beginning, he acts like the world should already know you’re his.
it doesn’t matter if you’re “his hot chick type” or not — he doesn’t even entertain that kind of thought.
the moment he decided he liked you, that was it. you became the person he wanted, and that’s all that mattered.
he’ll sling an arm over your shoulders in front of others, pull you closer to his side like it’s natural, like it’s obvious. if someone compliments you, he doesn’t get insecure — he smirks.
“yeah. i know,” he says easily. “she’s mine.”
he shows you off without shame. not in a way that feels objectifying, but in a proud way — like he genuinely can’t believe he gets to be with you.
if you do something impressive, he’s the loudest one reacting. if you’re dressed up, his eyes don’t leave you. if someone underestimates you, he’s the first to shut it down.
on missions, though, that’s when his protectiveness show.
he stays close. too close, sometimes.
even if you’re more than capable, he positions himself slightly ahead of you, scanning constantly. if danger gets even a little too near, his voice drops into something firm and commanding.
“stay behind me.”
and if you argue? he glares, jaw tight. not because he doubts you — but because the idea of you getting hurt makes his chest feel tight in a way he doesn’t know how to handle.
after missions, when adrenaline fades and he finally sees you’re okay, that’s when he exhales.
he’ll pull you into him without asking, hands firm at your back like he needs to physically confirm you’re real.
“don’t scare me like that,” he mutters, even if you didn’t do anything wrong.
but the other side of him — the softer one— shows when he has to leave.
when he’s gone on longer missions, he feels it immediately. he pretends he’s fine around others, but the nights are quieter without you. he stares at his phone longer than he should.
rereads old messages. misses the weight of you leaning on him. he doesn’t like how much he yearns, but he does. deeply.
he’ll text you things like;
“eat.”
“did you sleep?”
“call me.”
short, but loaded with meaning. and the second he’s back? he doesn’t hold back.
he picks you up off the ground when he sees you, even if people are watching. buries his face in your shoulder like he’s been holding his breath the entire time he was gone.
he kisses your forehead, your cheek, your temple — anywhere he can reach without thinking.
“missed you princess,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing tone. it’s honest. almost needy.
in private, he’s even more affectionate. he loves physical closeness — your head on his chest, your fingers tangled in his shirt, his hand resting at your waist absentmindedly.
he’ll press random kisses to your hair while you’re talking. he’ll tug you into his lap just because he can.
and if anyone ever speaks badly about you?
he doesn’t laugh it off, he doesn’t ignore it. he defends you immediately, voice sharp and unwavering. “watch your mouth.”
he also gets your name tattooed on his side of his abdomen.. <3
𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐒𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 -
tamsy isn’t a good person.
people stay careful around him. he’s good with words — too good. he can twist a story so smoothly that others don’t even notice it happening.
he knows how to stay calm while someone else gets frustrated. he knows how to win arguments without raising his voice. sometimes he says things in a way that makes people question their own memory.
because he really does love you.
he just doesn’t always know how to love in a healthy way.
he still likes control. he still likes things going his way. and sometimes, when you question him, he’ll sigh softly and say, “you’re overthinking again,” in that calm tone of his.
sometimes he’ll make it seem like he’s right even when you’re unsure. he doesn’t even realize how it sounds — it’s just how he learned to survive.
but right after that, he’ll touch your face gently. or pull you a little closer. and his eyes won’t look cold anymore.
“i wouldn’t lie to you,” he says quietly. “you’re not like everyone else.”
and the scary part is — he really means it that.
he loves you in a strong, almost possessive way.
if you want something, he makes sure you get it. you don’t even have to ask twice. if you stare at something in a store for a few seconds too long, he notices. if you mention wanting to try something new, he arranges it.
he likes seeing you happy. it makes him feel powerful, but also needed.
if someone talks badly about you, he handles it. you won’t see him argue. you won’t hear him threaten. but somehow, the problem disappears.
people stop bothering you. and when you ask what he did, he just shrugs.
“nothing important,” he says.
but he did it for you.
the biggest change shows when you’re alone together.
he’ll sit between your knees on the floor or lean back against the bed while you sit behind him. at first he acts like he’s only allowing it.
“don’t ruin it,” he says lightly when you reach for his hair.
but he stays still.
your fingers move slowly through his hair, brushing it, parting it, trying different styles. and little by little, his body relaxes. his shoulders drop. his breathing gets softer.
sometimes his eyes close without him meaning to. he trusts you enough to turn his back to you like that. trusts you enough to let you see him quiet.
if you laugh and tell him the hairstyle looks silly, he’ll glance at you through the mirror and say, “if you like it, i’ll keep it.”
and he would. even if it’s messy. even if it doesn’t suit him.
because it was you who did it.
and that softer side? no one else gets to see it. if someone walked in and saw him sitting there while you played with his hair, he’d give them a sharp look until they left. that version of him is private.
he still has habits that aren’t healthy. he still likes being in control more than he should.
but when he looks at you, there’s something real there. something steady. something that isn’t a game.
the world might see him as cruel. but with you, he tries.
and sometimes, when your hands move gently through his hair and he leans back just a little more into your touch, you can feel it — that quiet effort to be better than he used to be.
𝐙𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐀 𝐍𝐈𝐉𝐈𝐊𝐔 -
zanka has a bad attitude.
he’s sarcastic sometimes, teasing you in a way that makes you roll your eyes but secretly smile. “really? you’re going to wear that?” he might say with a smirk, and you know he’s joking, but there’s a hint of playfulness in the way he looks at you.
he enjoys seeing you flustered, the tiniest bit, but never in a mean way. it’s just fun for him.
but beneath that sarcasm is a side only you get to see. he’s protective. not loud about it, not dramatic, but careful.
if someone gets too close to you, even by accident, his hand finds yours, guiding you slightly back, or his gaze sharpens just enough to warn them off.
he doesn’t need to say anything — you feel the protection in the way he stands beside you, in the way his presence always makes the space around you safer.
he’s a gentleman with you, always. opening doors, helping you with your coat, letting you go first, walking you home, even if he says it’s just “out of habit.”
he notices the little things — if your bag is heavy, he carries it without you asking.
if your shoes are uncomfortable, he nudges you to sit while he adjusts something nearby. it’s quiet, understated, but every action tells you he cares.
he can still be teasing, though.
when you get embarrassed, he smirks and says something like, “don’t tell me you actually think you can hide that from me?” but after, he softens instantly, resting a hand lightly on your shoulder or brushing a strand of hair from your face.
he makes sure you feel safe — not just physically, but emotionally too.
and when you’re together in private, he lets his gentler side show even more. he’ll sit close enough for you to lean on him, wrap his arm around you without being overbearing, and occasionally whisper something soft, almost shy.
he likes the balance — sarcasm outside, tenderness when it’s just the two of you.
𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐕𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐇𝐀 -
corvus is the kind of man who doesn’t rush anything.
he notices the little things about you — the way your shoulders slump when you’re tired, the way your voice gets quieter when something’s bothering you, the way you fidget when you’re uncomfortable.
he’s patient. he doesn’t push you to talk, but he’s always there if you want to. if you need time to yourself, he respects that. if you need attention, he gives it fully.
he’s a gentleman with you, always. he makes sure you have what you need without making a fuss.
if it’s your period, he brings you whatever will make you feel better, whether it’s something to eat, drink, or a little comfort.
if you’ve had a bad day, he doesn’t bother you with questions — he just sits close and lets you lean on him. his presence alone is calm, steady, reassuring.
and when he’s in his office and you’re with him, he likes the closeness.
he’ll let you sit on his lap, resting your head on his chest, your hands gently on his shoulders.
he doesn’t fidget or make you feel awkward — it’s natural for him. he’ll wrap his arms around you, fingers lacing gently, and maybe hum softly while you talk or just sit quietly. he enjoys the quiet intimacy of it.
he’ll sometimes hold your hand while you sip tea or read a paper together.
if you need a little more comfort, he’ll brush your hair from your face, tuck it behind your ear, and adjust your blanket or sweater.
he doesn’t need to say much — his care is shown in every small, thoughtful action.
and he’s endlessly patient with your moods.
if you’re grumpy or upset, he doesn’t try to fix it right away. he lets you vent, he lets you cry, he lets you lean on him, all the while remaining calm and supportive.
his voice is soft, never aggressive, guiding but never pushing.
𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐙𝐀 -
august loves making things for you — clothes, mostly. skirts, dresses, jeans, shirts and he doesn’t stop at just making them; he wants them to fit you perfectly.
so he measures you a lot.
sometimes he says it’s for accuracy, but you know the truth — he just likes touching your skin, feeling the warmth of you beneath the tape measure.
and he’s never shy about it. a brush of his fingers across your shoulder while he marks your waist, a gentle hand at the back of your neck when he leans close to check the fit.
he always makes it feel natural, playful, affectionate.
he’s proud of you, and he shows it in everything.
if you’re near him when he’s working on his art, he doesn’t just let you watch quietly — he points out little details, laughs at your reactions, and sometimes guides your hand to show you exactly what he’s thinking.
and if he sketches you in order to see the creation of his clothes, he’s glowing with pride, showing off every piece to friends or anyone willing to see.
“look at this,” he says, “isn’t she amazing?” and even if you protest, he just laughs and wraps an arm around you.
he’s physically affectionate, too.
hands on your waist, fingers brushing your hair, a constant closeness that never feels forced.
he’ll pull you onto his lap while he’s sketching or sewing, resting your head against his chest, humming softly.
if you fidget or try to move away, he’ll chuckle and say, “you’re staying right here. i like it.”
𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐔𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐍 -
since gris is strong — not just in body, but in presence.
he notices when you’re tired.
after a long night, or a day that wears you out, he doesn’t even ask if you’re okay — he just lifts you up.
not in a rushed, careless way, but steady, firm, careful. your weight in his arms doesn’t surprise him— he likes it.
he likes the feel of you against him, the way your body fits into his, how your size compares to his.
it’s grounding, comforting, and he never hides the small smile that comes when he looks down at you.
he’s patient and understanding. if you move slowly, he moves slower to match you. if your energy fades mid-conversation or while walking somewhere, he doesn’t rush you.
he just adjusts, makes it easier, sometimes carrying your bag, sometimes lifting you entirely if you’re too tired to walk.
he watches you carefully — noticing every tense muscle, every small shiver, every yawn — and he responds naturally.
but he’s also playful sometimes. when he’s carrying you, he might tease lightly, “trying to tire me out?” while resting you against his chest.
or he’ll grin and press a soft kiss to your temple if you lean against him.
you can’t help but smile back, even if you’re too tired to argue.
he enjoys quiet moments, too. holding you close while you’re watching tv, or letting you curl into his chest while he hums a low tune.
he likes comparing your size to his, not in a boastful way, but with genuine way — how your hands fit in his, how your head rests against his shoulder, how your legs reach his knees when you’re perched on his lap.
it’s intimate, subtle, and it makes him feel connected to you.
𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎 𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐎 -
follo isn’t always confident around you — and he knows it.
he loves you, deeply, but sometimes that love makes him nervous.
even if you’re just sitting next to him or laughing at something small, he’ll catch himself fidgeting, rubbing the back of his neck, or looking anywhere but directly at you for a second.
he doesn’t like to admit it, and he tries to hide it, but you notice anyway. it’s subtle, small signs — a shaky laugh, a slight pause in his words — but it’s there because he cares too much.
he’s gentle with you. he always wants to make sure you’re comfortable, happy, safe.
he’ll offer his hoodie if you’re cold, walk you home, or make sure you’ve eaten.
every little thing he does is quiet, thoughtful, and sincere. even if he struggles with words sometimes, his actions speak louder than anything he could say.
one of the things he loves most — maybe a little embarrassingly so — is kissing your face.
the curve of your cheek, the tip of your nose, your forehead. it’s not about passion or urgency, just closeness.
when he does it, it’s slow, careful, like he’s memorizing every part of you.
sometimes he does it absentmindedly when he’s nervous — brushing a kiss to your cheek while trying to steady his hands, or pressing his lips softly to your forehead when you sit near him.
every kiss is quiet and sweet, and it always makes you smile.
even when he gets nervous, he can’t stop himself from showing you how much he loves you. his heart is full, but he tucks the nervousness beneath his calm exterior.
over time, though, with your presence, he starts to relax.
the moments where he fidgets or blushes become smaller, and the moments where he leans in close, softly kissing your cheek or nose, become longer and more frequent.
every small kiss, every careful gesture, every quiet look he gives you says the same thing.
𝐅𝐔 𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑 -
fu is timid — painfully, almost painfully timid.
but with you, he tries. like every single day.
even though his heart races when you’re near, even though his hands shake slightly when he thinks about holding yours, he makes the effort.
he asks about your day, checks if you’ve eaten, notices when you’re tired, and makes small gestures just to make sure you’re okay.
it’s never overbearing — he’s careful, patient, and quiet about it but it’s consistent. he really, truly cares.
he still gets shy around you, though. if you lean closer, or touch his arm lightly, his ears might redden, and he’ll step back just a fraction, unsure of what to do.
kisses are even harder.
sometimes he’ll try, brushing a quick, soft peck to your cheek or forehead, then flinching away, muttering something like, “sorry… i didn’t mean to startle you.”
but each time, he tries a little more, a little longer, because he wants to show you affection even if it scares him.
he likes to check up on you constantly, even in small ways.
a text to make sure you got home safe, asking if you’re warm enough, or quietly placing a cup of coffee in front of you.
he notices when something’s off in your expression, even if you pretend it’s nothing, and he’ll linger nearby, offering a gentle, smile.
he doesn’t push for answers — he waits, letting you open up when you’re ready.
𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐘𝐋 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐍 -
it’s clear to say zodyl doesn’t show much.
his face rarely moves, his voice rarely changes, and people around him often think he’s cold or unfeeling.
but with you, it’s different — even if you don’t always see it. deep down, he’s scared. scared of losing you.
scared that one wrong move could take you away from him.
that fear makes him hyperaware of you, especially during missions. he positions himself so he can see you, so he can intercept danger before it reaches you.
he doesn’t let you wander alone. if you stumble, he’s immediately there, steadying you without a word.
if someone comes too close, he steps forward, silent and sharp, his presence enough to warn them off.
he’s overprotective in ways he barely admits to himself.
he doesn’t hover unnecessarily, but every time he watches you, he’s calculating, thinking of every possible threat and how to prevent it.
sometimes he silently corrects your path, gently guiding your shoulder or waist, making sure you’re out of harm’s way.
and if danger comes too close, he’s unrelenting — precise, efficient, completely focused on keeping you safe.
even outside missions, he’s careful.
if you’re upset or overwhelmed, he doesn’t push you to speak, but he stays near, offering quiet comfort.
his face hides it, but your presence keeps him grounded.
in a way, you’re the reason he stays sane — the reason he can keep moving forward, even when the world is chaotic or dangerous.
with you, the cracks in his emotion are visible sometimes.
the smallest gesture — a hand on your back, a slight glance to make sure you’re okay, the way he lets you sit closer to him — shows his care.
he doesn’t need to say, “i love you” or “i’m worried” — because his actions say it all.
zodyl’s fear of losing you is constant, but so is his quiet devotion.
you are his anchor, his reason to stay steady, and even if he never admits it out loud, he would go through anything to protect you.
𝐉𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 -
jabber is way too much for you in the best way.
he’s not calm about love.
he’s loud with it, crazy with it, and almost a little obsessed.
when he likes you, it shows all over him. he gets excited to see you, always moving, always smiling, always acting like he has to do something with his hands because he can’t sit still when you’re around.
he wants to be close to you all the time, and he does not try very hard to hide it.
instead of soft kisses, jabber shows affection in his own strange, intense way.
he likes holding you close, pulling you into big hugs, resting his head near your shoulder, and keeping one hand on you like he needs to make sure you stay near.
sometimes he leaves little marks on you in playful ways, like a quick bite to the shoulder or a firm hold at your waist, never rough, just his way of showing he cares a lot.
it is not gentle in the usual way, but it is still full of feeling. with jabber, affection is never quiet.
he also does little things that show how deep his feelings go.
and the way he looks at you makes that clear too, like you are the most exciting thing in the room.
like he cannot believe you are his. if someone gets too close to you, his whole mood changes fast.
he gets sharp, protective, and a little scary if he has to be.
he will stand in front of you without thinking, his energy turning serious in a second. no one has to guess how much you mean to him, because he makes it obvious.
at the same time, he is still affectionate in his own rough, happy way.
he wants to touch your hair, hold your hands, lean on you, carry you if he feels like it, and keep you near him just because he likes the feeling of having you there.
he is the type to grin right in your face and act like he’s being normal, when really he is completely crazy about you.
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dunno if you’re still writing, but I just read your short story “Final Assignment” and you should totally do more!! I loved the styles of the characters and I would love to see this human learn the ways of his new family!
My inspiration/motivation really comes and goes with my hobbies, still writing in the shadows just havent posted anything in a HOT minute 🙂↕️
I was on a streak for a while before I fizzled out and I've got tons of drafts still half finished saved here (I have one re-written and plan on posting soon). I was gonna look for the part two draft I had to this but I think i chucked it when I did a spring cleaning session. I think it was one of the ones I was experiencing burn out with so I couldn't figure out how to take the story from where I left it. I'll more than likely leave that old one up (I cant believe its been 4 years tbh) and re-write it and give it a continuation/part 2/just making it longer overall since my style or "taste" in writing has changed
And thank you! Im glad you liked it lol, I was 18 when I wrote that and had just started really picking up story telling/one shots as a hobby!
I'll definitely keep it in mind to continue! I cant make any promises on when it'll come out but id be happy to let you know!
I DELETE ASKS THAT DO NOT CAPITALIZE THE IDENTITY OF "BLACK" ☺️
SENSITIVITY/BETA READERS LINK 👍🏾
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Please take the time to review the one relevant to your questions! They are long- some longer than others- but they likely have a link contained within that can better guide your research!
📝Syllabus📝
Lesson 1: "White Man Painted Black"?
Lesson 1.5: "Hair for Thought"- how visualizing affects your writing
Lesson 2: “That One Hairstyle? RETIRE IT!” Black Hair is an Art (pt.1)
Lesson 2.1: Addendum to Hair pt 1
Lesson 2: "It Takes HOW LONG?" Black Hair is an Art (pt.2)
Application! Examples of Protective Hair Coverings
Application! Ice's Lazy Loc Wash Routine
Application! How to: Simplified Braid
Application! Daisy E's Simplified Hair Drawing
Lesson 3: "Defying the Default"- Skin Tones and the Presence of Black Characters
Application! What are Black fans looking for in Commissions?
Lesson 4: "Do Black People Blush?" Bringing brown complexions to life
Application! Humanæ- Resource for Skin Palettes!
Lesson 5: "The Same Place As the Music" Lighting & Color
Lesson 6: "Let's Have A Talk, First" Stereotypes, pt 1
Lesson 6: “Why’s she so rude?” (She’s Not)- Stereotypes, pt 2
Lesson 6: "Is He the Threat (Or Are You?)"- Stereotypes, pt 3
Application! How to Spot a Stereotype: An Example
Lesson 7: "That's the Black one!"- Imagery and "Black-Coded" Characters
Lesson 8: “Across cultures, darker people suffer most. Why?” Multiethnic and Multicultural Blackness
Lesson 9: “Romance Will Not Solve Racism”- Interracial/Biracial/Blended Black and White Relationships and Families
Application! "Not Black Enough"
Lesson 10: “The Ambiguously Brown Character™”- The Attachment to Eurocentric Beauty Standards
Lesson 11: “No, That’s Not ‘How Color Works’.” - Whitewashing
Lesson 12: “The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth” - Violence, Violent Imagery & Black Horror
Lesson 13: “It’s Giving” AAVE, and the Denied Yet Undeniable Impact of Black Culture
Lesson 14: “On Human Dignity.” Blackness, Gender & Sexuality
Lesson 15: How To Guide Your Research
Lesson 16: "Make Your Peace With The Chaos..." Childhood While Black
Lesson 17: "D.N.A."- Blackness and Health/Medical Antiblackness
Application! Where do I find books by Black authors?
synopsis: Two elite ice hockey players from rival national teams collide season after season, their on-ice hatred bleeding into something far messier off it. What starts as anonymous hookups and reckless make-outs turns into a heated rivalry fueled by jealousy, ego, and the growing terror of wanting something real. By the time they finally stop pretending it’s just sex, it might already be too late to walk away clean.
content warnings: 18+, smut, (making out, oral sex, eventual full sex), rivals-to-lovers, emotionally repressed men, bottom male reader, possessiveness, jealousy, public/private tension, fame pressure, unhealthy coping mechanisms, arguments, emotional avoidance, power dynamics, minor injuries, locker room scenes.
word count: 10.2k (i did NOT think it would be this long lmaoo) [req]
The Zurich tunnel was a concrete wind tunnel that smelled like damp equipment and floor cleaner. It was the kind of place that amplified every noise, making the post-game headache behind your eyes pulse with every distant shout from the fans still hanging around the stands. You stood there with your gear bag heavy on your shoulder, leaning your weight against the cold wall. You were just waiting for the Japanese media swarm to clear out so you could get to the bus without being shoved aside by a cameraman.
Then you heard him.
Satoru Gojo had a laugh that was built for stadiums. It was loud and effortless. He rounded the corner with a dozen reporters trailing him, his jersey draped over his shoulders. He looked pristine. You felt like you’d been through a rock tumbler. Your jersey was damp with sweat, and your hair was a flattened mess from the helmet.
He saw you and detoured away from the microphones, ignoring a reporter mid-question. He stepped into your space, stopping just short of actually touching you. He smelled like mint and the sharp, metallic scent of the rink. Up close, he was tall enough that you had to lock your neck back just to keep him in view.
"Great game, Miller," he said. He flashed a grin that was all teeth.
"My name isn't Miller," you said. You kept your voice flat. You weren't going to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even if your pulse was jumping in your throat.
"Right. Close enough." He leaned a hand against the wall next to your head, pinning you in place. "You were fast out there today. A little desperate on that last break, but fast."
"I was playing hockey. You were putting on a show," you replied. You could feel the heat radiating off him. It was a physical weight in the cramped hallway. "There’s a difference between a teammate and a mascot, Gojo."
The grin on his face didn't disappear, but it got sharper. He leaned in closer, his blue eyes scanning your face. He was looking at the sweat on your forehead and the way your jaw was locked. He was looking for a crack. He looked at you like you were a puzzle he’d already solved but wanted to take apart anyway.
"Is that what we're calling it?" he asked. He spoke softly, his voice dropping below the noise of the reporters ten feet away. "I thought I was just winning. You should try it sometime. It might help with that miserable look you've got going on."
"Move your hand, Gojo. My bus is leaving."
"Let it leave," he murmured.
He didn't move. He stayed there for several seconds, long enough for the silence to turn heavy and weird. You could see the individual spikes of his white hair and the way his pupils didn't even flinch under the bright fluorescent lights. It wasn't Sparks. It was static. It was the feeling of a thorn in your side that had been there since the first time your names appeared on the same scouting reports. You hated how everyone compared you to him. You hated that he seemed to know exactly how much that bothered you.
Then, just as quickly, he pulled away and snapped his fingers. He turned back to the cameras without a backward glance, leaving you standing in the hum of the tunnel with your skin crawling. He was already laughing at another question before you could even get your breath back.
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The training facility gym was tucked into the basement of the arena, a windowless box that smelled of industrial rubber and the heavy, metallic scent of iron. You were four sets into a back routine, trying to work out the knot that had settled in your neck after the tunnel incident. Every time you pulled the bar, the friction of your shirt against your skin felt like an irritant. You were focused on the rhythmic clanging of the plates, trying to drown out the fact that your team’s loss was the only thing on the morning news.
The door swung open, hitting the rubber stopper with a dull thud. Gojo didn't just walk in; he took up the entire doorway. He was with Suguru Geto, both of them dressed in black training gear that looked like it had never seen a drop of sweat. Gojo was tossing a medicine ball into the air with a casual, annoying ease. He didn't look at you, but he parked himself at the squat rack directly in your line of sight.
You focused on the mirror, watching your own form, but his reflection kept drifting into the frame. He was leaning back against the rack now, watching you with a look that wasn't quite a smirk but wasn't friendly either.
"I've noticed some guys lift like they’re trying to punish the equipment," Gojo said. He wasn't looking at you, but his voice carried perfectly over the gym’s playlist. "Too much ego in the grip. It’s a miracle they don’t snap a wrist before they even hit the ice."
You dropped your dumbbells. The noise echoed off the concrete walls, sharp and final. You grabbed your water bottle and wiped your face with a towel, staring at him through the glass.
"And some people talk because they’re afraid of what happens if it gets quiet," you said.
Gojo finally turned his head. He let the medicine ball drop and walked over. He stopped a few feet away, his eyes dragging over your shoulders with a clinical interest that made your skin itch.
"I'm just offering an observation," he said. "You're stiff. Your shoulders are up around your ears. You play the same way you lift, like you’re waiting for a car crash."
"I play with discipline. You wouldn't know what that looks like."
"Discipline is a boring word for being scared," Gojo countered. He stepped closer, dropping his voice so it stayed between the two of you. "You’re so worried about making a mistake that you're missing the actual game. I saw it yesterday. You had the lane, but you passed it off because you didn't want the weight of the miss."
"I played the smart move," you snapped. Your hands were balled into fists at your sides.
"You played the safe move," he corrected. He reached out, his hand stopping just short of the collar of your shirt. "Safe doesn't win tournaments. Safe just gets you a seat on the bus home."
You stepped back, breaking the proximity. The heat in your face had nothing to do with the workout. "Stay out of my head, Gojo. And stay away from my rack."
He laughed, a sharp sound that felt too loud for the basement. "I'm already in your head. I've been there since Zurich. Just admit it."
You didn't give him an answer. You turned and walked toward the showers, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on your back the entire way.
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The communal shower was a cavernous, tiled box that echoed with the heavy spray of water and the distant shouting of players further down the hall. Steam hung thick in the air, blurring the edges of the room into a grey haze. You stood under one of the corner heads, eyes closed, letting the hot needles of water hit the tension in your shoulders.
The rhythmic sound of footsteps on wet tile approached. A shower turned on two stalls over. You didn't have to open your eyes to know the silhouette.
You reached for the soap, blinking through the water, and your gaze inadvertently drifted. Gojo was standing with his back to the wall, head tilted back as he let the water wash over his face. He wasn't trying to hide anything. He never did.
Your breath hitched. You’d spent your life in locker rooms around athletes, but this was a different league entirely. Even flaccid, he was huge. It was hanging with a weight that made your own stomach do a strange, tight flip.
You looked away quickly, staring at the grout between the tiles until your eyes burned. You felt a sudden, sharp spike of heat that had nothing to do with the steam. It was an intrusive, vivid thought of exactly how that would feel, and it made your throat go dry.
Gojo didn't say a word. He didn't even look at you. He just went through the motions of showering with a casual, bored grace, as if he wasn't currently making every other man in the facility look like an afterthought.
The silence followed you back into the locker room. It was that heavy, pressurised quiet that happens when two people are thinking about the same thing but refuse to acknowledge it. You sat on your bench, eyes fixed on your gym bag, tugging on your socks with trembling fingers.
Gojo was across from you, pulling a grey hoodie over his head. He didn't look like the stadium-filling star right now. He just looked like a guy in a locker room. He leaned over to lace his sneakers, the fabric of his sweatpants straining against his legs.
He sat back up, catching your eye for the first time since the showers. The smirk wasn't there. Instead, there was a look of quiet, pointed observation. He knew you’d looked. He definitely knew.
"My hotel has a private lounge on the penthouse floor," Gojo said. His voice was casual, but the volume was low enough that it didn't travel past the row of lockers. "They serve the good Scotch. Not the watered-down shit they give the teams in the common area."
You stopped mid-motion, your hand resting on the zipper of your bag. You didn't look up. "I'm not a big drinker, Gojo."
"It's not about the drink," he replied. He stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He took a step closer, stopping just short of your knees. "I’m staying at the Grand—room 402. Come over after the media briefing. Or don't. But stop looking at me like you’ve got something to say and just come say it."
He didn't wait for an answer. He walked out, the heavy door swinging shut behind him. You sat there in the sudden silence, the image of him in the shower burned into the back of your eyelids.
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The walk to the Grand was long enough for the cold air to settle into your bones, but not long enough to talk yourself out of it. You stood outside Room 402, staring at the brass numbers. Your brain told you to turn around and get back to your own hotel before this turned into something you couldn't undo, but your hand was already knocking.
Gojo opened the door almost instantly. He’d ditched the hoodie and was just in a black t-shirt and those grey sweatpants. The room behind him was a massive suite that looked out over the city lights, but the only thing you focused on was the way he looked at you.
He didn't say hello. He just stepped back to let you in.
"You actually showed up," he said, closing the door. The click of the lock was loud in the quiet room.
"I wanted the scotch," you said, though the lie felt thin the second it left your mouth.
"Sure you did." Gojo didn't move toward the bar. He just stayed by the door, watching you stand in the middle of the room with your jacket still on. "You’ve been looking at me for weeks. In the gym, the hallways, the showers. You've got this look on your face like you want to swing at me or crawl under my skin. Which one is it tonight?"
"You're full of yourself," you said, but your voice lacked any real bite.
Gojo crossed the room. He didn't stop until he was right in your space, forcing you to look up. He smelled like that same sharp mint and expensive soap from the locker room. He reached out, his thumb catching the edge of your jaw, tilting your head back.
"Then do something about it," he said.
You reached out and shoved him back a step, but only so you could grab the front of his shirt and haul him down.
The first time your mouths hit, it was messy. There was no grace to it, just a lot of built-up frustration finally snapping. Gojo made a low, rough sound in the back of his throat and crowded you backwards until your heels hit the edge of the sofa. He didn't let up, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting like the gin he’d been drinking.
His hands came up to frame your face, his fingers tangling in your hair to hold you still as he tilted your head to get a deeper angle. You gripped his waist, pulling him as close as the layers of your clothes would allow. Every time you tried to pull back for air, he followed you, his mouth staying glued to yours.
You heard the sound of heavy breathing and the rustle of fabric as you tried to get a better grip on him. Gojo’s hands drifted down, his palms flat against your back, pressing you flush against his chest. You could feel the heat coming off him, and lower down, the heavy, hard weight of him pressing against your thigh. Having it that close, knowing what was under those sweatpants, made your head swim.
He broke the kiss long enough to trail his mouth down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just above the collar of your shirt. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, your head falling back against the cushions.
"The bed," he rasped against your skin.
"Now," you said.
He didn't let go of you as he led the way, his hand locked firmly around yours. The clothes were gone before you even hit the mattress, a mess of discarded shirts and kicked-off shoes left on the floor.
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The sun hit the white hotel sheets with a brightness that made your eyes sting. You woke up with the weight of Gojo’s arm draped heavily across your chest, his skin hot even in the air-conditioned room. For a minute, you just lay there, staring at the expensive crown moulding on the ceiling and trying to piece together the last few hours.
The bed was a mess, but you were both still in your underwear. There were no discarded condoms, no lingering ache of having been taken. Just the heavy, sugar-sweet smell of spilt scotch on the nightstand and the hazy memory of a make-out session that had been so intense it felt like a physical bruising. You had stayed up until four in the morning, mouths raw, eventually passing out mid-sentence while Gojo was trying to explain why he hated the Swiss team's defensive structure.
Gojo stirred, shifting his weight and pulling his arm back. He didn't do the awkward morning-after flinch. He just opened his eyes, blinked at the ceiling, and reached for his phone.
"You're late for your team meeting," he said. His voice was thick and raspy with sleep, but the smugness was already back in place.
"I know," you muttered, sitting up and rubbing your face. Your head was pounding from the alcohol and the lack of sleep.
You felt his eyes on your back. The room felt smaller now that you were both awake. You looked over your shoulder and saw him watching you, his white hair a chaotic mess against the pillow. He looked soft for about three seconds before he smirked.
"Don't look so worried," he said, propping himself up on an elbow. "We didn't actually do the deed. You just fell asleep on me while I was getting to the good part of my story. It was a little insulting, honestly."
"I was drunk, Gojo."
"You were exhausted." He hopped out of bed, completely unbothered by his lack of clothes. He headed for the bathroom, his stride easy and confident. "But don't worry. I won't tell your coach you were busy failing to keep up with me."
You winced at the jab. It was a joke, a way to reset the board. By making it about the rivalry again, he was giving you both an out. If he treated it like a comedy of errors, it didn't have to be a secret. It didn't have to be anything real. You got dressed in the silence, listening to the water of the shower start to run.
You left the room before he came back out. The hallway of the Grand was quiet and smelled like expensive lilies, a sharp contrast to the way your skin still felt like it was humming with the static of his touch. You had a game in six hours, and all you could think about was the way he’d looked at you right before you fell asleep—like he was waiting for you to say something that wasn't a joke.
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The door clicked shut, and the lock turned with a heavy metallic thud. The sound was deafening in the small space. You were standing between two rows of tall shelving units packed with team bags and industrial-sized boxes of tape. The only light came from a single, buzzing bulb overhead that made the dust motes dance in the air.
"You're avoiding me," Gojo said. He didn't move from the door. He was still in his practice gear, the black compression shirt damp and clinging to the muscle of his chest.
"I'm busy," you said, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. You reached for a crate of pucks, but your hands were shaking.
"You're hiding." He moved toward you, his skates gone but his presence still taking up every inch of the room. He didn't stop until he was chest-to-chest with you, pinning you against the metal shelving. The scent of him—salt, ice, and that sharp mint—filled your head. "You left the hotel before I even woke up. No word. Just ran away like I’d done something wrong."
"We didn't do anything," you snapped, looking up at him. "We got drunk and made out. It wasn't a big deal."
"It felt like a big deal to me." He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck. His palm was hot, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. He leaned in, his breath hitting your lips. "Or maybe you're just scared of what happens when we aren't drunk."
You grabbed his wrists to push him away, but the contact only made it worse. You felt the static from the tunnel, the gym, and the showers all converge into one point of heat. You didn't push. You pulled.
The kiss was frantic. It was a mess of teeth and tongue, an outlet for a month of suppressed irritation. Gojo groaned, a deep, vibrating sound that you felt in your own throat. He hiked your hips up, shoving you onto the edge of a heavy wooden crate. The wood bit into your thighs, but you didn't care. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him flush against you.
He broke the kiss to trail his mouth down to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point. "I haven't been able to think about anything else since the showers," he rasped.
His hands were everywhere—under your shirt, gripping your thighs, fumbling with the button of your pants. He worked them down with a single-minded focus, his breathing coming in jagged stabs. When he finally had you exposed to the cool air of the room, he didn't hesitate. He dropped to his knees on the thin rubber floor mat.
You gripped the edges of the crate so hard the wood splattered into your palms. Looking down, you saw the crown of his white hair between your knees. The sight of him—the most famous player in the league, the man everyone wanted to be or be with—kneeling on a dirty floor for you made your head spin.
He took you into his mouth with a slow, deliberate suction that made your back arch. He didn't rush. He used his tongue to trace the length of you, his eyes flicking up to watch your face. He wanted to see you break. He wanted to see the moment you stopped being the "boring wall" and started being a mess for him.
"Gojo," you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair. You were past the point of worrying about the thin walls or the janitor in the hall.
He hummed against you, the vibration sending a jolt straight to your gut. He picked up the pace, his hand wrapping around the base of you to steady the friction. It was intense and overwhelming. Every time you thought you were about to reach the edge, he slowed down, teasing the sensation until you were practically begging him to finish it.
He swallowed you deep, his throat working as he pushed you over the limit. Your world narrowed down to the feeling of his mouth and the frantic beat of your own heart. When you finally came, you let out a strangled sound, your head falling back against the jerseys hanging on the rack behind you.
Gojo didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there for a moment, holding you, before he slowly sat back on his heels. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his blue eyes dark and blown wide with his own heat. He looked at you with a look that wasn't smug for once. It was hungry.
He stood up, his breath still heavy. He didn't help you with your pants. He just watched you adjust yourself, his gaze lingering on the flush of your skin.
"See?" he said, his voice finally regaining that sharp, playful edge. "Everything is better when you stop overthinking it."
He turned and slipped out the door before you could even find your voice, leaving you in the quiet, dusty dark of the storage room.
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The Gala was one of those high-stakes social traps where everyone pretended to be friends while checking for weaknesses. You stayed near the bar, the gin in your glass doing nothing to dull the sharp edge of your nerves. Across the room, Gojo was doing exactly what he was built for: dominating the space. He was leaning against a marble pillar, looking effortless in a tuxedo that probably cost more than your first car. He was deep in conversation with a blonde from the Swiss delegation, her hand resting on his forearm as she laughed at something he’d whispered.
You watched him. You watched the way he didn't pull back, the way he tilted his head toward her with that focused, intense charm he usually reserved for a puck. It shouldn't have mattered. You weren't his. But seeing him act like a free agent while your skin was still buzzing from the equipment room made your blood boil.
"He's a lot to look at, isn't he?"
You turned to find Elena standing next to you. She was a reporter you’d known for a couple of seasons. She was attractive and always easy to talk to. You’d gone out with women your whole life; it was familiar territory. It was safe.
"He's a headache," you muttered, offering her a tired smile.
"Come on," she leaned in, her perfume a soft, floral scent. "The music is terrible, and the drinks are worse. Let's go somewhere we can actually hear ourselves think."
You looked back at Gojo one last time. He caught your eye over the blonde's shoulder, his expression shifting into something cold and unreadable. Out of pure, jagged spite, you finished your drink and followed Elena out.
Her hotel room was a few floors up. The transition felt natural; the dimming lights, the soft click of the door, the way she pulled you toward her. This was what you knew. You’d been with girls since high school; you knew the rhythm, the expectations, the way it was supposed to feel.
When she pushed your jacket off and leaned in to kiss you, you leaned into it. You wanted to feel that familiar spark, that easy comfort of being with a woman. But as her hands moved over your chest, something was off. You weren't disgusted—you liked Elena, and she was doing everything right—but your brain was somewhere else.
It was like watching a movie with the sound turned off. You felt the physical contact, but the electricity was missing. Every time you closed your eyes, you didn't see her. You saw the flash of white hair in a dark storage room. You felt the ghost of a much larger, heavier hand on your neck. You tried to focus, tried to stay in the moment with her, but the more you tried, the more clinical it felt.
You pulled back, breathing hard, your heart hammering for all the wrong reasons.
"I... I can't," you whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Elena, I’m sorry. I think I’ve just had too much to drink."
"It's okay," she said, sounding more confused than hurt. "It happens. Long tournament, right?"
"Yeah. Long tournament."
You got out of there as fast as you could without making a scene. By the time you reached your floor, the frustration was a physical weight in your chest. You’d spent your whole life knowing who you were, and in one week, some arrogant Japanese superstar had dismantled all of it.
You rounded the corner to your room and stopped dead. Gojo was leaning against your door, his tie pulled loose and hanging around his neck like a noose. He looked like he’d been waiting for a fight.
"You took your sweet time," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.
"Get away from my door, Gojo." You fumbled for your key card, your hands shaking with a mix of adrenaline and shame.
"The reporter? Seriously?" He stepped into your space, his shadow looming over you. "I didn't think you were that desperate for a distraction. Was it worth it? Did she give you that 'discipline' you’re always bragging about?"
"It’s none of your business who I spend my time with," you snapped, finally getting the door to click.
He didn't let you close it. He shoved his way inside, forcing you to back up into the dark room. "It becomes my business when you’re out there making a fool of yourself just to get a rise out of me."
"I wasn't trying to get a rise out of you! I was trying to have a normal night with a normal person! Something you wouldn't understand!"
"Normal?" Gojo laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. He slammed the door shut behind him. "You think you can just go back to that? After the locker room? After the storage wing? You’re lying to yourself."
"I’m not lying about anything! I’ve always been with women, Gojo. This—whatever this is with you—it’s the mistake. It’s the outlier."
"Is that what we're calling it?" He grabbed the front of your shirt, his grip tight enough to choke. "A mistake? You looked at me in that shower like I was the only thing in the world, and now you’re going to pretend you’d rather be with some girl who doesn't even know your middle name?"
"At least she respects me! At least she doesn't treat me like a trophy she can win and then ignore!"
"I don't ignore you," he hissed, his face inches from yours. "I can't stop looking at you. That’s the problem. And it’s eating you alive that you feel the same way."
"I hate you," you whispered, though your grip on his forearms was tightening, pulling him closer.
"Good," he muttered, his eyes dark with a mix of fury and hunger. "Keep hating me. Just don't you dare go looking for a replacement again."
Neither of you mentioned the truth. Neither of you mentioned that you were terrified. You just stood there in the dark, the "no feelings" rule in absolute tatters on the floor.
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The semi-final against Canada was a mess. You were watching from the bench when Gojo took a hit that made the whole arena go quiet. He didn't just bounce off the boards this time. He hit the wood at a bad angle and stayed down, clutching his side. It took two trainers to help him off the ice, and for the rest of the game, the stadium felt weirdly empty without him peacocking around the blue line.
An hour after the final whistle, the arena was mostly dead. The cleaning crews were working way up in the stands, but the hallways downstairs were silent and smelled like floor cleaner. You found him in the back medical room, a tiny space that was basically just a closet with a padded table.
Gojo was sitting there with his shirt off, a huge pack of ice taped to his ribs. He wasn't on his phone, and he wasn't surrounded by reporters. He was just staring at a crack in the floor tiles.
"You're missing the press conference," you said. You stayed by the door, leaning your shoulder against the frame.
He didn't look up. "Suguru is doing it. He’s better at the corporate talk anyway."
His voice was flat. The usual energy was gone, and without it, he looked exhausted. The bright overhead lights showed every bruise and every scratch from the game. He looked less like a superstar and more like a guy who had just been through a car wreck.
"Trainer says it’s a hairline fracture," he said, finally glancing at you. His eyes were tired. "I’m playing the final, though. I’ll just get them to numb me up."
"That’s a bad idea. You’ll be slow. You won't be able to rotate your torso for a shot."
"I have to play." He reached for a water bottle and winced as he moved. He took a sip and then just stared at the label. "If I'm not out there winning, I don't really know what I'm supposed to be doing. People don't care about Satoru. They care about the guy who puts up four points a night. If I can't do that, I'm just a tall guy with a loud mouth."
You didn't try to comfort him with some cheesy line about how he was more than just a player. You knew as well as he did that in this sport, your value was usually tied to the scoreboard. You walked over and sat on a low stool a few feet away. You didn't touch him or try to be sentimental. You just sat there in the quiet.
"I don't really know who I am when the game stops," he said. He said it casually, like he was talking about a boring movie he'd seen. "Everything gets too quiet. I think that’s why I act the way I do. If I stop moving and making noise, I feel like I might just disappear."
You looked down at your shoes. "The noise is a lot of work, Gojo."
"Yeah," he whispered. "It is."
He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. You stayed there for a long time. You didn't talk, and you didn't move. It wasn't some big romantic moment. It was just two people sitting in a cold room, hiding from the expectations waiting for them outside the door. For the first time, the wall between you didn't feel like a competition. It just felt like a place to rest.
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After the night in the medical room, the silence between you changed. It wasn't the competitive silence from before; it was heavy and awkward. You realised that seeing him look that human made it impossible to keep going the way you were. If you didn't stop now, the "no feelings" rule was going to collapse, and you weren't ready for what was on the other side of that.
You told him it was over on the bus back to the hotel. You didn't make a scene. You just leaned over the back of the seat and told him the equipment room was the end of it. Gojo didn't even look at you. He just kept his headphones on and nodded once, his jaw tight.
That lasted exactly six days.
It was the longest week of your life. Every time you were on the ice together, the tension was thick enough to choke on. He didn't make jokes anymore. He played with a jagged, mean energy, taking runs at people during practice and ignoring your existence entirely. You were just as bad, over-committing to hits and spending your nights staring at the ceiling of your hotel room, your body feeling restless and high-strung.
It snapped the night before the gold medal game.
You were in the hotel gym at 11:00 PM, trying to exhaust yourself on the cable machine so you could finally sleep. The door opened, and Gojo walked in. He wasn't wearing his gym gear. He was still in his suit from the team dinner, his tie gone and his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.
You didn't look at him. You just kept pulling the weights, the metal clanking rhythmically.
"Stop," he said. His voice was low and rough.
"I'm working out, Gojo. Leave."
He didn't leave. He walked over and grabbed the cable, forcing the weights down with a loud crash. You spun around to shove him, but he caught your wrists. He pinned them against the machine, his body slamming into yours. He smelled like heavy cologne and the scotch he’d clearly been drinking.
"A week," he hissed, his face inches from yours. "You think you can just turn it off? You think I’m just some drill you can finish and move on from?"
"I said we were done. It was getting messy."
"It was already messy!" He let go of your wrists only to grab the back of your head, his fingers digging into your hair. "You think I don't see you looking at me? You’re practically vibrating every time I walk into the room."
He shoved you back against the equipment and kissed you. It was nothing like the first time. This was angry. It was desperate and rough, a release of all the static from the last six days. You didn't fight him. You pulled him in, your hands clawing at the expensive fabric of his shirt, needing the contact just as much as he did.
He didn't lead you to a bed. He pushed you down onto one of the weight benches in the corner of the gym, away from the door. He was frantic, his hands shaking as he worked your pants down. He didn't wait. He dropped to his knees, his white hair a stark contrast to the dark floor, and took you into his mouth.
It wasn't the slow, teasing pace from the storage room. He was focused, his tongue and throat working with a desperate intensity that had you gasping, your fingers digging into his shoulders. You looked down at him, seeing the way his eyes were shut tight, his brow furrowed like he was in pain. It felt like he was trying to vent a week's worth of frustration out on you.
When you couldn't take the friction anymore, you pulled him up by the shoulders. You didn't want to just watch; you needed to feel him. You kicked your pants off and reached for the waistband of his trousers, tugging them down past his hips.
He was already hard, heavy and leaking, and the second you were skin-to-skin, the air seemed to leave the room. You gripped him, your hands slick, and pulled him flush against you. The feeling of him rubbing against you—frotting with a frantic, rhythmic heat—was almost too much to handle.
Gojo let out a low, broken sound against your neck, his weight pressing you down into the vinyl of the bench. It was raw and blunt. There was no finesse to it, just two bodies trying to grind the tension out of each other. You wrapped your leg around his waist to pull him closer, your heart hammering against your ribs as the friction built toward something white-hot.
You both came at the same time, a messy, shuddering release that left you both gasping for air in the dark gym. Gojo stayed slumped over you for a long minute, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin.
He pulled away slowly, the silence in the room feeling heavier than before. He didn't help you up. He just stood there, breathing hard, looking down at you with an expression that was almost a challenge.
"Still done?" he asked, his voice shaking.
You didn't answer. You just started reaching for your clothes, your hands trembling. The rule hadn't changed, but the stakes had. You weren't just sleeping together anymore; you were destroying each other.
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The gold medal game was brutal. You were playing the game of your life, logging heavy minutes because your team needed you to shut down the Japanese offence. Japan was leading 2-1 in the third period, and the energy in the arena was vibrating.
Gojo was stuck on the bench. He was dressed in his full gear, but his helmet was off, and he had a heavy coat draped over his shoulders to keep his core warm. He looked miserable. Every time you laid a hard hit on one of his teammates or cleared the puck, the camera found him. They wanted to see the frustrated star.
The incident happened during a puck battle along the boards. You took a heavy elbow to the ribs—the same spot Gojo had injured days prior—, and you went down for a second, gasping for air. You weren't badly hurt, but the wind was knocked out of you, and you stayed on one knee to catch your breath.
The Jumbotron didn't show the replay of the foul. It cut straight to the Japanese bench.
Gojo wasn't just watching; he was standing up, his hands white-knuckled as he gripped the top of the acrylic glass. He’d pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, and his eyes were wide, fixed on you with a raw, terrifying intensity. He looked like he was about to climb over the partition. There was no smirk, no arrogance, just a frantic sort of hunger as he tracked your movement.
The feed stayed on him for five long seconds. The entire stadium saw the mask slip. The commentators went silent for a beat before trying to pivot back to the play, but the damage was done.
By the time the final buzzer rang and Japan secured the 3-1 win, the clip was the only thing anyone was talking about.
The press conference was a disaster. You sat at the table with your silver medal around your neck, feeling the weight of the loss and the headache from the game. Gojo sat three chairs down, looking perfectly composed in his team jacket, but he wouldn't look in your direction.
"Gojo-san," a reporter asked, "your reaction to the hit on the opposing defenseman has gone viral. It looked very... personal. Would you care to explain your relationship with him?"
Gojo didn't hesitate. He gave a sharp, practised laugh. "I was just checking the officiating. It was a missed call, and I hate seeing a good game ruined by bad refs. I want to beat my rivals on the ice, not see them get handed free passes because they dived. There's nothing personal about wanting a fair game."
It was a cold, effective lie.
Then they turned to you. "And you? Did you notice the concern from the Japanese captain?"
"I was busy playing a game," you said. Your voice was flat and tired. "I don't watch the bench. People see what they want to see, but there’s no story here. We’re rivals. That’s the beginning and the end of it."
You felt Gojo’s hand tighten on his water bottle. The denial felt like a physical blow to the chest. You had both just stood in front of the world and called the only real thing in your lives a hallucination.
When the cameras finally cut, you stood up and walked out. You didn't wait for him. You didn't want to see the lie in his eyes anymore.
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The parking garage was a place that smelled like dust and melting ice. The celebration from the Japanese locker room was a distant, muffled throb several floors up. Gojo was leaning against a support pillar near the team bus, his gold medal tucked inside his jacket like it was something he was ashamed of.
"You're a coward," you said. You didn't raise your voice. In the empty garage, the words carried perfectly, flat and cold.
Gojo didn't move. He kept his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. "I just saved your career and mine. You should be happy we still have jobs tomorrow."
"I'm not talking about the press conference. I'm talking about the way you live." You walked closer, stopping just outside his reach. "You spend every second of your life performing. You hide behind that plastic charm and the jokes because you're terrified. You think if you stop smiling for one minute, people will see that you’re actually just a hollow person who doesn't know how to exist without a crowd."
Gojo finally looked up. His eyes weren't bright or playful. They were dark, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights above. "And you're any better? You spend all your time pretending you're some stoic wall that nothing can touch. You act like you don't care about anything, so you never have to risk losing. It's a pathetic way to live."
"At least I'm honest about who I am," you replied. "I don't need a script to get through a conversation."
"You aren't honest," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. He stepped into your space, his height looming over you. "You're just scared. You’d rather feel nothing than admit that I’m the only thing that’s made you feel alive in years. You’re using me as a distraction from your own boring life."
"I'm not using you. I was trying to find something real."
Gojo let out a short, bitter laugh. "There is nothing real here. You’re just another person who wants a piece of the 'Satoru Gojo' show, and I was stupid enough to think you were different. You’re just a fan with a jersey, and I'm bored of playing with you."
The air in the garage felt like it turned to glass. It was the kind of thing you couldn't take back. It wasn't a joke or a jab. It was a dismissal.
You looked at him for a long beat, waiting for the smirk or the punchline that would soften the blow. It never came. He just stared at you, his jaw tight, his eyes cold and distant.
"Fine," you said. Your voice was steady, which surprised you. "Enjoy the show, Gojo."
You turned and walked toward the exit. You didn't run. You just kept a deliberate pace, the sound of your boots on the concrete the only noise in the space. You didn't look back to see if he was watching. You just left him there, standing in the shadows of the pillar with his gold medal and his lies.
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The flight home was a ten-hour vacuum. You sat in the middle of your teammates, the silver medal heavy in your bag, listening to them talk about the next season. You didn't join in. You just looked out the window at the clouds and felt the physical weight of the distance growing between you and Tokyo.
The silence that followed wasn't a relief. It was pressure.
You went back to your domestic league. You showed up to practice, you hit the weight room, and you played your minutes. You were perfect on paper. You didn't take penalties, and you didn't miss assignments. Your coach called it "professionalism," but your teammates stopped joking with you in the locker room. You were a ghost in a jersey. You did your job, went home to a quiet apartment, and stared at your phone until the screen timed out.
Gojo’s name still popped up in your feed. You couldn't avoid it.
He was spiralling, though the media called it "unpredictable brilliance." He was taking dangerous risks on the ice, getting into fights with refs, and blowing off mandatory team events. There was a photo of him leaving a club at 4:00 AM, looking haggard and sharp, his hair a mess and his sunglasses crooked. He looked like he was trying to burn himself out from the inside.
You drafted a dozen texts. Are you okay? That was a low blow. I'm sorry. You never sent them. You would type a sentence, look at the blinking cursor, and realise there was no way to bridge the gap without breaking the silence you’d both built. You deleted every draft.
He never called. He never texted. There were no "missed you" notes or cryptic social media posts. There was just a total, crushing absence. You slept on one side of the bed. You stopped buying the mint tea he liked.
The months didn't make it easier. Time didn't heal the argument in the parking garage; it just let the words sink in until they felt like part of your bones. You weren't a fan with a jersey, and he wasn't just a performer, but you were both too proud to be the first one to admit that the lie had hurt.
By the time the rosters for the next international meet were announced, you felt like you’d aged a decade. You saw his name on the Japanese list. You saw your own on yours.
The prospect of seeing him again didn't feel like a reunion. It felt like a collision you couldn't avoid.
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The hotel in Prague was a labyrinth of limestone and heavy carpets. It was the kind of place that felt too old and too quiet for a bunch of hockey players. You saw the Japanese team bus pull up while you were standing at the lobby window. You didn't wait around to see him get off. You went straight to your room, shut the door, and sat on the edge of the bed until the sun went down.
The first time you actually ran into him was at the morning skate the next day. You were coming off the ice; he was heading on. Usually, this was when he’d lean over the rail and say something to get under your skin.
This time, he stopped three feet away. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a long flight, but a deep, structural exhaustion that seemed to have settled into his shoulders. He didn't have his usual designer glasses on. He just looked at you, and for the first time, he didn't have a comeback ready.
"You changed your hair," he said. His voice was scratchy and thin.
"You look like hell, Gojo," you replied. You didn't mean it as an insult. It was just a fact.
"Yeah." He shifted his weight, his skates scraping against the rubber matting. "I haven't been sleeping much. The noise in Tokyo is loud this time of year."
It was a clumsy conversation. It was restrained and careful, like you were both walking on ice that was way too thin to hold your weight. There was no heat in it, just a dull, aching awkwardness that made your chest tight. He lingered for a second longer than he needed to, then turned and skated onto the ice without another word.
That night, you didn't even have to wonder if he’d show up. You left the door unlocked.
When he walked in, he didn't turn on the lights. He just kicked his shoes off and moved toward the bed in the shadows. There was no bravado. No arrogant comments about how much you’d missed him. He just sat down beside you and stayed there for a long time, the only sound in the room being the distant hum of the city outside.
When you finally moved in together, it was slow. It was the quietest it had ever been. There was no frantic tearing at clothes or bruised skin. It was just skin on skin, a slow, deliberate exploration that felt more like a confession than a hookup. You stayed close, your hands moving over the familiar lines of his back, feeling the way his heart was thudding against your own.
You frotted against him, the heat between you building in a slow, steady climb. It wasn't about the release this time. It was about the fact that he was actually there, his weight heavy and real against you. When he finally came, he didn't make a sound. He just buried his face in the crook of your neck and held on until his breathing levelled out.
Afterwards, the room stayed dark. Gojo didn't get up to find his clothes. He didn't make a joke about your hotel room or ask if you were still "bored" with him. He just lay there on his back, his arm thrown over his eyes, silent.
That was the terrifying part. The jokes were his armour. They were how he kept the world at a distance. Without them, he was just a man lying in a dark room with nothing to hide behind. The silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating, and for the first time, you realised that the game was truly over.
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The practice rink was scheduled for maintenance at 3:00 AM. The overhead lights were dimmed to a low, orange hum, casting long shadows across the fresh sheet of ice. You were sitting on the player bench, your skates laced but your jersey left in the locker room. The cold was steady, the kind that got under your skin and stayed there.
You heard the heavy thud of the door, then the rhythmic scrape of blades on the rubber matting. Gojo didn't get on the ice. He sat down on the same bench, three feet away from you. He was wearing his team tracksuit, his hands tucked into his sleeves to stay warm.
"I can't play tomorrow if I don't get this out of my head," he said. He wasn't looking at you. He was staring at the goal crease on the far end of the rink.
"Then say it," you replied.
He let out a breath that puffed into a white cloud in the freezing air. "I've spent my whole life making sure everything I did was for the win. Every person I talked to, every girl I went home with, every interview. It was all just fuel for the image. It was easy because none of it was real."
He finally turned his head. His eyes were tired, stripped of the performative spark that usually defined him. "I'm scared. If I keep this up with you, it’s going to cost me the only thing I know how to be. I’m scared I’ll lose the version of Satoru Gojo that everyone wants, and I don’t know who’s left underneath that."
You looked at the ice, the smooth surface reflecting the dim light like a mirror. "It already cost me, Gojo. I haven't been the same player since that parking garage in Japan. I've been a ghost on the ice. I lost the peace I had when I was just a defenseman doing a job."
"I know," he whispered.
"We aren't the same people we were in Zurich," you said. "The 'rivalry' was a lie we told ourselves so we could keep touching each other. But the lie is dead now. We killed it at the press conference."
Gojo leaned back against the hard plastic of the bench. He didn't offer a promise. He didn't tell you he would change or that everything would be fine once the tournament was over. He didn't say he loved you, and you didn't say it back. Those words were too heavy for a cold bench in an empty rink.
"I don't know what happens next," he admitted. "I don't have a script for this. I don't know if we can even do this without ruining our careers."
"Neither do I," you said.
For the first time in months, the air didn't feel like it was about to snap. There was no performance, no ego, and no jagged edges. Just two people sitting in a cold, dark building, admitting they were lost. It was the most honest conversation you’d ever had, and it felt more permanent than any of the secrets you’d kept before.
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The hotel room was quiet when you returned, the only sound being the low hum of the heater fighting the Prague chill outside the window. There was no frantic fumbling for the key card this time. No slamming each other against the door out of spite or adrenaline. You walked in, and Gojo followed, closing the door softly behind him. The lock clicked, but it didn't feel like a barrier anymore; it felt like a boundary.
Gojo sat on the edge of the bed and just watched you. The light from the bedside lamp was a warm, dull yellow that caught the frayed edges of his hoodie. He looked like a man who had finally run out of things to say. When you moved toward him, it wasn't an impulse driven by a bad game or a bruised ego. It was a choice. You stood between his knees, and he rested his forehead against your stomach, his hands curling loosely around your waist. He took a long, shaky breath, the kind that sounded like he was finally letting go of a weight he’d been carrying since Japan.
He started undressing you with a slow focus. His fingers were steady, unbuttoning your shirt one by one, his eyes following the movement of his own hands. There was no performance for a hidden camera, no mask of the "greatest player in the world" to maintain. When it was his turn, you helped him out of his layers, feeling the solid, heavy muscle of his shoulders under your palms. He had a faint scar near his collarbone you hadn’t noticed before, and a few fading bruises on his ribs. He was just a guy.
He leaned over to the nightstand, pulling a small tube of lubricant from his travel kit. He didn't make a joke about it or try to deflect the intimacy with a smirk. He didn't try to be "cool." He just looked at you, a silent question in his eyes, and you nodded.
You lie back against the sheets, the fabric cool against your skin. Gojo moved between your legs, his weight a grounding, physical presence. He was patient. He used his fingers first, coated in the slick gel, moving with a careful, rhythmic pressure. He wasn't trying to get to the finish line; he was just making sure you were comfortable. He watched your face, his thumb occasionally brushing over your hip bone, waiting for your breath to hitch or your muscles to relax before he moved deeper. It was clinical in its care, but deeply human in its tenderness.
When he finally lined himself up, he paused. He stayed there for a beat, his forehead resting against yours, his white hair tickling your skin. The air between you smelled like hotel soap and the faint, metallic scent of the ice rink that always seemed to cling to your skin.
"Okay?" he whispered. His voice was low, stripped of all its usual theatrics.
"Yeah," you breathed out, your hands finding the back of his neck. "I'm okay."
He pushed inside slowly. It was a heavy, overwhelming sensation, a fullness that made the rest of the world feel like it was disappearing into the background. You gripped his shoulders, your knuckles white, but it wasn't out of pain. It was just the sheer reality of him finally being there, without the rivalry, without the lies. Gojo didn't rush. He stayed still for a long moment, letting your body adjust to the weight of him, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that felt more exposing than being naked.
When he started to move, it was with a deep, steady pace. There was no frantic friction, just a quiet, shared heat. Every thrust was a slow climb that felt like it was pulling something out of your chest. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in closer, wanting to close every millimetre of space left. It felt like a conversation you’d been trying to have for months—one where you finally didn't have to keep your guard up.
Gojo's composure eventually started to break. His breathing turned into jagged, uneven gasps, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his grip on your hips tightening. He wasn't the "sun”, or a "god”, or a "superstar." He was just a man who was terrified of being alone, clinging to the only person who actually knew the difference.
The release wasn't an explosion; it was a slow collapse. You both came in the quiet, your gasps muffled against each other’s skin. Gojo didn't pull away immediately. He stayed buried inside you, his head tucked against your shoulder, his chest rising and falling in time with yours as his heart rate eventually slowed down. He felt heavy, warm, and real.
The silence that followed wasn't scary anymore. It was just a shared space. No one was running for the door. No one was reaching for a drink or a distraction. You just lay there in the dim light, two people who had finally stopped playing a game they couldn't win.
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The morning sun in Prague was weak, filtering through the heavy hotel curtains in dusty slats of grey light. Gojo didn't leave in the middle of the night. When you woke up, he was still there, taking up more than his fair share of the bed, his face smashed into a pillow. Without the gel in his hair or the glasses on his face, he just looked like a person—one who happened to be a world-class athlete with a very loud mouth.
You sat at the small hotel desk, nursing a lukewarm coffee and watching the city wake up. You heard the bedsheets rustle.
"You're thinking too loud," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, the blankets pooling at his waist.
"I'm thinking about the flight schedules," you said. "And the fact that my coach is going to kill me if I’m late for the bus."
Gojo stayed quiet for a second. He looked at his hands, then back at you. The bravado was still missing, but he didn't look scared anymore. He looked resolved. "My season ends in three weeks. I have a gap before the summer camps start. I could... fly out. It’s a long trip, but I’ve got the miles."
It wasn't a grand romantic gesture. It was a logistical nightmare. Different leagues, different continents, two massive reputations that would eventually collide again under the glare of a Jumbotron. It was going to be complicated, invasive, and probably a little bit miserable when the media eventually found out.
"It's going to be a mess, Satoru," you said, leaning back in the chair.
He stood up, stretching until his joints popped, and walked over to you. He didn't lean over you with that predatory smirk from Zurich. He just rested a hand on the back of your chair, his thumb brushing against your shoulder.
"Yeah," he admitted, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's going to be a disaster. But I'm bored with playing it safe. Aren't you?"
You looked up at him and felt a strange, quiet sense of relief. The weight of the silver medal, the gold medal, and the lies didn't feel so heavy anymore. "I've been bored for a long time."
An hour later, you were standing in the lobby, gear bags at your feet. The Japanese team was boarding their bus out front, and a crowd of fans already gathered behind the barricades. Gojo was standing by the glass doors, adjusting his dark glasses, the "superstar" mask sliding back into place as he prepared to face the cameras.
He caught your eye across the busy room. He didn't wink. He didn't blow a kiss. He just waited until you walked toward the exit, passing him one last time.
"Watch your step," he said, his voice low and smooth, a soft echo of the very first time he’d stopped you in that tunnel.
You stopped, looking at him over your shoulder. You didn't roll your eyes this time. You just gave him a faint, steady nod.
"Try not to get in my way, Gojo."
He let out a short, real laugh—the kind that didn't care about the acoustics—and watched you walk out into the light.
how it be feeling knowing that there’s probably not going to be a lot of flambae x reader fics now that he’s confirmed to be gay or people will just blatantly ignore his sexuality and make fem reader anyway.
monster writer club @loousir - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
