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
āāāā ššššš .
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.
the photographs hit the inbox first, low-resolution but sharp enough to make out the unmistakable silhouette of damian maddox. a figure like his doesnāt blur easily, even when caught by a strangerās phone. he was seen stepping into the baccarat on park, midnight sharp, a woman trailing just steps behind him. the woman in question wasnāt 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 donāt 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?
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closedĀ starter Ā for Ā :Ā Ā damianĀ Ā maddoxĀ &Ā Ā benedictoĀ Ā montero
locationĀ :Ā Ā 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 pupās 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, damianās eyes cut quick to the vetās bag like one wrong look inside would tell him the game had changed. he was an athlete, after all. a tad superstitious.
āheās been good,ā damian said, stepping back to let benny in, voice pitched casual while his hand rested heavy on the dogās back. ārunning me into the ground every morning, eating like heās the one getting paychecks. nothing weird. no cough.ā the list spilled out too fast, the kind of rundown a man gave when he was trying to prove he wasnāt 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 dogās 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.
his mouth twitched, a half-smile pulling sharp before he shook his head.
āyeah, i figured you werenāt about to grab a vacuum for my benefit,ā 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. āshame i missed the kid. wouldāve been good to get more than a facetime wave.ā 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 somebodyās uncle now. not a role heād figured out yet, but one he wanted to.
āspeaking of,ā he pulled a package out of the team-logo bag heād carried in, and he. slid it across the coffee table with a flourish. āhad this made for the little guy.ā inside, the tiny onesie mirrored his own uniform, right down to the number on the back. his smile widened, pleased. āgotta start him early, you know. canāt have him thinking baseballās the family crown jewel.ā 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. āman, iām buzzing. every year i tell myself to act like iāve been here before, but once the ice hits under me, iām eighteen again, chasing my first nhl goal. nothing beats it. you get me.ā he let out a low laugh, the sound carried by a genuine spark.
his gaze swung back to monty, all warmth now. ābeen too long, bro. good to be here.ā
damian had his phone in hand the moment coralineās 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 didnāt 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. āyou needed a break. thatās why weāre here.ā 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. ābut if you need backup, i can have a look at that seating chart?ā he tipped his chin at her drink, a coax without pressure. āotherwise, you let me keep you company, and you actually breathe for a second. deal?ā the look he gave her was light, easy, a quiet pull back into something softer than whatever conversation sheād been fielding a minute ago.
#š¼š½š²š»šššŗššš¾š āŗāŗ ft. minho kwon
location: minho's townhouse or the bakery's kitchen.
status: accepting replies , currently no cap
ā be honest, ā 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.Ā āĀ Ā i only want to add it to the fall menu if it's good. āĀ Ā 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 ā 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. āso this is what hanging out means to you,ā he teased, brushing his right thumb across his lips. āyou lure me in with friendship, then put me to work.ā 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.
āyeah,ā he said, finally, dropping the fork with a quiet clink on ceramic. āitās great. fantastic.ā no hesitation, no sugarcoating. his honesty was sharp as the grin pulling at his mouth. āalmost fits clean with my diet too, which is saying something. i can work off the rest, but,ā he gestured at the plate with an open palm, and grabbed back the to polish it. āthis is something i'll happily feel guilty for havingā
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