#Cap One Arena

[robpegoraro]

City-sized arenas belong in city centers

The Capitals and the Wizards may not win another championship anytime soon, but they will continue playing their home games where they should: in the downtown arena they’ve called home since 1997 as first the MCI Center, then the Verizon Center, followed by the resulting nickname of the Phone Booth, and now Capital One Arena. That’s the best possible resolution of an interlude in which…

[spirk-trek]

i <3 u star trek

[retroautomaton]

WOAAH your colouring is absolutely gorgeous!! Your art is so cool and retro looking... Reminds me of old comic and book covers!! Alsooo I see you have ocs 👀 is there anywhere I can learn more about them??

WAHH THANK YOU!! ✨ So nice of you to say, I appreciate it!!

And I may or may not have a ridiculous amount of characters haha but here are my main ones!

Yulis is a driver-for-hire, employed by Paul’s company to get him to work on time. He’s volatile, quick-to-act, but pretty dependable. Paul writes articles for work, but wants to be his own author, so he overworks himself writing, and is late because of it. He’s frazzled, constantly nervous and stressed, and Yulis is pretty much his only constant in his life.

Here’s their introduction, and their latest comic!

Then there’s the Metropolis Cocktail bunch! I’ve had each of these characters for a LONG while, but they’ve changed a whole lot over time. Lou’s an alien bodyguard, Cap’s his partner and a schemer, Pepperell’s a carefree-clown-type, and Brunette’s a researcher (and a nervous wreck.)

You can go through any of their tags, and there’s literally YEARS of drawings, but here’s a good intro for Cap & Lou’s relationship, a little comic about Brunette & Pepperell, and their lineup!

(I did also start a bigger comic with them all, but I didn’t get it out in time, so it’ll only like a quarter-way done haha I do plan on finishing it next fall! )

Honorable mention is Thylo, I haven’t posted a whole lot about him, and I only made one comic with him, but his design is still one of my favorites, and I would REALLY love to continue his comics at some point. He’s a flyweight fighter, a bit of an underdog, quick-to-anger, impulsive, but has the best intentions to stay cool under pressure.

Sorry for rambling, but thanks so much again for asking!!

[rohirric-hunter]

I feel like I should note, whenever I promise screenshots of Angmar Nazgul fights to people, that this is what they look like

[ryangravytrain]

So about last night….

[orjustsomeghostofme]

New thought/vocal stim discovered for Cloud of Darkness: 'How do you expect me to stab a cloud?'

[lokissweater]

you noticed me ⚾︎

{mlb!megumi fushiguro x f!reader}

summary: megumi fushiguro is one of the best players on the major league baseball team, and when you finally spot him on the big screen after practically dozing off at every game you went to with your girl friend? you were absolutely IN LOVE, but IN DENIAL that he could ever like you back… but he does, and bad.

warnings: MDNI. afab!reader, NASTY NASTY MEGUMI, oral sex, SMUT, pussy eating in locker rooms HEH, mentions of drinking but like tiny just once, reader is oblivious to the way megumi wants her, DOMINANT AF MEGUMI PHEWW, cursing, flufffff!!, barely any angst, DIRTY TALK, pet names, aged up characters.

word count: 12.1k (IK IM SORRY ITS A CUTE ONE THO)

authors note: you GUYSSSS i love megumi fushiguro i want him so bad and i LOOVEEE this fic!! i worked like a little worker bee for days and i really hope it makes you guys happy :] MWAH!!

want more? you can find my mlb!megumi fushiguro masterlist here!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・

megumi fushiguro was the hottest baseball player you had ever seen in your life.

and you didn’t even like baseball to begin with, dozing off at every game your girl friend dragged you to because her boyfriend was on the major league team— but the one time you decided to open your eyes and pay attention to the big giant screen in front of you?

there he was in all of his emo glory.

number eighteen.

focused, half lidded eyes resembling borderline boredom as he waited for the pitcher to throw, his forehead glistening with sweat, flushed red cheeks, and his jet black hair slightly peeking over his forehead from underneath his baseball cap.

“my god—” your hand flew and you gripped your girl friends arm tightly, your jaw to the fucking floor as your eyes were gorilla glued to the screen, her quirking a curious eyebrow at you as she matched your frantic nature.

“what? what is it? who did you see? whats happ—”

you pointed your finger up at the screen, him swinging and hitting a fucking grand slam as he proceeded to get four runs with one hit, the one thing you knew about baseball besides a home run.

“that’s a— that’s a grand slam!” you pointed frantically, probably looking absolutely insane as you stood and screamed your fucking head off.

your girl friend laughed loudly, “you like fushiguro? megumi fushiguro?”

you jumped up and down, your girlfriend astonished and laughing as this was the first time she’d ever seen you energetic at a baseball game.

“he’s friends with yuji!” she yelled over the hollering of the crowd. “we can go to their locker room after and you can say hi! i heard he’s kind of mean though—”

“no!” you spun around, eyes wide and terrified. “i already know he’ll eat me alive then! i’m a loser, i can’t talk to him i don’t have game i—”

she rolled her eyes. “you’ll be fine—”

“no i can’t!” you shook your head frantically. “please he looks like the type to love bomb me and then leave me i don’t think i can handle that—”

she snorted. “are you sure?!”

you hesitated for a moment, biting your bottom lip as your eyes trailed back over to the screen, seeing megumi breathing a little heavy from running the field, his hands on his hips as he scanned the arena.

you sighed through your nose. “yeah i’m sure!”

“suit yourself!”

a year. a year you spent continuing to tag along with your girl friend to their games, staring lovesick and sad at the big screen over megumi, and standing outside far far away from the locker room once they scored another big win and not going in like you used to, waiting for your girl friend to finish up speaking to her boyfriend as you tried your best to avoid the chance of running into megumi.

she finally emerged from the locker rooms one day, a knowing smirk on her face.

“i told yuji.”

you blinked. “told him what?”

“that you like fushiguro.”

“no!” you gasped, a hand flying and smacking over your mouth. “please no im about to experience the biggest heartbreak of my life—”

“oh relax!” she grabbed your arm and practically dragged you towards the locker room doors. “he’s not even here megumi already left, but yuji wants to talk to you.”

“why?!” you exclaimed. “to let me down easy? to tell me he’s sorry on his behalf—”

your girl friend just about threw you in and went in after you as you stumbled, eyes blown wide as the air became humid and heavy, several of the players lounging about and refreshing themselves as the sound of lockers slamming shut echoed through the space— deep, broad voices laughing filling the room as yuji spotted you, his eyes friendly and polite. “y/n!”

you relaxed and smiled, “hi! you guys played really well today!”

“megumi also played really well today.”

“oh my god—” you groaned, throwing your head back as you spun around, heading straight for the exit.

“wait wait!” he laughed loudly, jogging up to you. “sorry sorry.”

“what do you want with me..” you mumbled.

he gave you a half smile. “i wanted to tell you that megumi’s weird.”

you snorted, “elaborate please.”

yuji threw an arm around your girl friend before continuing.

“you know we support your feelings and what you want…” he began.

your eyes narrowed. “why are you guys talking to me like you’re my parents—”

“but—” yuji cut you off. “i’m just gonna be straight with you. i’ve never ever seen megumi interact with anyone, let alone another woman, besides the team.”

“i don’t think i’ve ever seen him have a proper conversation with anyone on the team besides you actually…” your girl friend muttered to yuji.

yuji winced. “yeah…” he turned back to you. “back when megumi and i first got signed, he was really popular and a lot of girls would come up to him after games for his number or just to talk to him.”

“well obviously he’s a greek god,” you grumbled. “this is hurting me man get to the point.”

he sighed. “he basically scared all of them off. didn’t give a single one a chance and was kinda mean... he would either ignore them or straight up just tell them he wasn’t interested without them even being able to get a word in.”

you stared blankly.

“i tried to tell him that he needs to be nicer but he’s just not interested.”

you kept staring.

“that’s why i’m telling you this because we don’t want you to get hurt and i feel like if you try and talk to him he’s gonna be a dick and it might…” yuji looked at you sadly. “it might be a lost cause.”

you blinked.

“y/n?”

“that’s fine!” you squeaked, hands tight at your sides. “a part of me already knew. i read about it in an article, and i’ve seen his interviews.”

your girl friend looked at you with concern filled eyes. “are you okay?”

“yeah!” you waved them off. “why wouldn’t i be?”

“because your eyes are red.”

“ppffttt!” you blew out. “i’m fine! seriously. i never intended to talk to him anyways, i’m too much of a scaredy cat.”

you extended your arms out and engulfed the both of them, squeezing tight. “thank you guys for telling me though, i appreciate it.”

“y/n…” yuji trailed off.

“i’m gonna take off though, i’ll see you guys later, okay?” you waved and opened the door. “love you!”

and you scrammed, your heart in a million pieces.

it’s not like you didn’t already know. you knew, so why were you sad? why did you feel like you just got ran over by a double decker bus? why did you pathetically feel so sad?

this was the reality. you never stood a chance.

so why were you crying?

you continued walking down the hall and towards the main exit, utterly embarrassed at your sobbing and trying your best to hide it as you navigated through several groups of people, your vision entirely blurry as you were basically drowning in your tears.

you had barely escaped the crowd when you spotted a little secluded area in the lobby, trudging over pathetically and plopping down on the coushy seat as you wiped your cheeks, staring at the wall in front of you— a huge glass casing proudly decorated with the teams trophies and awards, gigantic portraits of the players on the team adorning the walls with megumi’s serious beautiful framed face right in front of you just making you feel worse.

you already knew, but regardless of megumi’s stand off ish personality, you liked it. you had curiously browsed his interviews and quotes in articles, and you always laughed at his responses, him almost every time offending the staff without even trying or knowing, and you found it so so funny, it only making you admire him and want to get to know him even more, even if it was just a friendship.

megumi fushiguro was one of the best players on the team in history, and as you closed your eyes, silent pathetic tears still slipping down your cheeks?

he never felt so out of reach.

“here.”

your eyes opened, but you literally could not see jack shit as your tears were still blurring your line of sight, you completely and utterly mortified that a stranger caught you sobbing as you wiped your face quickly in response.

“put on my sunglasses if you don’t want people to see you crying.”

the voice was gruff and lazy, but you could not care less as you took the sunglasses and settled them over your eyes, the lenses so freaking dark that you couldn’t see a single thing— your sight worse than before.

but it relieved you, as you figured no one could see your bloodshot eyes and therefore thankfully not notice you losing your mind over something so stupid.

“thank you,” you mumbled. “sorry.”

“for what.”

you felt the plush of the bench shift next to you, figuring that the stranger man sat beside you as you refused to look in their direction out of embarrassment.

not that you could even see in the first place.

“for looking like a loser.”

the stranger man snorted. “s’fine.”

you wiped your nose with your sleeve, sniffling.

“how do you see in these?” you muttered softly. “they’re making me claustrophobic i can’t see a thing.”

“that’s the point,” he hums.

“how come?”

“i get migraines everyday. they help.”

“oh i see.” you responded softly. “have you ever run into a wall because of them?”

you hear him huff out through his nose. “i did once, when i first got them.”

you giggled gently. “did you bleed?”

“no,” he spoke calmly. “i got a bump on my forehead.”

you snickered, “what? loserrr.”

you stood up and carefully tried to walk around a little, testing out how to guide yourself through the dark lenses and trying to be careful and not bump into a wall (which was literally impossible), your hands out, feeling around.

“jesus christ i’m just kidding now i feel bad. i think im gonna bump myself into a wall too so we can call it even.”

you couldn’t see, but the stranger man’s lips twitched at your comment.

“don’t do that.” he murmured. “sit back down.”

you listened and started making your way over, feeling him reach out and wrap his fingers around your wrist carefully and guide you to the bench, you plopping down on it once you felt it.

“thank you!” you responded sweetly. “…i’m actually glad i can’t see a thing right now.” you perked up, pushing the sunglasses back up over the bridge of your nose.

“why is that.”

“so i don’t have to look at megumi fushiguro’s big portrait in front of my face.”

the stranger man stopped.

“…why?”

“because he indirectly broke my heart.”

you heard a little audible laugh, and you smiled to yourself.

at least someone is having fun right now.

“how did he indirectly break your heart?”

“my girl friend’s boyfriend is yuji itadori. she spilled the beans against my will about how i have a crush on him, and yuji told me that he’s mean and he’ll basically bite my head off and tell me to scram.”

“did he?”

“uh huh,” you nodded. “they were trying to let me down easy, but it’s not like i was gonna try and talk to him anyways. i’ve gone a year without saying anything i can go on and on and on.”

the stranger man hummed.

“he’s so cool though…” you murmured, dazed. “he’s gonna be a hard one to forget about.”

“why do you like him?”

“i feel like im being interrogated,” you giggled.

you felt the stranger man lean back against the wall. “sorry, just curious.”

you copied him and crossed your arms, “mmm… because he’s really good at what he does. i admire that most of all.”

you tilted your head. “everyone berates him for being mean but i like that he’s supposedly mean for some reason…. he’s just serious about his profession and he doesn’t want to waste time. he’s also the hottest man i’ve ever seen so that definitely helps.”

the stranger man laughed a little.

“i don’t know,” you sighed sadly. “maybe i’m just demented. i am demented.”

“if yuji itadori told you the exact opposite about him, would that have encouraged you to go up to him?”

you sat in thought for a moment, but ultimately shook your head. “no. it’s too embarrassing for me and i’m also a big fat wuss so…”

you slid your fingers underneath the lenses and rubbed your stinging sore eyes. “maybe in the next life if i’m lucky, ill be reincarnated as a cool baseball man too and i won’t have to deal with this shit.”

“cool baseball man.” he repeated, tone seemingly amused.

“yup.”

the stranger man sighed. “is this why i found you crying?”

“maayybeee?” you dragged out shyly, your cheeks flushing.

it was silent for a moment, your vision completely black but his on your rosy cheeks, oddly staring that if you could see right now, you’d probably call him a creep.

“i’m sorry i made you cry.”

you jumped back.

“no not you!” you huffed. “have you not been paying attention? catch up man—”

you felt a shadow reach up and tug the sunglasses slightly away from your face, your eyes constricting against the bright lights of the hall as they tried to adjust.

and when they did?

megumi fushiguro was sitting right next to you, a tiny smile on his face dressed in all black with his teams baseball cap on.

your eyes widened dramatically and you slapped both hands over your mouth, beyond horrified as everything you had thought you were telling a stranger about him, you were telling him directly, your brain short circuiting and your body heating up like a fucking hot flash.

“oh my god i’m so sorry!” your voice was muffled, you shaking your head in absolute denial.

you immediately sprung up and grabbed your purse, slowly backing up further and further away from him.

his smile widened.

oh my god.

megumi fushiguro was smiling, a sight you’ve never ever seen during his games, practices, interviews, articles, or magazines as your cheeks increased in shade— wanting to mentally take a picture and remember forever as you knew you’d probably never see him smile like that again.

but he was smiling.

“pretend i don’t exist!” you stammered, “pretend this never happened i’m sorry this is so embarrassing keep winning your games okay and i’ll keep being an idiot far far away from you—”

“where are you going?” he chuckled lowly.

“—you’ll never see me again i’m going home and i’m going on lockdown—”

he laughed through his nose, his lips in an amused smile.

“you don’t have to do that.”

“yes i do—”

“you don’t have to forget me either.”

“that i definitely do—”

you were halfway out of the main entrance doors.

“hold on y/n—”

megumi stood, his long legs walking over to you and you froze.

y/n?

you slowly turned around, your face pale and afraid.

“how do you know my name?” you asked softly.

“your best friend is dating yuji, is she not.”

you nodded, eyes blank.

“i’ve been seeing you inside the locker room after our games for like… two years.” megumi mumbled.

oh.

oh that’s right.

you didn’t actually notice megumi until last year, when you decided to finally open your eyes for once during a game and that’s how you spotted him for the first time on the big screen in front of you, in all of his gorgeous handsome entity.

“oh.”

he raised a hand and pressed his index finger to your forehead, nudging you softly.

“dummy.”

“s-sorry..” you gave him a wobbly bashful smile, your cheeks pinky as you rubbed your red eyes.

his eyes slightly softened and he shook his head. “s’fine.”

megumi continued to stare at you, a stone cold face that always seemed to scare off the teams entire fan base, but only made you feel numb and giddy all over every single time.

you smiled wider then, and megumi’s lips twitched.

cute.

“i’m— i’m gonna go now.”

“do you have a ride home?”

you stopped. “no i was just gonna call an uber—”

he shook his head and walked past you, his shoulder brushing gently with yours with his hands stuffed in his pockets as you turned and stared at him.

he paused and looked over his shoulder.

“you coming?”

your eyes widened. “coming? w—where?”

he rolled his eyes. “i’m taking you home.”

“no!” you shot your hands out. “it’s okay! really! thank you thank you i appreciate it but—”

he stared lazily.

“come.”

you pressed your lips into a thin line and tipped your head down, taking tiny painful steps as you followed after him to the parking lot.

megumi led you from the public parking area to a secluded section around the back of the arena, one you assumed was for players and crew members only as you nervously gnawed on your bottom lip, feeling absolutely sick.

you both continued to walk down until you arrived to a private parking garage, megumi slipping out his keys from the pocket of his hoodie as you approached a shiny black luxurious car sitting neatly in a spot.

his car was really fucking nice, and you figured so being as he was one of the most popular players and probably had more than enough money in the bank— your fingers trembling as you gripped the passenger side door, settling yourself inside his plush cool leather seats and all black interior.

megumi pressed the ‘start’ button and his engine roared to life, the motor echoing through the structure as you clumsily tried to put on your seatbelt, your cheeks growing pinker with each passing second that you just couldn’t get the stupid damn thing to— click—

he reached over across the console and took the seatbelt from you, pulling it over your body and clicking it secure without a word.

“thank you.” you said softly, eyes trained to your lap.

megumi gave you a small nod and backed out of his parking space, driving around a couple of rows before making his way out with the night air softly breezing through your hair as he drove, his dash illuminated with blue lines that ran smoothly across.

“can you put your address in—”

“oh yeah!” you jumped. “sorry—”

you reached over and tapped in your address on his big touch screen, watching the way the gps registered the location and gave him the estimated time of arrival.

forty fucking minutes.

“megumi..”

his eyes looked over at you for a second before turning back to the road.

“hm?”

“i live kinda far from here and i don’t want you to drive the opposite way from where you live.”

you leaned a little, eyebrows pinched. “i can take an uber seriously, this is too much trouble i—”

“you’re already in my car.” he deadpanned.

“i’ll jump out.”

he pursed his lips, trying to suppress a smile.

“i have child lock on.”

“child lock?!” you gawked. “is this what you think of me?”

“you’re a little helpless… and you’re a crybaby.” he mumbled. “child lock stays on.”

you giggled after, your eyes shining and filled with mushy feelings for him as you nodded. “you’re probably right.”

he looked over at you then, and he smiled, softly.

“what do you do?”

you fidgeted. “h—huh?”

“do you um…” he ran his thumb over the top of his gear shift. “do you work? do you go to school?”

he’s asking you?

“i go to school!” you responded shyly but kind. “i go to a college that’s about fifteen minutes from your stadium. i usually go and meet up with my best friend after class if there’s a game.”

he hummed. “are you a big baseball person?”

you grimaced.

do you lie? do you tell the truth? do you roll down his window and attempt to jump out of the car that way?

you played with a strand of your hair. “i— i um—”

he raised an eyebrow.

“i— don’t?”

he cocked his head. “you don’t?”

you shook your head no, completely ashamed of who you are as a person as you covered your eyes.

“i knoww i suuucckkk,” you whined. “the only things i know about baseball are home runs and grand slams— which you did!”

you pointed at him excitedly. “last year! i remember you hit a grand slam! i got so excited that for once i knew what the fuck was going on and why everyone was going crazy…”

you fiddled with your fingers nervously, your eyes trained to the road. “i felt so included.”

he chuckled, and unexpectedly, reached over and gently ruffled your hair.

you then stared at him as he did so, doe eyes wide and cheeks pink.

megumi was truly just beautiful— his smooth face that didn’t have a single blemish on his skin shining under the moonlight, his black spiky hair peeking from under his cap that you had no doubt in your mind was soft and velvety.

you hated that you’d probably do anything for that man.

“i’m sorry i made you cry,” he repeated, you recognizing his words from before.

your eyebrows furrowed.

he was still thinking about that?

you shook your head furiously, “you didn’t! i swear it’s okay. i’m just crazy.”

he huffed out a laugh.

megumi thought you were odd, but in a good way. he thought everything you did was a little funny, as you were jumpy and clumsy and a crybaby and helpless, but he also took note of how polite you were. he noticed how considerate you were of him even though you were really upset, and you were kind of sweet… really sweet actually, your personality something that was totally different from the usual girls that came up to him.

well, the usual girls that used to come up to him back when he first started.

megumi pulled into your driveway and shifted the gear into park, the doors automatically unlocking.

you opened the door and stepped out before leaning down and peeking your head in.

“thank you for the ride!” you said sweetly, a cute smile on your face. “i’m sorry you had to listen to my confession against your will.”

he shook his head. “it’s alright.”

you went in to close the door.

“y/n.”

you leaned back down, “yeah?”

“are you gonna stop coming to our games?”

you gnawed at the inside of your cheek, your eyes darting around the interior of his car nervously.

“i— i don’t think so.”

“good.”

megumi watched you close his door and walk back a bit, him shifting his gear into reverse as the corners of his lips turned a tiny bit upwards.

“i’ll see you then.”

as you watched him pull out and drive away, his engine roaring down the street, you could not stop or simmer down the way your heart raced against your chest, so much so that you were afraid it was going to burst through your chest and literally kill you.

the next time you went to a game, you hadn’t told your close girl friend yet as she led you through the crowd and down to the v.i.p. lower level seats like always, a kind courtesy of yuji’s that he did whenever he could.

as you watched, you embarrassingly spotted megumi almost the minute you arrived, stars and hearts in your eyes as you watched him do his thing and work magic through the field with his absolutely insane batting, strong and purposeful as he barked orders or observed the opposing team for leads.

once his and the opposing team switched sides, megumi looked up as he jogged, his eyes seemingly scanning the v.i.p. front sections until he spotted you.

he raised a hand and gave you a little wave, and your eyes widened as you timidly, hesitantly, gave him one in return— your cheeks turning pink.

“who are you waving at?”

your girl friend pressed a cheek against yours and looked.

“who is- fushiguro?!”

you looked at her sheepishly.

as you recounted the story to her, her eyes bulging out of her sockets and screaming her head off every two seconds, her head snapped to the field.

“i have to tell yuji—”

“no!” you gripped her shoulders. “it’s literally nothing! he drove me home and he probably just feels bad for me.”

“megumi isn’t the type to make a crying girl feel better or drive her home.”

“it’s because he knows that we know yuji.”

“mm i don’t think so..” she scowled, crossing her arms in eventual defeat as she stared straight ahead.

that’s how it went for about a month.

you would come to their games, megumi would wave at you from the field or you would catch his attention and wave at him, and you would briefly speak to him casually just after his games, your conversations with him usually lasting no more than three minutes as he was often pulled by his coach or a crew member.

but even though the conversations were short, they were really nice, and the both of you never seemed to notice the people around you wanting his attention until he physically had to get pulled away.

but you still refused to go inside the locker room, knowing that was surely the place where you had to talk to him for longer than three minutes. you were too scared, embarrassingly so as you bid your girl friend and yuji goodbye from just outside the door before leaving every time, completely unaware of the way megumi would stare expressionless at you from inside.

when your girl friend invited you to the team’s yearly banquet, you flat out said no, decision firm and unmoving as she begged you over and over and over again.

“please please you have to go! you can’t avoid megumi forever!”

“what is the purpose of me going though?” you sighed, shaking your head with a smile at the sight of her dramatically on her knees over you. “for you it makes sense because you’re with yuji but what’s the excuse for me? i’m not anybody’s plus one.”

“yes you are,” she got back up on her feet and wiggled her eyebrows, “you’re megumi’s plus one.”

“bye i wish,” you mumbled, plopping down on your bed.

“okay you’re my plus one, or yuji’s! so he has two plus ones!”

she walked over and sat down next to you, resting her head against your shoulder as she sighed. “please come. you don’t have to talk to megumi okay? fine. but just come with me, i’ll have a better time if you do.”

you gave her a silly smile and thought for a moment, her sad tone swaying you as you finally gave in.

“only if you swear you won’t force me to talk to him.”

she nodded eagerly.

“i swear!”

so you stood there, nervous and biting your thumb as you frantically looked around, dressed in a pretty black off the shoulder mermaid style gown with a high slit exposing your leg— fiddling with your styled hair as you waited and waited and waited for your girl friend to come back from the dessert table with yuji.

you hadn’t seen megumi yet as you were trying to keep on a look out, because the moment you did see him all dressed up? you were sure you were going to start pathetically bowing for him on your knees in front of all these people and end your social life forever.

finally, she came back and handed you a little pastry, you thanking her kindly and taking a small bite.

“wait no!” she gasped, turning her pastry around. “fuck, i got the wrong one. i meant to get the vanilla one this is coconut.”

“i can get it for you this time.” you smiled kindly, her looking at you gratefully as you patted her shoulder, making your way over to the dessert table.

your eyes lit up like stars at the sight of it, grand and luxurious as any kind of pastry you could ever possibly think of was present— neat and gourmet-like, each adorned with elegant toppings as multiple huge chocolate fountain stations ran from the sides.

“hi.”

you jumped and looked to your right, megumi standing there beside you with a bored expression, clad in a polished black button up and slacks, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

you gulped.

“h—hi.”

“i didn’t think you’d come.”

he lazily picked up a tiny slice of chocolate mousse cake and looked at it.

“i was dragged by my best friend,” you puffed out a laugh. “she said i was her and yuji’s plus one or something like that.”

he nodded, biting his cake slice and swallowing.

“you stopped coming inside the locker rooms.”

you faltered.

he noticed that?

“oh yeah! i just—” you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “i’ve been really busy with school so i study right after…”

for some reason megumi eyed you carefully, and your cheeks grew pinker the more he blatantly stared at you as you fidgeted.

“are you—”

“fushiguro!”

you both turned your heads to the source, and you spotted an unfamiliar guy, one who you assumed was on the team with them, smiling enthusiastically and throwing a heavy arm around megumi’s shoulder.

“who’s this? i’ve never seen you talk to anyone besides us!”

megumi only spared him a nonchalant glance before he looked back over at the dessert table.

the unknown man extended a hand out to you, and megumi’s eyes snapped to it.

“hi! i’m takuma!”

you cheerfully took his hand. “y/n!”

“are you megumi’s girlfriend?”

you gawked, guilt and embarrassment already filling your body at the thought of megumi finding that comment uncomfortable and being uncomfortable because of you.

at his own banquet.

“n—no!” you shook your head, eyebrows pinched. “i came with my best friend and yuji.”

takuma unhooked his arm and let it rest beside him. “oh nice! you know yuji as well?”

you nodded, “mhm!”

the rest of the crowd began to take their seats for the awards ceremony segment, and the three of you walked over to your designated table by yuji and your best friend, who’s eyes widened at the sight of you next to megumi.

you all sat, and takuma pointed to the empty seat next to you.

“is anyone sitting here?”

“oh no!” you smiled politely. “it’s empty you can—”

“take mine ino.”

megumi pulled out the chair next to you and plopped down on it, scooting up. “it’s closer to the front.”

huh?

“o—oh!” takuma scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “okay! thanks fushiguro.”

he only nodded in response and stuck his face in his champagne glass, sipping.

and he was right. you watched as takuma navigated through the circular tables before sitting in a seat that was right smack dab in the front.

“that’s really nice of you megumi!” you chirped. “he has such a good view now!”

“mhm.”

your best friend smacked a hand to her forehead with a shake of her head, and you looked at her quizzically.

the awards ceremony was the most fun you’ve ever had, as you were over the moon for all of the players that were awarded prestigious titles and recognitions, and even more excited for yuji and megumi, the both of them combined taking award after award that by the time the event was done, your table was filled to the brim with frames, medals, and trophies.

your doe eyes glowed over megumi’s earnings, pride and admiration bubbling in your chest as you took in the result of his hard work, feeling like he was the most talented person you ever had the privilege of knowing.

he stared at your enamored look.

“you’re so cool, gumi..” you gushed, not even noticing the little nickname you gave him.

but he did.

“cool baseball man?” he responded softly, referencing your words from when you first met.

your eyes snapped to his and you gave him the shiniest smile, nodding quickly. “yeah! cool baseball man.”

megumi looked down at his awards, and after a couple of seconds, picked up a shiny gold medal hung on a baby blue striped lanyard, holding it out for you.

“here.”

your eyes traveled down.

“what?”

“for you.” he pushed the medal forward.

shock crossed your face, and you frantically shook your head, pushing the medal back to him. “no! no megumi that’s yours you earned it—”

megumi rolled his eyes and held on to the edges of the lanyard, effortlessly setting it over your head and around your neck, the medal clinking and twinkling against your chest.

“i have four others. it’s fine.”

“no but—”

he carded his thumbs underneath your hair and gently slid your hair out from beneath the lanyard, setting it delicately over your bare shoulders.

yuji and your best friends jaws were on the floor, but you didn’t notice, too busy ogling over the fact that megumi fushiguro was the kindest person you had ever met, utterly amazed that he selflessly gave you something so precious. you.

your gaze trailed down to the medal, and you softly touched it with the pads of your fingers.

“t—thank you gumi…”

his lips twitched.

you realized then that the music had started and the crowd had already dispersed to celebrate, some dancing in the center while others mingled on the sidelines or hogged the dessert table.

and you spotted your best friend with yuji, the both of them smiling adoringly at each other, laughing and dancing— something bashfully wished for yourself as you grinned softly at them.

megumi followed your gaze, and he huffed an amused small laugh through his nose.

“they met at a party didn’t they?”

you looked to him and nodded, “uh huh! i was with her. she was so scared to talk to him and i literally had to throw her in.”

he scratched his cheek. “i remember. i was there.”

your jaw dropped. “you were?!”

he nodded. “and i remember you too.”

you sat there in silence.

how long had megumi been around in your life without you knowing? how didn’t you ever freaking notice?

before you could press any further, megumi squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers to his forehead in pain, groaning softly.

you jumped, “are you okay? what’s wrong?”

he shook his head. “migraine. the lights are fucking with me a little.”

“oh!” you frantically looked around the table and around him. “where are your sunglasses? the dark ones the ones you ran into a wall with!”

megumi snorted and shook his head again, eyes peeking at you a bit. “it’s fine. i left them at home.”

your eyebrows rose, “you left them?”

he nodded and dropped his hand, sitting up straight and trying to open his eyes fully to seem normal, but his lids only dropped again and his forehead fell to rest against the table.

“i’m sorry,” he mumbled. “just give me a minute.”

“don’t be sorry gumi…”

you figured the rest of the night was going to be like this, and if megumi stayed, he was going to end up dealing with the dull ache in his head for hours on end and not enjoy his banquet.

but you wanted him to enjoy it. this was his night, and you didn’t want him to spend it pissed off and writhing in pain.

“do you want to leave?”

he turned his head to the side and looked at you.

“we can um—” you fiddled with the medal around your neck. “we can go outside? or we can go for ice cream…”

you tilted your head to the side cutely, and you were oblivious to the way megumi’s cheeks went a little pink at the sight.

“ill pay though!” you smiled sweetly. “it’s the least i can do for the medal you gave me.”

he gave you an endearing half smile and nodded.

your eyes lit up. “really?! okay!— wait let me just say bye to my best friend and let her know—”

you quickly stood and walked over to the dance floor, megumi watching after you before picking up his black blazer and holding it underneath an arm, wondering how the fuck he was gonna pick up all of his awards himself.

“y/n!” your best friend gushed. “you’ve been talking to megumi for hours what the fuck is going on—”

you laughed. “nothing! it was nothing but i’m gonna go get ice cream with him!”

“what?!” her and yuji said in unison.

“did he ask you?” yuji pushed.

“no!” your eyes narrowed. “of course not i’m a big fat loser why would he? i invited him because he has a migraine so—”

your best friend hummed, a smirk on her face. “oh i see... use protection.”

“huh?!” your jaw dropped. “no! that’s not—”

“y/n!”

you turned and saw takuma walk over to you, a big smile on his face. “you enjoying the banquet?”

“oh yes! it’s really great!” you smiled kindly. “the dessert table is absolutely insane.”

“right?!” takuma stepped closer to you. “they go all out every year, it’s what everyone looks forward to.”

“i can definitely see why!”

he chuckled and nodded but then turned to you, speaking quieter. “listen um… i was wondering if you were uh— well if you wanted to dance? with me? y’know… maybe get to know each other better and then—”

yuji shoved his lips to your best friends ear.

“he’s stealing megumi’s girl.”

“i know!” she whispered harshly. “what the fuck do we do—”

“i don’t know!”

“well call megumi over—”

suddenly, a tall broad figure walked in between you and takuma, your vision blocked by his back.

“sorry ino,” megumi stepped to the side a little and placed a hand on the small of your back, ushering you towards the exit. “we were just leaving.”

yuji and your best friend gave each other a low high five before their eyes darted around, putting on false ignorance.

“sorry!— it was nice meeting you takuma!” you called from over your shoulder before the both of you stepped out of the venue and into the cool night air.

megumi’s car was parked right out front, him unlocking the doors with a button just like he had done the last time, you noticing how all of his awards were set neatly in the back seat.

“oh i’m sorry gumi! did you carry these over by yourself? i was gonna help you—”

you sat yourself on his passenger side seat, the leather creaking with every movement you made.

he shook his head. “i had my publicist team do it. it’s fine.”

“oh okay…” you mumbled, still feeling a little guilty that you didn’t help him.

you went to reach for your seatbelt when megumi’s arm flew in front of you and grabbed the strap, pulling it over your frame and clicking it securely before his hands wrapped back around the steering wheel, just like he had done a month prior.

you couldn’t make out his expression, as it was blank and stone-like and not a word was coming out of his mouth as he backed out from the parking space, but you smiled at him cutely nonetheless and thanked him.

the nearest ice cream shop was literally down the road from the venue, and the drive took less than three minutes before megumi pulled in and parallel parked on the side of the street.

you both stepped out and walked inside, the shop colorful and vibrant as what looked like twenty different assortments of ice cream were on display, your eyes launching across each flavor excitedly.

“i haven’t had ice cream in a fat minute…” you murmured as you pressed your hands against the glass.

“me neither.”

“which flavor do you want megumi?” you asked him sweetly, your eyes still glued to the flavors that it made him chuckle.

“um…” he stepped forward and scanned the different colors. “i’ll take whatever you get.”

you looked at him and your eyebrows softened, “are you sure? what if you don’t like it?”

the corner’s of his lips turned upward, the sight making your heart skip a beat.

“it’s okay. i trust you.”

you ended up getting your all time favorite flavor that you never skip— cake batter, one that tastes different depending on who’s palette it is, and something you anxiously thought over as you gnawed on your bottom lip and stared, waiting for him to try it as you both sat on a park bench not too far from the shop.

“why do you look like you’re about to cry.” he snickered lowly.

your eyes snapped to his and you giggled. “i might if you don’t like what i picked out.” you plopped a little spoonful in your mouth, the cold ice cream melting and spreading over your tongue as you swallowed. “cake batter is a hit or miss for different people…”

he hummed, “how come?”

“it’s either too sweet or just nasty.”

“i have a sweet tooth.”

your eyes lit up, “so do i! i’m a big sweets person. i love love desserts and chocolate and ice cream… but i’m not the biggest fan of candy.”

“you’re not?”

“i love candy but not how i love sweets… and i wouldn’t randomly pick it out like at the store because i wanted to. most likely i would get a cookie.”

megumi liked how much you talked.

“have you always had a sweet tooth?” he pressed on, looking at his ice cream cup.

you nodded. “have you?”

“not really,” he shook his head. “i didn’t pick it up until i met—” he stopped. “…my dad.”

met his dad?

megumi spotted your confusion and continued.

“my actual dad disappeared. dunno where he’s at. all i’ve heard is that he had a bad gambling addiction so i’m guessing it had something to do with that.”

your eyes softened.

“gojo is kind of like my dad…” he mumbled. “he’s supported my sister and i financially ever since i was maybe five or six.”

“you have a sister?” you murmured, eyes big.

he nodded. “i do.”

he scooped a bit of cake batter ice cream up with his spoon and plopped it into his mouth, smiling softly. “gojo gave me a sweet tooth. he can’t go a day without it.”

you’d never heard megumi open up so much before, and you felt incredibly lucky and special to be the one to hear about his family and share a precious moment with him over eating ice cream, something you wanted to treat delicately and remember for as long as you lived.

“do you like it?” you asked softly, gesturing to his cup.

“i love it.”

you beamed, and he took in your cute smile for a minute as you ate some more on your end.

“i’m sorry about your actual dad… but i’m glad you and your sister got the support you needed when you were young.”

he nodded.

“did he encourage you to do baseball? or was it you?”

“he did initially.” he shook his head. “he was annoying at first, was a cheerleader at every game and was so loud.”

you giggled.

“but i grew to like it… and that’s what i wanted to do for a career. if it wasn’t for gojo’s funding i wouldn’t have been able to.”

you hummed, savoring the ice cream a bit before swallowing. “that’s really nice, gumi. i’m really happy you got the opportunity to grow your skill out like that…” you swirled the ice cream around your cup with your spoon. “what you have is a solid gift, and i would hate to see it not get the recognition it deserves when you’ve worked so hard to make it what it is now.”

you looked at him. “so i’m really, really glad that it does get it.”

megumi stared at you, face blank and a scoop of yet to be eaten ice cream on his spoon, his cheeks growing hot.

“i don’t know why you think so highly of me.” he murmured.

everyone thinks he’s rude.

your eyebrows furrowed. “i don’t think megumi, i know. you’re not a mean person, you’re honest and serious about the important things in your life. and if the medal around my neck that you gave me selflessly doesn’t tell you otherwise? i might have to kill you.”

he laughed, loud, his eyes sparkling. “you might?”

you bit your lip to refrain yourself from freaking out over his smooth laughter. “i might.”

you subconsciously rubbed your hands over your chilling arms then and megumi eyed it before he put his cup down, reaching next to him for his blazer and opening it up as he gently placed it over your shoulders.

you looked at him like he was the world then, doe eyes big and round and shimmering, and megumi felt like he could do anything with that look as long as it came from you— a permanent red tint on his cheeks that was entirely your doing.

“thank you..” you mumbled shyly, your eyes glued to your now empty cup of ice cream on the bench as you clutched the sides of his blazer, the smell of him wafting in your nose that made you absolutely weak.

megumi timidly, slowly, reached up and moved a strand of hair from your eyes then, and you looked up.

“pretty…” he murmured, dazed even.

his hand fell and landed gently on your exposed thigh from the slit of your dress, but instead of moving it, he let it stay there, his hand smoothing over your plush soft skin as he was completely entranced by your heavenly face, his body pulling his lips closer to yours as megumi’s breath quickened with absolute need the higher up his hand trailed up your yummy thigh.

you couldn’t say a word, he practically didn’t let you as his lips pressed delicately and timidly against your plush ones, his mouth moving so slowly and his tongue parting your wet lips for the purpose of devouring more of you, all while his fingertips reached and felt the side straps of your panties— the material alone making him erratic and desperate while his other hand gripped your waist tightly.

your mouths moved faster now, the sounds of wet smacking and lips separating to reconnect with more greed than before muffling your ears as he breathed heavily through his nose, his eyebrows pinched together in pent up everything as he finally had you with him after months of you avoiding him.

and then you pulled away with a wet pop.

“i—i’m sorry!” you covered your mouth. “i didn’t mean to kiss you!—”

what?

megumi’s eyebrows furrowed, both of your chests heaving as his cheeks and lips were blushed red.

he shook his head, “no i kissed you—”

“don’t cover for me gumiii,” your shoulders slumped, your brain so in denial that he could ever like you back that it tricked you into thinking you were the one kissing and all over him. “fuck i’m sorry… that was so disrespectful and— and weird of me and i—”

megumi’s hands slipped away from your body and he shook his head, his eyes dead locked on yours with his eyebrows pinched together. “y/n no you’re not understanding—”

“i’m the biggest creep on the planet man i understand if you don’t ever want to speak to me again—” you covered your face and leaned forward.

megumi stared at you astonishingly as he listened to you ramble apologies and dramatic insults for yourself continuously, his shoulders slowly relaxing and his lips turning into a soft knowing smile, your random speech starting to make absolutely no sense at all and his heart aching at the fact of how naive you were.

“y/n.”

you stopped. “what.”

he reached over and pulled your hands away from your face. “you’re helpless, you know that?”

“helpless and a creep.”

he laughed and shook his head. “stop it.”

he stood and offered his hand out for you.

“it’s getting late, i’m driving you home.”

megumi decided he would properly speak to you about it the next time he saw you… except he didn’t.

you started avoiding him like the plague again, horrendously horrified about what you believed you had done, thinking that it was better if you stayed away from him and fulfilled your initial task of forgetting him, no matter how much it hurt you.

you didn’t want megumi to ever be uncomfortable or experience what you believed he experienced with you. he didn’t deserve that. he didn’t deserve a pathetic little fan girl that never left him alone and hindered his work on the field, even though you wished so badly you could see him again, as the taste of his lips and mouth never left your fuzzy mind.

you kissed megumi fushiguro.

“oh my god y/n, you’re so stupid.”

“no i’m not! do you really believe megumi could ever like me back? no! absolutely not. i kissed him and i fucked up and that’s it. i’m staying away from him.”

your best friend ran her fingers through her hair and almost tore a chunk out in frustration. “it sounds like he kissed you! he had his hand on your thigh—”

“that was for stability! he—”

“no it was to feel you up!”

you shook your head side to side with your arms crossed. “nope nope nope nope—”

“y/nnnn!”

as for megumi, the next game he had he looked for you while on the field like he always did, looking forward to seeing your precious face and giving you a little wave… except he couldn’t find you. after the game, he went around the stadium and towards the locker room, inside and back out, the parking lot, his parking lot—

and he couldn’t find you.

this went on for a full three weeks of game after game nearly every day him doing the same exact thing— him getting increasingly more confused and a bit upset at your disappearance, going as far as to staying hours after his games still in his sweaty baseball uniform and cap with hopes that you’ll turn up.

except you never did.

and at the end of the third week, he had had enough.

“oh hey megumi!” your best friend greeted him, her hand fixing around yuji’s hair in the locker room after a game.

“hi.”

he stood there and said nothing, and your best friend eyed him skeptically. “…yes?”

megumi shifted awkwardly. “have you um… have you seen y/n?”

she sucked in a breath. “uh yeah. i saw her this morning.”

“this morning?” his eyes narrowed. “is she okay? why hasn’t she been coming to our games with you?”

“because—” she stammered. “well because—”

“is it our place to say?” yuji muttered.

“is it our place to know?” she whispered back harshly.

“i don’t know!”

“let’s just tell him!”

“but what if!—”

megumi rolled his eyes and huffed. “nevermind. please tell her to come tomorrow, i need to talk to her.”

your best friend gulped and nodded, both her and yuji watching the way he walked away and snatched his cap off, throwing it inside his locker and slamming it shut with his foot before picking up his duffel bag and leaving, not even bothering to change out of his dirt covered uniform.

“i’ve never seen him so stressed,” yuji commented.

“it’s because he likes her and she’s being an idiot…” your best friend sighed sadly.

so when she came to you the next day and told you megumi needed to speak to you, she amplified how upset he was to get you to feel bad and feel the urgent need to come to the game tonight, which you of course did.

and you were worried. so so worried and scared that he was finally going to tell you off for kissing him, to tell you that you sucked and that he never ever wanted to see you again in his life and that you were a disgusting human being—

but the roar of the crowd pulled you from your thoughts, the team winning once again as many began to pack their things and take their leave. you were completely and utterly shitting yourself, petrified and already heartbroken over the fact that megumi was officially going to cut you off as a friend when you hadn’t even had the chance to try and win him over yet.

and the way he played on the field tonight was way more aggressive than normal. he was louder, meaner, and didn’t take his eyes away from the ball or his opponents as he nearly got into a fight with another player, yuji and a few others needing to pull megumi apart and set him aside to cool off— the cameras and reporters having a field day in regards to him.

and that bothered you like nothing else. why the hell were they so excited over him getting angry? to amplify the brand that he upholds as the teams meanest player? as if they’ve never had a bad day a day in their lives? what was the point?

and it was all because of you, you realized.

you made him upset.

you covered your face with your hands and groaned, feeling like you wanted to cry.

“y/n…” your best friend patted your back. “it’ll be fine… he just needs to talk to you! you don’t even know what it’s about.”

“i can take a wild guess.”

she looked at you worriedly before picking up her things. “whenever you’re ready babe… i think he’s in the locker rooms by now.”

she left you there to gather yourself, and you sat there for a couple of more minutes before finally getting up and making your way to the locker rooms.

most of the fans had cleared out by now, and the sun was beginning to set as you passed and squeezed through crew members and news reporters, gnawing at your bottom lip as you turned a corner and spotted the locker room, many of the players already leaving.

just as you had reached your hand up to open the door, a firm voice called out to you.

“y/n.”

you froze, retracting your hand as you turned to look.

megumi stood there at the end of the hall, his baseball uniform still on and his cap dangling from his belt loop, hands in tight fists with his chest rising and falling, an agitated look on his face that you had never seen before.

“h—hi-”

“are you trying to forget me? is that what’s going on?”

your eyebrows furrowed.

“what?”

megumi took stride full steps towards you. “you finally talk to me, you confess to me, you disappear for a month, i wait for you, you finally show up at the banquet looking like the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen in my fucking life—”

he stopped in front of you. “takuma tries to steal you from me, i get pissed off, i fall for you at the park, i kiss you—“ he threw his arms up. “and you disappear again!”

your eyes bulge out of their sockets.

fall?

“you what?—”

“so i’m asking you again,” megumi bent his knees to look at you at eye level, his hands coming up to cup your pink cheeks and his face so close to yours you can make out the exact color of his eyes.

“are you trying to forget me? like you said you would?”

you fidgeted.

“i— i was doing it for you—”

“why for me? i never said—”

the feeling of his big hands on your cheeks was making your heart do backflips and trick shots as your wide doe eyes looked at him.

“because when i kissed you i made you uncomfortable and i don’t ever want you to be so i thought it’d be best if i left you alone—”

“okay let’s fix that right now,” his hands tightened slightly around your cheeks and he readjusted his footing, knees still bent. “i kissed you. if anything i should be the one worried if i made you uncomfortable because i put my hand on your thigh like that and for that i’m sorry.”

“no but—”

“yes y/n. i kissed you because you’re polite and you’re sweet and you’re funny, and you don’t see me as rude like everybody else does. and even though you’re naive and helpless sometimes, i like that you are. i like you.”

“but you’re megumi fushiguro…” you squeaked.

“so?”

“and i’m a loser.”

he laughed so cutely and shook his head, his pearly whites fully shining at you so big that it took you back to the first time he smiled in front of you.

“no you’re not you big dummy.”

he let go of your cheeks and placed his palms flat against the brick wall behind you, cornering you in as he let his head hang low, the top of his spiky black hair the only thing in your line of vision.

“i don’t know how else i can make you see…”

he sounded so exhausted, and your heart clenched.

“was it—” you timidly placed your hands on his shoulders. “was it actually you that kissed me?”

he nodded, head still hung.

“and do you actually like me? like— like more than a friend…”

“way fucking more,” he mumbled.

you bit the inside of your cheek as you tried to contain yourself from screaming.

you couldn’t believe it. the megumi fushiguro, number eighteen, the most handsome man you’ve ever seen and the kindest one you’ve ever met… liked you.

“i could’ve sworn i kissed you..” you spoke softly, trailing off.

“you didn’t.” his voice was firm. “i kissed you and i put my hand up your thigh…” his forehead lifted to rest on the crook of your neck as he sighed a deep breath.

“i told— i told takuma to scram at the banquet because i got jealous that you were talking to him more than me. i saw you crying in the hall that first time we spoke and i recognized you and i went up to you because finally—”

he picked his head up slowly, eyes serious. “finally, you noticed me.”

he was so close that your nose brushed gently with his.

“you’re so dense y/n…”

megumi’s eyes flickered to your lips, “i’ve wanted you since the party.”

“the party?” you murmured.

he nodded. “the party where your friend first met yuji.”

your breath hitched as you felt his hands slide down the wall and snake over your hips, holding you tightly against him as the shock of his words made your body numb and tingly.

since the party?

it all seemed to click into place then, every single moment megumi tried to get you to look at him, to talk to him, in his own discreet way that you were completely oblivious to. and you were so fucking caught up in this fog of denial, that a person like megumi could never be interested in a person like you, that it made you push him away for the longest time without even giving yourself a chance.

you were so fucking stupid.

your arms slowly wrapped around his broad shoulders, the rough feeling of his baseball uniform underneath your fingertips and arms as you pressed your nose up against his shoulder shyly, feeling so incredibly bad for avoiding megumi for so long.

“i’m sorry…” you mumbled. “i’m sorry i was so oblivious gumi.”

you felt him shake his head from the crook of your neck silently, the vibration of his heart beating rapidly against you making you sweat and melt at the same time.

“don’t be.”

“i just—” you struggled. “i just thought you didn’t like me like i liked you and i wanted to respect your space…”

“i understand,” he muttered. “but i don’t want you to respect my space anymore.”

you held him tighter.

“and—” your voice was slightly muffled by his shoulder.

“hm?”

“i liked it when you put your hand on my thigh…”

megumi stilled, you playing the night he kissed you over and over in your head again like you’ve done since it happened— the thought making you nervous and timid.

he gripped you tighter.

“did you?”

you nodded, “mhm.”

megumi without parting from you, slipped a hand under your shirt and soothed his fingers over the bare skin of your torso, your breathing stuttering, his rough hand radiating warmth.

“what else do you like.”

you gripped the fabric of his uniform.

“i like… i like the way you kissed me. and how you touch me… like right now.”

your voice was so so soft, practically a whisper as he seemed to shiver under your words, wanting more.

“what else.”

“you,” you mumbled. “your body… your hair… your face… your hands… the way you talk to people.”

“you want me?” he murmured breathlessly.

“more than anything.”

���what else do you like?”

you leaned your head back a little and pressed your lips to his ear. “the way you play ball.”

he hummed, “you like the way i play baby?”

you nodded, your heart hammering.

he lifted his face from the crook of your neck and shamelessly pressed his lips to your cheek, murmuring.

“you wanna see what else i can do?”

“what— what else?”

megumi’s face remained pressed against your cheek as he let both of his hands now snake underneath your shirt and upwards, slowly but roughly groping the cup of your tits over your bra, feeling you up as you gasped.

“uh huh..” he pressed an open mouthed wet kiss to your pink fuzzy cheek. “‘cause i can do a lot more than just be your cool baseball man.”

he roughly spun you around and pushed you up against the wall, his hands coming back up to your breasts to grope you as he shoved and rubbed his hardened clothed dick against your perky ass, your tiny skirt riding up and revealing your pretty pink panties that made him absolutely feral.

“gumi!” you gasped. “s—someone could see—”

“i don’t fucking care.”

megumi buried his nose further into the back of your neck and your hair, him being a little pervert in the most delicious and intoxicating way possible.

he dragged his mouth up against your skin and latched on to the nape of your neck, sucking and biting sloppily against it as he marked you aggressively, no doubt in your mind that a purple bruise would follow soon after as his hands slipped under your bra now, pinching your hard nipples meanly and laughing when you jumped.

you moaned and whined against the wall, your body trembling as you felt your slick arousal slip from your hole and dampen your panties, choked up embarrassment coating your face as he shoved his fingers down your skirt without warning.

“you’re soaked baby…” he whispered. “and all because i grabbed your tits?”

“megumiii…” you whined, and you squeaked as he quickly slipped his fingers in between your pussy lips and pinched your clit.

“gumi,” he corrected. “fix it.”

“g—gumi—”

“good, pretty baby...” he praised, his dick rock fucking solid against your ass at the way his fingers slipped and slid in between your lower lips without much effort, both of your chests heaving and panting as your brains frazzled erotically.

the sounds of footsteps echoed from the end of the hall and you both immediately froze, a gasp slipping past your lips before megumi quickly covered your mouth with the same hand that was just fingering you.

“shh.” he kissed the back of your head.

if anyone were to walk in and see the sight before them— megumi with his crotch pressed up against your ass, a hand pushing your top and bra up, squeezing your bare puffy tit and the other covering your mouth?

they’d drop dead.

without another moment wasted, megumi uncovered your mouth and turned you around, his tongue darting out and licking the patch of wet on your cheek from his fingers before shoving them in his mouth, sucking up your left over juice as he bent down and wrapped his arms around your legs, lifting and throwing you over his shoulder.

megumi was freaky.

your eyes widened as he walked to the double doors of the locker room and kicked it open with his foot, turning around to lock them shut before walking to a corner and setting you down gently on a bench, his palms flat beside you on the smooth wood as he towered over you.

“is— is everybody gone?”

“long gone.” he nibbled at your cheek.

“but— but what if someone wants to come in?—”

he pulled away and got down on his knees. “i’ll tell them to fuck off.”

you panted as he pressed his hands against your thighs and squeezed, spreading them apart slowly with his eyes trained to your drenched cute pink panties.

he slid his hands underneath your thighs and lifted, bending you and pressing your knees closer to you as your back hit the lockers behind you, your hands gripping the bench for dear life.

“has anyone ever seen your pussy?” he gruffed, licking his lips.

you shook your head, embarrassed. “n—no.”

“has any other man touched you the way i’ve touched you?”

“m—maybe in high school?—”

megumi sunk his teeth into your inner thigh and bit you as you yelped.

“thought you liked me.”

“i do!” you sputtered.

“clearly not if you’re being a little whore and letting other filthy men on you.”

your hole clenched.

“that— that was before you!”

he stuck his tongue out and pressed it flat against your pussy covered panties, dragging it slowly and agonizingly up until the tip of his tongue passed and flicked up against your clit, the tip moving around and around your little nub as your thighs shook.

“doesn’t matter.” he let a string of drool fall from the corner of his lips and over your ruined underwear, your eyes fluttering as you felt his warm saliva ooze in between your lips.

“and what about takuma, hm?”

you tried to open your eyes. “ta—takuma?”

“mhm. he was all over you.”

you hiccuped as he wrapped his fingers around the straps of your panties and pulled them down.

“i—”

“bet he wanted to do to you what i’m doing right now…” he hummed. “would you have let him?”

he stuffed his nose into your bare pussy and inhaled deeply, your jaw dropping as you squeezed your eyes shut.

your lack of response caused him to pull away and bite your thigh again, harder.

“would you?”

“n—no!” you shook your head quickly, strands of your hair lightly grazing your face. “i wouldn’t—”

“so who then?” he licked over his bite mark. “who would you spread your legs open for like this and let them see what a nasty fucking girl you are…”

“you gumi!” you hiccuped. “just you—”

“just me?”

megumi finally let his tongue slither itself in between your folds, slowly running over your flaps and clit as your hole continued to squelch out your arousal, pooling on the bench beneath you.

“y—yes!”

he slobbered and spit over your pussy like a starved dog, his face glistening like sugary glazed sweets.

“that’s what i fucking thought,” he hummed. “you gonna try and forget me again?”

“no!” you shook your head. “never! i can’t!”

he gripped your thighs tighter as he absolutely violated your folds then, wet sloshing and slurpings filling the air as he spat and shook his head side to side rapidly on your clit, you squealing and attempting to snap your thighs shut in response, his strong grip not letting you even if you tried.

“i—i can’t!” you cried. “gumi slow please it’s too much—”

“be a pretty baby and stop complaining.” he ran his slimy tongue over your pussy entirely before shoving it inside your hole.

you choked and clasped a trembling hand over your mouth, tears of ecstasy spilling from the corners of your eyes as you squeezed them shut.

you whimpered and moaned and cried so pathetically, so cutely in his ears that he grinned as he pumped his tongue in and out of you filthily.

“you’re so fucking sweet—” he slapped your cunt and you jumped. “good thing i have a sweet tooth.”

your legs shook violently as you began to see stars, your tight hole clenching and sputtering around nothing as you felt your release approaching.

“gumi—” your hand flew back to the bench and you gripped it. “m’gonna cum! i’m— i’m gonna make a mess—”

megumi’s hand shot up and wrapped around one of your thighs so the tips of his fingers met your clit, his digits proceeding to rub and flick it as you climbed and reached your high, a high pitched scream echoing through the steamy locker room as your pussy leaked your sweet cum on his tongue.

you shuddered and jumped at the way he cleaned up your release and swallowed it, running his tongue soothingly over the bite marks on your thighs before coming back up and wiping his glistening face with his sleeve.

megumi leaned in and pressed a gentle loving kiss to your lips, a complete turn around from the feral beast you had in between your legs— you kissing him back with just as much feel and affection.

he pulled back and got back up on his feet, you watching him ditzy as he jogged over to his locker and turned the lock until it clicked open, him rummaging inside for a little before he shut it and came back with a fresh pair of gray sweatpants.

“put these on baby,” he murmured.

you nodded sweetly and took them from him, you slipping off your skirt and pulling his sweatpants over as you watched him bend and look over corners.

“what are you looking for?” you asked softly.

he perked up then and stuck his hand under a bench, pulling out your wet ruined pink panties and holding them up high like a trophy.

“oh my god—” you covered your mouth in embarrassment. “give me those!”

“nope.” he shook his head and walked over to his duffel bag on the floor, unzipping it before stuffing your panties inside. “these are mine now.”

megumi came back up and wrapped his palm underneath your chin, tilting your face up softly before planting a sweet kiss to your swollen lips.

“and so are you.”

and that you were.

you went on many many dates with megumi after that, each and every single one so incredibly lovely and fun, a genuine connection you felt with him and each other that you had never ever felt before in your life, absolutely enamored by the way he gently treated you and made you feel like the only one that mattered in his life.

your best friend was obviously over the moon for you, squealing like a maniac at everything you told her, and always teased megumi about his lovesick face whenever you came to his games or appeared in the locker room to help him change, sort his clothes, or fix his hair.

“megumi…” she snickered. “your cheeks are a little red! are you like— sick?”

he scowled at her and turned the other way, wiping his sweaty forehead as he watched you bounce down the steps cutely and onto the field after one of his practices, a huge smile on your face that replicated on his.

the minute you jumped into his arms, he peppered your little cheeks with kisses as you giggled and ruffled his spiky hair, asking him how he felt about practice and other things after he set you down.

without anyone noticing, a journalist was on the field, and at the sight of megumi fushiguro’s beaming toothy smile as he watched you run to him, they quickly snapped a photo and published it.

one was a perfect portrait photo of his shining white smile (that later became his signature picture) and the other was a photo of his arms out for you as you ran, the both of them causing an absolute uproar that altered megumi’s image from that day forward.

megumi fushiguro was thought to be the meanest player on the team since the day he got signed.

but when he started taking more pictures with fans, kind of stopped offending the people around him, signed more autographs, and smiled occasionally at the paparazzi— all while your pretty self stood right next to him?

megumi fushiguro was sometimes the meanest player on the team.

————————————————————————

want more? you can find my mlb!megumi fushiguro masterlist here!

[adozentothedawn]

It is once again the time of the year where I decide to fix my shit with the power of Pokémon, stay tuned how long it will hold

[world-of-aus]

Hot Shot

Pairing: NHL!Photographer!Reader x Hockey Player!Bucky

Warnings: Bucky being a heartthrob.

A/N: I've been reading one to many hockey romances and well here we are scratching an itch. I know I would like to eventually come out with a bigger story for these two but for now this is just the start a taste if you will. I'd like to leave this open to suggestion of what y'all would like to see or know about these two if anything.. Hope you enjoy the first taste.

You barely had a chance to unlock your screen to reply to her message before her caller ID

was taking up your screen, a recent photo of her and Steve that she had made as her contact picture pulling a smile onto your lips.

“Tasha.” you answer.

“Y/n, listen I know you were just planning on watching the game from the comfort of your living room but I mean talk about an upgrade! From a television screen to being at the actual game on the floor behind the safety of the glass getting some wicked shots, and no one captures action shots like you do - I promise I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.” she tacks on her voice pleading.

You chuckle, you know had the circumstances been different she’d be one of the first ones at the arena, she hadn’t missed one of Steve’s games yet, not since you had been signed on. “Natasha relax, you know you don’t have to pull out the stops on me, I'll go - do you want me to send you the photos?”

The redhead turned blonde breathes a heavy sigh of relief, “oh god thank you! and if you don’t mind, but take your time, I’m sure a certain bruin's player is going to be demanding your attention after the game especially if they bag a win.” she teases seemingly mentioning the man in your DM’s.

Your cheeks warm, the unread notification from the player she speaks of appearing in your mind, “please Tasha,” you deflect, “it’s the game of the season he’ll have plenty of attention with all the puck bunnies sporting his name on their jersey throwing themselves at him for an inkling of his attention.” you murmur picking at an invisible speck of lint on your sweater as you stand from the couch, intent on getting your things packed to head out.

“And yet he only seems to want yours,” she sings, “you should totally wear the jersey I got you for your birthday.”

You roll your eyes smile pulling at your lips, “is your flight really delayed, do I have to text Steve?”

Your friend laughs, “unfortunately it is and hey thank you again for this, I owe you, love you, oh and send me a picture of Steve, one of you and Bucky too!”

You shake your head as your friend rushes out her farewell your screen now gone black as you look down at it “looks like pjs are out of the question for tonight” you murmur continuing on through your apartment to grab your things Bucky’s text still sitting in your messages unanswered.

He’d have his answer soon enough.

🏒🖤

The cool of the arena’s backstage floor seeps through your jeans, your tripod sitting off to the side, your camera nestled in your hands as you wait for the first few players of the bruins to make their arrival.

Your camera goes up; the first of the team to come through the backdoors is the Bruins coach Fury, he spots you smile on his face his hand coming up in a greeting as you get your first arrival shot of the day. Slowly players begin to trickle in, most of them spot you posing for you as they stride by, others walk by with a simple wave their heads already in the game.

Speaking of head in the game center Steve Rogers makes his way in, his suit pressed, duffle thrown over his shoulder as he owns the floor. “Looking good Rogers, say you wouldn’t have Natasha tucked away in that duffle by chance?” you tease grinning behind your camera. You laugh at the grin that breaks his lips, a shake of his head as he directs his gaze at you, “can assure you Natasha wouldn’t be packed in my bag, she’d be hanging on my arm.” You coo at the bearded blonde, “you think you can say that again I didn’t have my phone out.”

The two of you laugh as you capture a few more shots, “Come on Rogers leave some love for the rest of us, you already have your face glued on billboards!”

Left defenseman Sam Wilson is striding in next million dollar smile painted on his lips like the suit he wears on his skin. “But no one has their face printed on as many shirts like you do Wilson, now give me something new to look out for will ya, want to make sure these etsy sellers get only the best!” Wilson eats your words up, feeding the fans through your film. He comes closer kneeling to your level to pull you in for a hug, “it’s good to see you hot shot, thought you weren’t coming out tonight with how Barnes was moping.”

Your heart beats like a wild drum in your chest, “Tasha’s flight got delayed, cashed in her IOU, so here I am and surely your version of Barnes moping is different from mine.”

“Oh man you should of seen him, had to smack the phone out of his hands with how often he was checking it, you’re gonna join us tonight after the win right?”

“You Bruins are so sure about that win,” you laugh.

“That’s because it’s in the bag, hot shot.” It takes everything in you not to snap your eyes to the broad shoulder right defenseman sauntering into the building. “Here comes your boy.” Sam chuckles patting your shoulder as you find said man with your camera lens. You wanted to eat him up like he was eating at your film.

Like Sam Bucky strolls till he’s standing above you, grin pulling at his pink lips as he offers you his hand. You set your camera down gently against your chest before taking his offer, warmth seeping though you at your hand wrapped in his. “Thought you weren’t gonna show.” He murmurs watching you.

“Well as enticing as staying in my pjs on my couch with a glass of wine watching the game tonight sounded IOUs are a serious thing to cash in.” you say struggling to keep his gaze, you were certain you’d turn into a puddle of goo soon.

“More enticing then upgrading your lock screen?”

You let out a groan reaching out to smack his chest, but his hand captures yours instead keeping it there a teasing smile playing at his lips. “You’re never going to let that go are you?” you question recalling the night at the bar that he discovered himself as your lock screen. To be fair it was one of your favorite shots you had captured at the beginning of the seasons. It didn’t hurt that he was your favorite Bruin player to follow on and off the ice.

“Never, though I’m hoping by the end of the night ill see a photo of me after the win.” He chuckles thumb running over your hand.

“You’d have to secure a win first Barnes.”

Your breath catches in your chest as he closes the distance between the two of you, “I’ve already won though.”

Your reply is caught on your tongue, Fury voice breaking through the haze, “Barnes you’ll have time to catch up with y/n later get your ass in the lockers now!”

Bucky let’s your hand falling, chuckle brewing in his chest as he steps back, “hope you’re not watching Wilson or Rogers to closely tonight hotshot because this wins for you, and I’m going to be the one bringing it home.”

You watch him walk away, his gaze lingering on you till he disappears through the locker room.

And God how you hoped he would.

[ellecdc]

Could we possibly…maybe…please get a glimpse of when the team finds out the sexy long legged muscular thighs Remus and team doctor!reader are seeing each other 👀👀

YES - UH HUH - YUP - NO PROBLEM (ty ty ty ty ty)

hockey player!Remus Lupin x team medic!reader who are found out [2.6k words]

part 1 | part two | part 3

CW: fem!reader, blood, injury, talk of needles and stitches but the process is not described, hockey, proof of authors completely biased love of Swedes

Away games made you itchy.

The locker rooms were different, their medical rooms were different, and you spent what was likely an absurd amount of time before each game in the dark room (that each locker room had for concussion protocol) just familiarizing yourself with the set up. 

Hockey players were known for being superstitious, and they accused you of being much the same. But the difference between yourself and the team was that the medic hoped to the hockey gods each game that they wouldn’t be needed, while ensuring they were adequately prepared should they be needed.

And when your team wasn’t on home ice, you never felt adequately prepared. 

“I like watching your pre-game rituals.” Fenwick commented casually from his seat on the medical table - part of his pre-game ritual ever since you helped him stretch out his hamstrings before one game and he scored a hat-trick. Now he haunted your exam room like his career depended on it, much to your chagrin. 

“I don’t have a pre-game ritual, Fenny.” You grumbled as you reorganized the supply cabinet below the sink. “I have a job.” 

Fenwick made a non-committal sound as he continued taping up his stick - meticulously - when the door to the dark room opened.

“Doc, I was wond- are you really still on this, Fenz?” James paused as he furrowed his brows at his teammate. 

Fenwick let out a tired sigh as he gave you an exasperated look that read ‘can you believe this guy?’ before looking back over at James. “Cap, what you do to get ready for a game is your business, what doc and I do to get ready for a game is ours.” 

“For the last time, Fenwick, I don’t have a pre-game ritual.” You hissed before taking a calming breath. “What do you need, Captain?”

James had the grace to turn a little bashful. “Erm, well…there’s no more tape.”

You felt your shoulders sag as you gave him a disbelieving look. “I’ve asked you guys not to go through the medical tape; you need to ask the equipment managers to pack some if you need your own.” You repeated, again.

James grimaced as he went to respond, but was saved from needing to when a taller figure approached him from behind. 

“Coach asked the arena management for more, we’re all good.” Remus offered quickly, flashing you an apologetic smile over James’ shoulder as he clapped his captain on the back.

“Oh Loops, you beautiful, beautiful man.” James cheered before roughly pulling Remus’ head down to plant a smacking kiss to his cheek. “I love the Swedes!” He declared as he waltzed back into the locker room, earning him a cheer of approval from Isak Grönvall. 

“Five minutes, Fen.” Remus continued, causing Benjy to hop down from the table with an excited whoop. 

“Sorry doc, duty calls! Good luck out there!”

You let out a tired sigh as you fought the urge to shout “I don’t need luck - I’m doing my fucking job” after him. 

“You okay, doc?” Remus asked gently then, and you felt treacherous at how much of your ire simply seeped out of you as you saw his honeyed gaze and soft smile being directed at you.

“I hate away games.” You pouted rather petulantly, causing Remus to let out a laugh. 

“Home games are better.” He offered carefully as he moved further into the room to stand in front of you. “But away games have hotel rooms.”

You hummed in agreement as the two of you shared a look, but the door to the room opened again, causing Remus to take a significant step away from you. 

“Doc!” Sirius called breathlessly. “There’s no tape!”

“Loops found tape!” You heard someone call from further in the locker room, causing Sirius to let out a sigh of relief. 

“I fucking love the Swedes!” 

“It’s like they think I spoke some ancient Swedish proverb and a viking hand delivered medical tape to me personally.” Remus murmured quietly as the two of you watched Sirius disappear back into the locker room before you heard coach Moody shout for everyone to listen up. 

“Duty calls.” Remus offered with an almost disappointed smile at having to leave your company. 

“Good luck out there.” You parroted Fenwick’s earlier sentiments.

Remus’ disappointed smile grew more sincere; softer around the edges. “You too, Doc.” 

The Lions were up 4-1, and the Raven’s were not happy about it. It was turning into a rough game, and you had held towels up to more players' faces (threatening them with a weeks worth of bench time if they were hiding more injuries from you) than you could count, when the crowd went wild. 

Dearborn all but shoved your arm away from him in favour of standing against the boards to watch the action, and you couldn’t find it in you to be all that perturbed when you stepped up onto the bench to get a better view of the ice too, watching Remus’ line - the marauders, the team had taken to calling them - fly up towards the opposing team's side of the ice. 

James was the kind of guy to skate right through people versus around them, shouldering and checking people out of his way, while Sirius Padfoot Black seemed to swirl and dance his way across the ice like this was simply a well-rehearsed ballroom dance he could perform in his sleep. 

And for what Remus lacked in brute force or dancing grace like that of his linemates, he made up for tenfold in speed. He beat both James and Sirius to the otherside of the ice, slowing ever so slightly to allow Sirius to push the puck over the blue line before joining it on the home teams side and stationing himself near the side of the net as James forced his way to the goalies crease, and Sirius played keep away from the Raven’s with his defenseman, waiting for the perfect opening. 

The perfect opening came in the form of both of Ravenclaw’s defensemen fussing over James for blocking their goalie as said goalie craned his neck in an attempt to see over the clump of bodies in front of him, leaving Remus wide open. 

The puck bounced from Sirius, to Grönvall, who shot it to his fellow defensemen, who passed it back to Sirius who faked lining up for a slapshot before passing it to Remus who quickly tipped it in to the top shelf of the Raven’s net, causing the red light to flash and the goal horn to blare. 

In Remus’ focus on putting the puck in the net, he missed the Ravenclaw defensemen who had handed off James’ assault to his linemate in favour of directing his ire at Remus; checking him hard when Remus hadn’t even seen him, sending him face first into another Ravenclaw player who lifted his own arms, causing Remus’ face to make contact with the players stick before going down hard. 

You watched as Remus tried to pick himself back up again before his limbs simply sprawled out, flattening back down on the ice. Every player from both teams crowded around the net and nearly directly on top of Remus as they paired off in a brawl. 

“He’s still down.” You said aloud as if the coaches didn’t know, as if they couldn’t see. “He’s not getting up.”

The entire bench was standing and leaning against the boards as if just itching to join the chaos out on the ice; all four referees blowing their whistles and trying to pry players off of each other before turning around to pry two more apart.

James was still spitting words at the Ravenclaw captain when you made it down to the boards yourself. 

“Captain!” You tried, feeling your throat constrict when he didn’t seem to hear you. “JAMES!”

James paused where he was bending down to retrieve his helmet he’d lost in the fighting to look at you, seeming to recognize the panic in your face as he abandoned the rest of his equipment in favour of skating towards you. 

“He’s down; he’s still down.” You said, though it sounded more like a beg.

“Okay doc, okay.” He agreed breathlessly, offering you his elbow as you stepped out onto the ice, sneakers sliding as he helped you all but hobble across the ice to where Sirius was bent over Remus - seemingly talking to him, thank god - also sans helmet and a bloody lip. 

“James…” You whined after the third time your feet threatened to come out from underneath you, clearly attempting to move faster than James was willing to skate with you before he wrapped his arm around your waist and simply hiked you up underneath his arm like a fucking football, skating you the rest of the way to Sirius and Remus. 

“Hey, there’s our guardian angel.” Sirius offered with a wink as James gently placed you onto the ice, you forgoing all grace and falling to your knees and all but crawling over to Remus.

“Lupin you son of a bitch.” You hissed instead of crying, bending in an attempt to look at his face where he was positioned on all fours. “What the fuck was that about?”

Remus let out a breathy chuckle as droplets of blood landed below him, contrasting starkly against the pristine white snowed up ice. “I don’t think they liked that I scored.”

Something tight unclenched in your stomach leaving you feeling hollow and a little nauseous as you let out a slightly hysterical laugh at Remus’ joke.

“No, no. I don’t think they did. What hurts?”

Remus shook his head minutely. “Just my face. The wind knocked out of me when I landed and then there was fighting.” He explained. “I thought it best to just stay down.” 

“I agree.” You said as you held a towel to Remus’ cheek. “Just your face?”

“Only where the stick hit me.”

“Your head?”

“Is fine.”

“I’ll decide that, yeah?”

Remus sat back on his heels as the crowd slowly started clapping. James pulled you over towards himself, picking you back up to skate over to the bench as Sirius helped support Remus back over and the two of you disappeared through the tunnel towards the dark room.

“I’m fine, doc.” He argued as you pointed at the exam table.

“Protocol.” You responded simply as you closed the door behind you, your eyes struggling to adapt to the low light as you dug through your medical supplies. 

Syringe, two needles, local anesthetic, sutures and suture needle. 

You washed your hand thoroughly as Remus held the towel to his face, donning a pair of surgical gloves before bringing your supplies over to him. 

“Quick flash.” You warned before shining a light in his eyes; you were relieved by the results.

“Told you I’m fine.” He tried to tease as you clicked your flashlight back off and pulled the supplies you had placed on a rolling table over to you. 

“You’re bleeding through the towel, Remus. You’re not fine.” You bit back; words and tone harsh but hands painfully gentle as you pulled said towel away from his face to assess the injury.

The cut was small, but clearly deep; directly under his right eye high upon his cheekbone. 

The two of you were silent as you worked; you disinfected the wound and cleaned up the blood from his face, numbing the area before tying four quick stitches, taping over the injury more as a means of protecting it when you knew Remus would insist on going back out onto the ice again.

You hadn’t even realized his hands were on you until his thumbs started moving. You were stationed between his legs which were hanging off of the exam table, his hands had landed on the back of your thighs at some point during your work, and the pads of his thumbs began drawing soft circles when your hands started to shake, only after you placed the tape over his stitches.

“I’m okay.” He whispered again; his face so close to yours that you could feel the breath of his words fan across your face.

“Okay.” You responded, voice tight with emotions as your eyes started to swim with tears.

“Baby.” He cooed pathetically as he tried to pull you closer to him by your thighs, though between the exam table and all of his equipment, there was really no way to get any closer than you already were.

“I’m sorry.” You whimpered as you pressed the backs of your gloved fists to your eyes, humiliated at the onslaught of emotions now that the adrenaline had worn off. 

“My poor girl.” He breathed out, pressing delicate kisses to your forehead. “I didn’t mean to worry you.” 

“I don’t know why I’m acting like this.” You admitted; trying to laugh at yourself, though it came out more like a sob. “This is my job.” 

Remus hummed as he kept his lips pressed to your head, giving you a moment to catch your breath before he continued. “Yes, but that’s why you don’t do my ongoing care now, right? Because…it’s different.” 

“Yeah.” You whispered, still not trusting your voice to not crack under the pressure in your throat.

“You’re okay, babylove.” He murmured.

You sucked in a few deep breaths, willing yourself to toughen up and get back out there when the door to the dark room suddenly flung open.

“Doc, is Loops oka- oh my fucking god.” 

You fought back a groan as Remus simply breathed out a chuckle from his nose and Fenwick continued his sputtering from the door.

“Oh my god!” He shrilled. 

“Christ Fenz; will you keep it down? Lupin could be concussed.” You heard the coach bark. 

“It’s worse!”

Remus let out an offended scoff as you turned to look at him. “Worse?” 

“They- they’re, fucking- they’re….they’re fucking!!” Benjy ended up sputtering very ineloquently. 

You heard a flurry of movement before Sirius and James’ torsos appeared in the doorway; the two boys nearly wrestled each other out of the way in order to get a view of what the hell Benjy was talking about before they both started smiling, though in very different manners.

“Now…I don’t know how you do it, Fenny, but that is not fucking.” Sirius taunted salaciously. 

“I fucking knew it! You owe me ten bucks, Krum!” James called as he walked out of the dark room, followed by Krum grumbling something in Russian. 

“Who bet on finding out after the All-Stars?” You heard Dearborn ask. “Because you bastards owe fifteen.” 

That was followed by more grumbling.

“Doc!” You heard Grönvall call breathlessly, turning to find him standing in the doorway with a wide smile on his face. “You do love the Swedes!”

Remus let out a loud laugh as his arms wormed their way around your waist. “No, she loves this Swede.”

Grönvall laughed and nodded his head as if to say ‘fair enough’. “Well gratulerar! You’ve made me a rich man!” 

You shook your head as you shared a look with Remus before hearing a scandalized “OH MY GOD” from the locker room. 

“Doc’s the one with the wicked mouth!” James shrieked, and you felt all of the blood in your body migrate to your face as you buried your face in Remus’ chest - very uncomfy due to his pads. 

“Tell us something we didn’t know, Cap.” Sirius laughed. “She hands our asses to us every day with nothing but that sharp tongue.” 

“But-”

“Okay, going into the third period-” Coach started, and the topic of you and Remus (and your wicked mouth) was put to rest… for now.

[themidnightcrimson]

skirt ࿏ wm

summary: in which wanda gets a little too handsy during a small party.

words: 4.5k

warnings: top!wanda, fingering (r receiving), semi-public sex, severely gay ogling, reader being a fuckin simp

this fic is for 18+ only. minors dni.

masterlist.

Steve had unfortunately complained to Tony that the parties he always held in his huge, modern, techno mansion were not intimate enough. Tony, always ready to take complaints from Steve with a cheeky attitude, passed the message along to Pepper who decided to truly make something cozier for everyone.

Tony’s parties were pretty much bi-weekly at this point, every other Friday night. The team almost always showed up in entirety, and the regularity of it was becoming sentimental to some of you. Even Tony was starting to plan them: “You guys gotta try this whiskey. I’ll bring it next Friday” or “I swear, Cap, I’m gonna put you in a suit on Friday and shoot you up to Mars.” It was cute.

Tonight, instead of drinking and playing poker around Tony’s in-house bar room, Pepper had set up something beautiful outside. You’d arrived at the party with Nat, stepping through the back patio of Tony’ mansion and seeing something set up in his backyard. Tied between two trees was a large white screen, and several yards in front of it was a projector mounted onto the roof of the patio, pointed right towards the screen.

In front of the screen, on the lush, freshly-trimmed grass yard, was a whole bunch of pillowy chairs with blankets cast over them, set up like little cots. To the side of the arena was a little hot dog stand that also had a big red and golden popcorn machine currently popping popcorn attached to its hip, as well as a large futuristic-looking cooler full of ice and bottled drinks. There was even an attachment on the front of the hot dog stand with an array of candy bars.

Strung above the entire arena were strings of fairy lights going in every direction, tied between trees and the railing of the patio porch. The sun hadn’t quite set yet, but they were already turned on, providing cute little lights above the cozy scene. It was the homiest thing you’d ever seen at Tony’s home.

“My god,” Nat remarked as she looked around, looking as shocked as you. “It looks like Tony’s planning on proposing to all of us at the same time tonight.”

“I would say yes,” Banner said, coming up beside you and gawking up at the lights. He ran down the steps of the patio and towards one of the fluffy chairs made of pillow, throwing himself down on it and squishing it to the ground. You could hear his sigh of comfort from the patio.

“Do you guys like it?” Pepper asked, coming out of the house. “There’s more food and snacks inside if you guys want anything that’s not out there.”

“I feel like I’m experiencing my first American sleepover,” Nat said, turning to Pepper. “It’s great, really!”

It was cute seeing Nat get so excited like that. Steve showed up behind Pepper and had the same reaction as everyone else, even tearing up a little bit. When Tony reluctantly entered the patio, Steve gave him a slap on the shoulder. “This is really great, Tony. Really great.”

Tony tightly smiled and quickly went back into the house to avoid any more sentiment.

Since the few of you were the first to arrive, you all stayed on the porch and made conversation while waiting for everyone else to show up. It was a chilly spring night, the wind picking up and every once in a while catching the black skirt you were wearing. It was that annoying time of year, of course, where you would have been sweating during the day but now you were shivering at night. You wished you had worn pants instead of a skirt. You didn’t know you’d be thanking yourself later for the opposite.

You had been discreetly waiting for someone the entire time. As more people lingered through the back door into the backyard, you nervously glanced at each figure and hoped it’d be the one you wanted it to be, but it never was.

And then you knew. You didn’t see her, or hear her name, or any other evidence that she was there other than the fact that the pit in your stomach grew and there was a tingling sensation across your nerve endings. The witch always had that affect on you. You didn’t know if it was a spell or something, or maybe you were just acting like a crush-stricken schoolgirl, but you had a habit of always knowing when Wanda entered a room.

Surely enough, through the tinted windows lining the back porch, you could see a flash of red hair making its way towards the back door, that smile you had memorized greeting people as she stepped between them. A shiver crawled its way up your lower spine as the door opened and that face stepped through, the one you’ve been dreaming about, the one that haunts you, the one that twists your stomach into knots when you see it because it makes you think of all the times you’ve touched yourself with that face in mind.

Wanda stepped onto the porch, her hair in wavy locks down her shoulders. She was wearing a soft, light pink sweater that probably looked like off-white to everyone else in the dusk light, but you paid enough attention to know it was pink. It matched the gentle pink in her cheeks, and in her lips…

You and Wanda’s…”situation” was only just blossoming. After months and months of tense friendship and subtle flirting, you’d finally broken the ice when you’d shared a drunken makeout session at one of the parties. You found Wanda to be much bolder than you’d expected her to be, but it invigorated you so. She knew how to keep you on the edge but give you enough to keep you satisfied. She hadn’t fucked you yet, though she’s gotten close. You’ve felt her mouth, and her thigh, but she hadn’t touched you with her hands yet. Her hands.

It was embarrassing when Nat had to snap you out of it. You’d been staring at Wanda since she’d entered the backyard space and got caught up in a conversation with someone else on her way to greet you. You weren’t even sure if she’d seen you yet, but with how sly the witch was, you were sure she was fully aware of everything.

“Hey, you’ve got a little drool there,” Nat said, motioning to her own chin while looking at yours. You blushed and rolled your eyes, taking a deep breath and turning your back on Wanda. Even though she still hadn’t looked at you, you swore you could feel her eyes burning into your back.

“Shut up,” you whispered, crossing your arms and shivering slightly in the cold.

Like clockwork, you suddenly felt a warm arm wrap itself around your shoulders. God, you even recognized her touch now.

Looking up, you saw Wanda appear beside you, her arm slung over your shoulder and pulling you into her gently. You felt the softness of her sweater and her hair against your arm as you were overcome with her cologne. It was sweet but deep, and it made you melt every time you smelled it because it reminded you of all your moments with her.

Wanda smiled down at you, and you half-expected her to lean down for a kiss, but she didn’t. You weren’t public yet, though Nat knew the extent of it, and everyone else had just assumed. They all thought that if you weren’t fucking, it was at least obvious that Wanda wanted to, and no one would dare get in the way of that. This was all without your knowledge, of course, because you were innocent and naïve and thought that no one had any clue about it except for Nat. That was one thing that Wanda liked about you.

“Hey there,” Wanda smoothly said in almost a whisper. Every time you get close to her for the first time, you feel like you’re seeing her for the first time all over again. Her sparkling green eyes, soft lips turned in a self-assured smile, structured cheekbones, her cute little nose. It all made you swoon like a schoolgirl.

“Hi,” you squeaked, feeling your face get hot all over.

Wanda gave a breathy chuckle, obviously picking up on your little squeak. She gave a little space between you for a moment to let her eyes rake down over your figure. They landed at your hips, and her smile faded, turning almost crooked for a moment before she licked her lips and pursed them. “Hmmmm,” she hummed, pulling you into her again, a little tighter now. “You look so fucking good,” she hissed, leaning down towards your ear. You felt her breath fan against your ear, and then her lips grazed it, before she turned away, stiffening as if trying to hold something in. You watched her jaw flex, the muscles straining in her swan neck as she inhaled deeply.

You weren’t sure what exactly was going through the witch’s mind, but your body was burning all over. It almost pained you how you always had such a physical reaction to Wanda.

Wanda did not let go of you. Even as she lingered around the patio, even as people came up and made conversation, she kept you under her arm like her own pet bunny. You felt safe like that, tucked into Wanda, letting her lead the conversations while you just leaned against her soft sweater and inhaled her sweet perfume. The duality of Wanda’s gentle physique but domineering nature made your head dizzy.

Wanda was like a bee to honey to you for the entire time that you and everyone else waited for the party’s population to be dense enough to start a movie on the large projector screen. Finally, once the sun had set and only left an orange streak at the bottom of the sky, Tony came back out onto the patio and, fully equipped in his suit, stuck his hands out to the side and levitated up towards the projector. Halting mid-air, the face of the suit flipped away to reveal Tony’s face.

“Greetings and welcome to the lamest party Tony Stark has ever thrown,” Tony announced, earning several laughs throughout the small crowd of people before flipping the projector on and flying away.

Light illuminated onto the screen, and an old black-and-white Hollywood movie began playing on the screen. People made their way over to the little cots set out on the lawn, while some stayed on the patio pretending to be the adult part of the crowd.

“Want some snacks?” Wanda whispered in your ear, to which you gave a dumb nod, too focused on the way her hand slid down to your waist and gripped it.

Wanda led you over the little hot dog stand that shone like a beacon in the darkening lawn, apart from the light from the movie. You were about to tell Wanda that you wanted popcorn and Skittles, but she somehow beat you to it. “A bag of popcorn and some Skittles,” she told the guy behind the stand. Nodding, he began to load up a bag of buttery popcorn as you looked up at Wanda in confusion to how she knew what you wanted.

Mind-reading can be useful in many ways, kitten.

You thought Wanda had spoken, since you had heard her voice, but her lips didn’t even move and her voice sounded like it was behind you. Your eyes widened in realization that Wanda was using mind-reading on you for the first time—though it actually was about the hundredth time that she’d pried in on your cerebral. It was the telepathic communication that was happening for the first time, but she thought your confusion on the terms was cute.

“Thanks,” Wanda told the guy as he handed you the warm bag of popcorn. She took a bag of Skittles and two bottles of soda and placed her hand on your lower back, her warm palm ushering you towards a cot in front of the screen.

She decided to choose one a little off to the side, spaced out more from any others. It was a double, basically a large pillow in the shape of a chair that could hold two people.

“This is so fun!” you exclaimed, hopping down on the cot and sighing at how soft it was, understanding now why Banner was so relaxed when he had jumped onto one. There was even a little basket beside the chair that held a large, fluffy blanket folded up. Pepper had truly gone all out.

Wanda plopped down beside you, her warm body instantly melting into yours as her weight into the pillowy chair dipped you down closer to her. The redistribution of weight had moved you in a way that your skirt hiked up your legs.

Wanda’s eyes flickered to your skirt, her pupils swarming. You blushed and pulled your skirt down to cover yourself, discreetly watching Wanda blink and force herself to look away. She leaned back in the chair, snaking her arm behind you and curling it around your waist, which only deepened the blush on your cheeks.

Reaching towards your lap, Wanda took a piece of popcorn from the bag you held between your legs and popped it into her mouth. You took a piece and moved it towards your mouth, but suddenly her hand stopped you.

“Nuh uh,” she said quietly, taking the popcorn from between your fingers. “Let me do it.”

You froze, staring at her face that was so close. It was illuminated by the projection on the screen, her green eyes darker than usual.

“Open your mouth,” she whispered, her eyes flickering down to your lips. There was a hunger in her eyes as she watched you hesitate before slowly opening your lips, your heart beating twice faster in your chest. Wanda brought the popcorn to your mouth, letting your tongue take it. You were surprised when, as you felt the texture of the popcorn on your tongue and the butter flooded your taste buds, the tips of Wanda’s fingers lingered in your mouth. As you attempted to close your lips, they only closed around her fingers, tasting the extra salt left behind on them. Your face grew red and hot as you watched Wanda smirk, pushing her fingers in just a miniscule bit further, her own lips parting in infatuation as she watched your lips suction around her fingers.

“Good girl,” she whispered, slowly dragging her fingers out of your mouth.

As if nothing happened, as if you weren’t sitting there blushing and sweating and feeling the space between your legs get warm, she went back to simply eating the popcorn and staring up at the screen.

Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to stop staring at this blasted woman who just teased you so easily and tried to focus on the movie.

Wanda’s handsy-ness wasn’t too extreme during the first half of the movie. It was only her arm around your waist, her hand rubbing your back sensually, her fingers softly combing through your hair and pulling on it hard once or twice just to get a squeak out of you, to which she pressed a discreet kiss to your neck. It was like she was just playing with you. It was like she was just playing with her food.

It wasn’t until halfway through the movie, when there was no sight of any sunlight in the dark night sky, that Wanda strengthened her moves on you.

Under the pretty fairy lights, as everyone else started to calm down and really settle into the movie, a chilly night breeze sewed itself through the air. It flittered over your exposed legs, causing you to shiver. Wanda, who’d been trying not to ogle your thighs all night, couldn’t help but see the goosebumps on your tender skin.

“You cold?” she asked in a soft, sweet tone. When you nodded, she reached over to the basket and brought out the large, thick blanket, draping it over the both of your laps. The warm, soft blanket was such a relief to your cold legs, and with Wanda’s body also available to you as a heater, you felt so cozy and safe.

Then Wanda’s hand reached under the blanket and rested on your thigh, her palm curving around it. The action made you stiffen, your skin growing exponentially warmer where her hand touched. The intimacy of the action sent shimmers through you, and you tried to beat back the little smile on your face.

Wanda, on the other hand, was trying not to smirk. She was more purposeful than you gave her credit for, but again, your naivety was what fueled her to see just how much she could get away with.

You were trying your hardest to ignore her hand on your thigh until it suddenly shifted upwards, pushing your skirt up with it. You gasped quietly. Her hand was all the way up your thigh now, gripping your flesh firmly. Her fingers were wrapped into the inner most tender part of your thigh, pressing into the soft skin there.

The heat between your legs amplified with how close Wanda was to it. You couldn’t help but nervously glance around, afraid that somehow someone had seen her hand grab your thigh under the thick blankets. Luckily, no one was looking. The closest person to you was Nat, but she was watching the film with her head tilted and arms crossed, obviously trying to analyze it like she did with most films.

“Wanda,” you whispered, glancing up at her to see that she was already staring at you darkly.

“What, princess?” she asked innocently.

The name struck you like a bullet of white hot fire in the pit of your stomach. She watched you seriously, a smirk twitching the corners of her lips, as she tightened her grip on your thigh. It stung a little, her fingertips digging so hard into that sensitive inner flesh of your thigh, that you almost squeaked.

“If you want to make noises for me, then do it, babygirl,” she lilted, and you almost gasped when her hand slipped fully under your skirt. You squirmed a little, but she looked at you threateningly. “Don’t move.”

Your breathing grew heavy as you looked around again, feeling that for sure someone was looking this time. No one was.

No one will see, detka.

Wanda’s voice was in your head again. You sharply turned to look at her, but she was staring at the screen now.

Suddenly, you felt something under the covers spreading your thighs open. You hadn’t even realized you’d been squeezing them together, but as you looked down at the blanket, you saw a hint of red glaring through it as your legs spread themselves wide open. She was using magic to open you up for her. Out of impulse, you tried to slam them shut, but her magic held you there, the red glare dissipating so as to not draw attention to what was happening beneath the blanket.

Be still.

You bit your lip as you felt Wanda’s hand cup you under your skirt, her palm pressing into your fabric-covered core. Your breath quivered out of both nervousness and pleasure when she found your clit through your panties and slowly rubbed it.

I can feel how wet you are through your panties, princess. Her voice was even husky in your head.

You tried to keep still as Wanda rubbed your sensitive nub, looking around again to see that still no one was looking at you. But the fact that anyone could look over at the wrong moment, see part of Wanda’s arm stretched towards your lap under the blanket, seeing shapes inappropriately moving under the fabric, instilled a sense of fear into you that seemed to propel your desire.

Good girl, just keep being still for me. I know how bad you’ve been wanting this. You’ve dreamed so much of my fingers.

God, how did she know? Had she been spying on you?

Her fingers dipped down your fabric-covered slit, tickling there for a moment and feeling the wet spot forming on your panties. You were soaking by now, you could feel it, and it only got worse when Wanda started to push your panties to the side.

You started to open your mouth to tell her no, that she shouldn’t do that in front of everyone at a party, that anyone could look over and see and that it’d be so embarrassing, but her voice was quick to reprimand you.

So what if someone sees? I’ll let anyone know that you’re all mine.

With that, her fingers successfully slipped under the thin, stretchy fabric of your panties and met your soaking cunt. You heard Wanda let out a tense breath as she seeped her fingers through your sopping folds, her jaw flexing again.

You’re so fucking wet, babygirl. Her voice growled within your head, dizzying you.

You glanced around nervously, almost thinking someone was looking at you, but finding that no one was still. You felt so nervous about it, so paranoid, but your feverishness was mostly just from Wanda’s fingers rubbing your bare clit now, moving your wetness all around.

I’ve been wanting to feel your pretty cunt for so long. You just had to wear this slutty little skirt tonight, hmm?

Heat burned throughout you as Wanda’s fingers moved towards your entrance, circling it. You stiffened a little, not knowing exactly what to expect from her. You had to force yourself to not gyrate against her hand, to not turn to her and beg for her to just do it, to not moan out loud. It was especially hard not to do the last thing when Wanda’s fingers thrusted inside you.

“Oh—” you started, until Wanda’s magic snapped your mouth shut. Wanda went completely still, freezing completely. You took a blushing, nervous glance around and nearly died when your eyes made contact with Nat’s eyes.

You froze like a deer in headlights. Nat was staring at you while Wanda’s fingers were inside you for the first time. You were looking her in the eye while your walls clenched around Wanda. You wanted to set yourself on fire.

Fortunately, Nat only gave a casual little head nod and a smile and then turned back to the movie. You knew Nat well enough to know that she wasn’t just pretending that she didn’t see anything. Luckily for you, she really had not noticed anything unusual other than your usual awkwardness around Wanda.

Close call, princess. You almost got found out for being a slut for me.

Taking a shaky breath, your hand crawled around until it found Wanda’s knee under the blanket and gripped it for dear life as she started thrusting her fingers inside you. You tried not to whine at the stretch—it’d been a while for you.

You’re so fucking tight, baby. Wanda’s voice was breathy in your head.

You threw your head back a little as Wanda’s fingers pumped in and out of you, and you could even hear the faint wet sounds coming from under the blanket. It made you feel so dirty, getting fingered like that in front of everyone, and being so wet for it, too.

I knew you were such a slut for me. What if I rip the blanket off right now, hmm? Expose you for spreading your legs for me even in public like a whore?

Gritting your teeth together, you felt Wanda’s two fingers hitting a sweet spot inside you. It was so hard to not buck your hips, to not squirm or moan or do anything but etch claw marks into Wanda’s knee.

And then you felt a more noticeable stretch. Squeezing your eyes shut, you felt Wanda force a third finger into you. This time you couldn’t help it. You threw your head to the side and buried it in Wanda’s chest, letting out a mix between a quiet moan and a sigh that luckily was muffled by Wanda’s sweater. Keeping as still as possible, you inhaled Wanda’s perfume and scratched the fuck out of her knee as she pumped three fingers inside your cunt at an agonizingly slow speed. You knew she would’ve fucked you a lot harder if it weren’t for the sake of being discreet.

“Wanda,” you murmured into her chest, feeling the valley of her breasts from beneath her sweater cushioning your face. “Wanda, I’m close.”

Her fingers were hitting so deep inside you. They were so long, and she was curling them, and she was hitting your sweet spot deep inside, and you could feel your juices dripping down yourself.

Hold it. She commanded.

You didn’t even realize it, but you clamped your teeth around a chunk of her sweater, biting down hard on the thick cable-knit fabric as the woman’s fingers plundered you at a steady pace. You didn’t even know if anyone was looking at you now, and you didn’t even care because your body was starting to tremble as you struggled to not cum all over her fingers.

Finally, when you begged again, she acquiesced with Cum for me, princess.

It took all of your power to not moan out loud as you orgasmed with Wanda’s fingers lodged deep inside you, your walls spasming around them and your hips trembling. She nuzzled her nose against the top of your head and hissed when you bit down on her sweater again and accidentally bit into her breast. She held you still with her spare arm, her fingers deep in you, as you came down from the blinding high.

“That’s it,” she whispered into your hair. “Good girl, just breathe.” You were breathing very hard to make up for not being able to moan. “You were such a good, quiet girl for me, angel.” The praise landed over you like soft kisses until you realized she was also pressing soft kisses to the top of your head.

It didn’t help that, when you had finally calmed down and Wanda pulled her shiny fingers out of you, she popped them into her mouth and sucked off all of your cum. You blushed and dug your face into her chest again, this time purposefully biting her breast which made her hiss again and then giggle evilly.

Luckily, no one had seen you get fingered by Wanda, at least not to your knowledge. Nothing had ever come out of it, at least, except that Tony spread a rumor that you had peed yourself during the party because when you stood up from the chair at the end of the night, there was a wet spot right under where you had been sitting.

[verstappenverse]

Between the Laps

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Driver!Reader Enemies to Friends to...

Summary: When a rookie driver finds herself paired with the reigning champion Max Verstappen, sparks fly. Ambition clashes with undeniable chemistry, as their rivalry and relationship evolves throughout the intense F1 calendar.

Author's Note: Here it is, now just shy of 9k words! This fanfic is significantly longer and more narrative-driven than anything I’ve written on here so far. I really hope you all enjoy it, and I’d greatly appreciate any feedback you might have, thanks!

8.8k words / Masterlist

Race Weekend 1 – Bahrain Grand Prix

The paddock was alive with a low hum of tension and excitement, the air saturated with the distinct scent of burning rubber and gasoline.

You had been here before, in different categories as a rising talent in the motorsport world, but Formula 1 was a whole new arena. Walking through the Red Bull Racing garage you felt the weight of the world pressing down on you. This wasn’t just a race, it was your first F1 race weekend, and to top it off your teammate was none other than Max Verstappen, the reigning World Champion.

Max's reputation preceded him. The fierce competitor, a driver with an almost inhuman ability to push his car beyond the limits, appearing to be in a league of his own. Now he was your teammate or, more realistically, you were his teammate. It was his team, his title on the line, and you were just the rookie fresh to the team and to some extent an uninvited guest in his house.

As you stepped into the garage you caught a glimpse of Max. He was sitting with his usual air of intense concentration, eyes fixed on the telemetry data on his tablet as if he could solve every on-track issue with sheer force of will. His dirty blonde hair peeked out from under his cap. For a moment your eyes met, and a flicker of something passed between you. It wasn’t friendly. A short, curt nod was all he gave you before returning to his data, as if you were a distraction not worth his time.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the nerves gnawing at your insides. No one said this would be easy. Max was a World Champion, he didn’t have time for rookies.

Your debut race weekend came at you fast, a blur of press conferences, strategy meetings, and practice sessions. The eyes of the motorsport world were on you, and the pressure was immense. You had qualified a respectable eighth, but Max was on pole. It wasn’t just a gap in pace — it was a chasm. Still, for your first race it wasn’t bad, or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself.

Sunday, and the garage was bustling with energy, staff buzzing around like a well-oiled machine. Everyone knew their place. Everyone except you it seemed.

You were sitting in the team motorhome, staring at your race strategy when Max finally broke the silence between you.

“Nervous?” he asked, though the way he phrased it didn’t leave much room for a simple yes or no. His tone was casual, but his gaze remained laser-focused, almost challenging.

You looked up from your tablet, startled. He hadn’t said more than a few words to you all weekend. “Not particularly,” you replied, keeping your voice even.

Max’s lips quirked into a smirk, but there was no warmth in it. “Good. Nervous drivers make mistakes.”

You raised an eyebrow, unsure if this was advice or a thinly veiled insult. “I’ve been racing a long time Max.”

“This isn’t F2,” he replied smoothly.

“I know how to drive,” you shot back, feeling a flicker of irritation rise up inside you.

Max studied you for a moment as if weighing his next words carefully. “Sure. Just don't get in my way.”

And with that he stood up, grabbing his helmet and walking out of the motorhome without another word. You watched him go, your jaw clenched. He was right this wasn’t F2, but you weren’t going to let him dismiss you like someone who didn’t belong here.

The race itself was brutal. Max dominated from start to finish, winning with the same ruthless efficiency that had earned him the title. Meanwhile, you struggled. The car felt unbalanced, the tyres didn’t last as long as you’d hoped, and you made a few rookie mistakes costing you valuable positions. You finished with just one measly point, a disheartening tenth place.

As you walked back into the garage, still buzzing with the adrenaline of the race you could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you. Max was already there sitting with his engineers discussing his race. He didn’t acknowledge you, didn’t even glance in your direction.

You slumped into your chair, exhausted and frustrated. Everyone tried to cheer you up telling you it was a good effort for your first race, but the disappointment gnawed at you. You didn’t come here to finish tenth. You wanted to be on the podium, fighting for wins, not languishing in the midfield.

From across the garage, Max’s voice cut through the noise. He was talking to his race engineer, but his words stung as if they were meant directly for you.

“They need to focus on my initial concerns,” he said, his tone casual but firm. “We don’t have time to worry about the rookies issues right now.”

You clenched your fists, the frustration building. It wasn’t just about the race anymore. It was about proving that you belonged here, that you could stand toe-to-toe with him. Max might be the reigning champion, but you weren’t going to let him walk all over you.

Race Weekend 4 - Japanese Grand Prix Qualifying

You stormed into the garage ripping off your helmet in frustration. Your heart was still pounding, not just from the high-speed laps but from the seething anger simmering under your skin. No matter how much you pushed yourself, Max was always one step ahead. The gap felt minimal, fractions of a second, but it might as well have been a canyon.

Max was already there, cool and composed, his pole position nothing out of the ordinary. He was talking with one of the engineers, a slight smirk tugging at his lips like he had already forgotten about the rest of the field. About you.

You could feel your blood boiling. The way he acted so untouchable, so certain of his superiority. Without thinking you marched toward him, your voice sharper than you intended.

"What's your secret Verstappen?" you asked, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Is it the car, or just pure luck?"

Max glanced over his shoulder, his expression unbothered. He raised an eyebrow that infuriating smirk growing. "Luck? Is that what you're going with?"

You crossed your arms, glaring at him. "I’m just trying to figure out how someone so smug manages to stay on top."

He turned to face you fully now, a look of mild amusement playing across his features. "Maybe it's not that complicated. Maybe I’m just better."

The arrogance in his voice was like fuel to the fire, and you took a step closer, your jaw clenched. "Or maybe you’re just used to coasting because no one’s challenged you here. You’re not untouchable, Max."

Max’s smirk faded slightly his blue eyes narrowing as he took a step toward you. "You think you’re the one to change that? Face it, you're good, but you're not there yet. You’re reckless, always pushing too hard. It’s gonna cost you eventually."

His words cut deeper than you expected. They weren’t just taunts they felt like a judgment, like he had already written you off. But you weren’t about to let him get inside your head.

"At least I’m not afraid to take risks," you shot back.

Max’s eyes flashed, and for a moment something darker crossed his face, something serious. "This isn’t a game you know. There’s no room for mistakes here. You’re playing with fire, and if you keep going the way you are you’re going to burn out."

His words hung in the air between you, the tension crackling like static. He wasn’t mocking you anymore, this was something else, something more intense. You didn’t know if he was trying to warn you or challenge you, but either way you weren’t backing down.

"I’d rather burn out than fade away," you said, your voice hard.

Max didn’t reply immediately, but his eyes locked on yours, unblinking. There was something unreadable in his expression, like he was seeing you in a new light, but it was hard to tell if it was respect or frustration.

"Just stay out of my way," he finally said, his voice quiet but charged. Then he turned, walking away, leaving you standing there with your pulse racing and your fists clenched.

You watched him go, the frustration and anger still swirling inside you. He was wrong about you—you weren’t going to burn out. But something about his words stuck with you, lingering long after he’d walked away, like an unwanted echo in the back of your mind.

Race Weekend 6 - Spanish Grand Prix

The race had ended hours ago, but the irritation still churned in your chest. Sitting in the team briefing room, the air between you and Max was thick with tension, as had become the norm. All you could hear was the pounding of your own heart, still replaying the near-collision between you and Max in your head.

Max sat across the table, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. It was like nothing got to him, like the chaos on the track didn’t even phase him. The way he remained so calm, so detached, only made your anger burn hotter.

Most of the engineers finally left the room and the door clicked shut behind them. The silence that followed was suffocating. You couldn’t hold back anymore.

"Next time," you snapped, your voice cutting through the quiet, "try not to run me off the track."

Max didn’t even flinch, he looked at you his expression infuriatingly calm. "You’re exaggerating."

"Exaggerating?" you exclaimed, your voice rising. "You practically forced me off the track at Turn 8! If I hadn’t backed off, we’d have both been out of the race."

Max sighed, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. "It’s racing. Hard racing. If you can’t handle it, maybe you should reconsider what you’re doing here."

You clenched your fists under the table, every muscle in your body tensing. You knew part of the anger was stemming from knowing there was truth to his words, but you weren't going to admit that anytime soon.

"I can handle hard racing just fine," you shot back. "What I can’t handle is you acting like you’re the only one who deserves to be here. I’m your teammate Max, not your punching bag."

Max’s eyes darkened, and for the first time, you saw something else behind his cool exterior—annoyance, maybe even anger. "Teammate?" he repeated, his voice colder now. "You don’t act like one. You drive like you’re the only person on the track."

You laughed bitterly, unable to hold it in. "That’s rich, coming from you. You’ve spent this whole season so far treating me like I’m not even worth your time. It’s like you can’t stand the idea of someone else being good enough to challenge you."

Max stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. His sudden movement startled you, but you didn’t back down.

"Challenge me?" he said, his voice low but sharp. "This isn’t about some petty rivalry. You’re reckless. You don’t think about the bigger picture. You only care about beating me, and it’s going to get someone hurt—probably you."

His words stung more than you expected. It wasn’t just that he thought you weren’t good enough. It was the way he said it, like he didn’t believe you’d ever be more than a threat to yourself.

"You think I don’t know what I’m doing?" you asked, your voice shaking with anger now. "You think I’m just some rookie who’s out of their depth?"

Max didn’t answer right away. He just stood there staring at you with those piercing blue eyes, like he was trying to figure you out but couldn’t. The silence stretched on heavy and suffocating.

Then, finally, he spoke. "I think you’re talented," he admitted, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. "But you let your emotions get the better of you. You take unnecessary risks because you’re trying to prove something."

His words cut deep, hitting a nerve you hadn’t expected. He wasn’t just criticising your driving anymore, he was questioning you, the way you handled everything. And what stung the most was that part of you feared he might be right.

You stood up, matching his stance refusing to show any weakness. "I don’t need a lecture from you Max. You’re not perfect either."

Max’s jaw tightened, and for a split second, you thought you saw something flicker across his face, hurt? But just as quickly it was gone, replaced by that familiar steely expression.

"Maybe I’m not," he said.

The room felt like it was closing in on you, the air thick with unresolved tension. You wanted to say something, anything, to break through the wall between you, but the anger and frustration clouded your thoughts, you could feel his gaze on your back as you walked out of the room. You slammed the door behind you, the sound echoing down the empty hallway.

Race Weekend 8 – Monaco Grand Prix

You and Max had barely spoken during practice, though the tension was undeniable. He still had that smug look on his face, his confidence oozing off him as you wiped the sweat from your forehead. You could feel your heart beating just a little faster, though you’d never admit it was anything but adrenaline.

As you sat down in the garage, peeling off your gloves, Max passed by.

"Not bad, rookie," he said casually. "Though, I almost expected you to spin out in Turn 4. You were practically kissing the barriers."

You raised an eyebrow, not willing to let him get the better of you. "Almost, huh? Shame you weren’t close enough to see the whole thing. Maybe you could have learned something."

He snorted, leaning against the wall next to you. "Oh, trust me, I got the best view. Though I’m still not sure if you're brave or just reckless."

You gave him a sideways glance smiling "Maybe I’m both."

Max's eyes lingered on you for a second longer than necessary, and you could feel the weight of it. He sat back in his chair, watching you, and the silence between you grew comfortable. You caught him glancing at you again, that smirk back in place, but this time it felt... different.

"You know," he said, voice teasing, "you should smile more often. You look less intimidating when you do."

You glanced up, confused for a second. "I’m not the one people are intimated by."

"Maybe not," he said, eyes glinting, "but you’ve got your own way of getting under people's skin."

"Well, I learned from the best," you shot back without missing a beat.

Max chuckled, shaking his head. "Touché."

Race Weekend 11 – Italian Grand Prix

As the season wore on, things began to shift slowly. You had found your rhythm, steadily improving race by race. You weren’t on Max’s level, not yet, but you were consistently finishing in the points, and at times, you had even managed to challenge him during practice or qualifying. But the dynamic between you remained strained. Max was still focused on his championship, and while the outright hostility had faded there was still an undeniable tension between the two of you.

The Italian Grand Prix was one of the most iconic races of the season. Monza, the Temple of Speed, with its long straights and tight corners it was a test of both car and driver. You had qualified fourth, but once again Max was on pole. It was becoming a frustrating pattern.

After qualifying you found yourself alone in the paddock, sitting on the steps outside the motorhome. You were replaying your lap in your head over and over, trying to figure out where you could have found more time.

“Still overthinking?” Max’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you looked up to see him standing a few feet away, his helmet under his arm.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Just trying to figure out how to be half a second faster.”

Max walked over, sitting down beside you on the steps. “You’re pushing too hard,” he said after a moment, his voice surprisingly soft. “You’re overdriving the car.”

You frowned, not sure if this was another dig or actual advice. “I’m trying to make up the gap.”

“You can’t drive like that here,” he continued, his eyes scanning the empty track. “You have to let the car come to you. If you keep forcing it, you’re going to keep making mistakes.”

You looked at him genuinely surprised. This was the first time he had offered anything resembling constructive advice. “Why are you telling me this?”

Max didn’t meet your gaze, instead looking out at the paddock. “Because I’ve been where you are. I know what it’s like to have everything to prove.”

You paused, his words sinking in. For the first time, you realised that Max wasn’t just being arrogant. He had been in your shoes once, the young driver trying to prove himself in a world that was constantly questioning if he was good enough, if he was ready.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice a little quieter than usual. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Max nodded, standing up and stretching. “Don’t get used to it,” he said with his familiar smirk. “I still want to beat you.”

You laughed, the tension between you easing just a little. “I’ll keep that in mind too.”

The race at Monza was chaotic as expected. The high-speed circuit, combined with the aggressive nature of the drivers made for a thrilling but nerve-wracking experience. Max was fighting for the win as usual, while you were locked in a battle in the top five.

In the closing laps you found yourself side by side with a McLaren, both of you fighting tooth and nail for fourth place. It was intense, wheel-to-wheel racing, and you could feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins. But Max’s earlier words echoed in your head. Don’t overdrive. Let the car come to you.

With a deep breath you backed off slightly, biding your time, waiting for the right moment. And when it came, you seized it, pulling off a clean overtake and securing fourth place. It wasn’t the podium you wanted, but it was solid result.

After the race you were exhausted, but satisfied. It wasn’t a win but it was a step in the right direction. As you walked back into the garage you caught Max’s eye. He didn’t say anything, but there was a subtle nod of acknowledgment. You had his respect even if he wasn’t going to say it out loud.

Race Weekend 13 - British Grand Prix

It was late in the evening, the team had thrown a small celebration after a particularly challenging but successful race for both of you. The atmosphere was relaxed, and after a few drinks you and Max found yourselves sitting together away from the others. The competitive edge was still there, but the rivalry was fading, replaced by something you couldn’t quite name.

You stretched out leaning back on your hands as the warm night air brushed against your skin. Max sat next to you, closer than usual, the dim light casting soft shadows across his face.

“Do you ever feel like it’s all... too much?” you asked suddenly, surprising even yourself with the question. You weren’t even sure why you asked it, but something about the late night and the quiet moment made you feel like maybe you could.

Max looked over at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. “Sometimes. More than I admit to most people.”

The honesty in his voice caught you off guard. You turned to him, genuinely curious now. “Really? You always seem so in control...so unfazed.”

He gave a half-smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s all part of it, you know? The cameras, the pressure... you just get good at pretending.”

You looked at him for a moment, seeing past the champion exterior, catching a glimpse of something more vulnerable underneath. It was oddly comforting, knowing he wasn’t as untouchable as you’d thought.

“Well,” you said softly, “you’re pretty good at it. But for what it’s worth, I don’t think anyone’s really in control. Not out there.”

Max turned his head to look at you, his expression softer, more open than you’d ever seen before. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Maybe you’re right.”

There was a pause, his eyes lingered on yours, and you felt your heartbeat pick up. You quickly looked away feeling the tension crackle between you.

"Maybe you’re not quite as annoying as I first thought," you said with a light nudge, trying to break the tension with a small smirk.

Max laughed softly the sound low and surprisingly warm. "High praise coming from you."

But the way he looked at you in that moment made it clear that something had shifted between you. Neither of you said anything else for a while, just sitting there in the quiet night, side by side.

Race Weekend 14 - Dutch Grand Prix

You leaned against the railing of the team’s paddock area, the noise of celebration and chatter swirling around you. It was hard not to smile. You’d just finished in an easy second, your best race yet. It was a personal victory, a testament to all the hard work you’d put in.

But even with the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, a knot of conflicting emotions twisted in your stomach. You had to talk to Max.

As if he sensed your thoughts, you turned to see him walking toward you, a small grin on his face. It was a mix of confidence and camaraderie, and for the first time in a while, you felt less inclined to roll your eyes.

“Great race today,” he said, his tone genuine as he leaned against the railing beside you.

“Thanks,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “I actually thought I might’ve had a shot at you there.”

He chuckled softly, and you felt your heart flutter at the sound. “You were close. Just need to find a bit more speed in those corners, and you’ll be there.”

You took a deep breath, the earlier tension bubbling to the surface. “You know, it used to annoy me—how you carried yourself, like you were always one step ahead of everyone. Like it was your birth right to be where you are and no one else could catch you.”

Max raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your honesty. “Yeah?"

You turned to face him, the excitement of the race fading into something more serious. “But now? I get it. You’ve worked your ass off to be the best. It’s not just about talent, it’s about everything you’ve sacrificed. I can see that now. I see it everyday”

He nodded slowly, and the atmosphere shifted between you. “It’s not easy, you know. When everyone expects you to win, and if you don’t, it feels like you’ve let them down.”

The vulnerability in his voice surprised you. It was a reminder that he was human too, grappling with expectations and pressure. “But you handle it all so well,” you said, meeting his gaze. “I respect that.”

A smile ghosted across his lips. “Thanks. That means a lot. I’ve noticed how hard you’ve been pushing yourself this season. It’s impressive.”

You felt warmth spread through your chest at his acknowledgment. “I’ve had to, I can’t just coast along. Not when you’re in the same garage.”

Max’s expression grew serious again. “I know I was... a bit frosty at the beginning. I guess I was too focused on myself to notice how much you were putting in. I don't want this to come across wrong... but it's your first season, and I didn’t want to give you any false hope thinking you could compete with me.”

You frowned slightly, you didn't want to dive into old wounds. “It’s okay. I get it.”

“No, it’s not okay,” he said, shaking his head. “You deserved better. I should have been more supportive. You pushed me too, you know? It’s hard to admit, but you’ve made me work harder, and I appreciate that.”

Your heart raced at his words. There was a sincerity in his tone that softened the rough edges of your previous encounters. You couldn’t help but feel a surge of gratitude mixed with disbelief.

“Really?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, really,” he replied. “You’ve improved more than I expected in such a short time. It takes guts to put yourself out there and challenge someone who’s been at the top for so long.”

The air between you was charged with a mix of emotions. You nodded, “Thanks for saying that Max. It means a lot to hear you acknowledge it.”

He shrugged, trying to downplay the moment, but the corners of his mouth quirked up. “Well, it’s true. Just don’t get too comfortable, I still plan on beating you.”

You laughed, feeling the tension dissipate. “Bring it on Verstappen. I’ll be ready.”

As you stood there, side by side, the competitive fire still smouldering between you, something shifted again—this time, the rivalry felt more like a partnership.

Race Weekend 16 – Azerbaijan Grand Prix

It was early morning Thursday, you and Max found yourselves sitting across from each other at breakfast, still somewhat groggy from travel. The team lounge was quiet, and the two of you were left alone at the table.

“You’re not gonna try and out-eat me too, are you?” Max asked, a teasing smile playing on his lips as he poked at his food.

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t need to out-eat you Max. I’ve already out-qualified you once.”

His eyes lit up in mock offence. “One time! You’re never going to let that go are you?”

“Not a chance,” you said with a grin, taking a bite of your toast. “I’m framing that lap time.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And you’re too easy to mess with,” you shot back. "Honestly, it's like a gift."

Max laughed, his genuine smile making your stomach flip in a way you couldn’t quite control. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’m just letting you win the mind games. Gotta keep you feeling confident somehow.”

“Oh, so you’re being generous now?” you quipped, raising an eyebrow.

“Always,” he replied with a wink.

The playful banter was natural now, a far cry from the sharp edges and constant tension that had defined your early relationship. There was still competition between you, but now it felt like something that pushed you both forward, rather than tearing you apart.

And as you exchanged another playful jab, you couldn’t help but notice the way both your eyes kept catching each other.

Race Weekend 17 – Singapore Grand Prix

The garage had emptied out, leaving behind only the quiet hum of cooling equipment and the faint clatter of distant tools. A rough race, nothing had gone the way you wanted.

Across the room Max was fiddling with his helmet, but you could tell he wasn’t focused on it. He glanced over at you, then slowly made his way to where you were sitting.

“You okay?” His voice was softer than usual.

You didn’t answer at first, still staring down at your hands trying to shrug off the defeat. “Yeah. Just... it wasn’t my day.”

Max nodded, his gaze steady. “It happens,” he said simply, but there was something in his tone that made you look up.

You sighed, the frustration bubbling over. “I know, but it feels different... I thought I was ready to take that next step the consistency was finally there…and then it just comes crashing back down.”

Max was quiet for a moment and when he spoke again there was a warmth in his voice. “This is a brutal track don't be too hard on yourself. You’ve been doing everything you can, I promise it shows.”

You looked at him, meeting his eyes. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

Max’s gaze softened, and he took a step closer his hand brushing lightly against your arm. “Trust me, it is.”

The simple touch sent a jolt through you, something unspoken passing between you in that small, fleeting contact. You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything Max moved even closer, and in a moment that felt both surprising and natural, he pulled you into a hug.

At first, you were too stunned to react. The sudden closeness, the warmth of his body against yours—it caught you off guard. But then you felt the solid weight of his arms around you, and you melted into the embrace, resting your head against his shoulder. His body was firm, steady, grounding you in a way that made the tension of the day seem to fade.

The hug wasn’t rushed, it lingered, the quiet between you filled with something heavier than words. But the feel of him, his arms around you, his breath steady against your temple was hard to ignore.

You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion, the frustration, or something else entirely, but suddenly you were hyper-aware of every movement, the way his breath hitched slightly when you leaned into him, the subtle way his hand trailed down your back before settling again at your waist.

Max’s hands tightened slightly around you, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your shirt. You felt his chin rest lightly on top of your head, and there was something in the way his body pressed against yours that sent your pulse racing.

For a moment it was just the two of you, the rest of the world forgotten. You could feel his heartbeat, steady but strong, and the closeness between you felt almost electric. You weren’t sure who would pull away first, or if either of you even wanted to.

When you finally pulled back neither of you moved far, your faces still inches apart. His hands lingered at your waist, and your breath caught when you saw the way his eyes flickered, just briefly, to your lips.

Neither of you said anything, but the way his fingers flexed slightly against your waist, the subtle tilt of his head, made it clear that you both felt it.

Your heart was pounding, the space between you charged. You could see it in his eyes, the question, the pull, but he didn’t act on it. Instead, he gave you a small almost imperceptible smile before he finally let go.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said, his voice quieter than before.

“Yeah,” you managed, trying to ignore the way your body still hummed from the closeness. “I know.”

Race Weekend 18 - Qatar Grand Prix

It was one of those rare nights when the team wasn’t focused on race strategy or technical debriefs. After a relentless set of races, the team had gathered at a low-lit restaurant lounge for a relaxed evening. Laughter and conversation flowed freely around the long table, and for once the entire team seemed at ease.

You were sitting with a few people and one of the mechanics Adam, was regaling everyone with a wildly exaggerated story about a mishap during a pit stop in his rookie year.

Max was sitting a few seats away, engrossed in a discussion with some of the team, but his eyes kept darting over to you, his gaze narrowing slightly as he observed the scene. His shoulders were tense, and the easygoing expression he’d worn earlier in the evening was replaced by something more guarded. It wasn’t like Max to be this quiet at team gatherings, and you were too distracted to notice at first, focused instead on Adam's ongoing tale.

But the shift in atmosphere caught your attention eventually. As you laughed at another one of Adam's jokes you glanced over to find Max staring your way, his jaw set. He quickly looked away, and downed the rest of his drink in one swift motion.

Curious, you turned back to Adam, who was obliviously leaning in a little closer still chuckling at his own story. And then Max was suddenly standing up, making his way around the table and pulling up a chair directly beside you, a smile plastered on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey,” Max greeted, his smile a little forced but convincing enough. “What’s going on over here then? Everyone seems to be having fun.”

Adam grinned and gave him a friendly nod. “Just telling some old war stories. You know how it is.”

“Oh, I bet,” Max replied.

You noticed it right away, especially the way he seemed intent on steering the conversation. “Adam was just telling me about his first-ever pit stop disaster,” you explained still smiling. “It’s been quite entertaining.”

“I’m sure it has,” Max said, but his gaze flickered to Adam again something unreadable in his eyes.

Adam glanced between the two of you, sensing the shift, and gave you a friendly smile before excusing himself to join another group. You watched him go, then turned back to Max noticing the tension still in his jaw.

“So, you came all the way over here to save me from pit lane stories?” you questioned.

Max shrugged, his expression casual. “I just didn’t want you to get bored. Thought you might appreciate something a bit more... entertaining.”

You turned to look at him, amused. “Uh-huh, or maybe you just didn’t want to be left out of the conversation.”

“Maybe. But I was doing you a favour, trust me. You’d have heard all of Adam’s best stories in the first five minutes.” He rolled his eyes.

"Seriously, what’s up?" you asked, genuinely confused by his behaviour.

Max didn’t respond immediately, instead glancing around the table, making sure no one was listening too closely before he spoke. "Nothing. Just... noticed you were getting along pretty well with Adam. I didn’t think he was was your type.”

You blinked, surprised by the unexpected comment. “Oh?” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “And what makes you think you know my type?”

Max shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Just an observation,” he said.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Is that so? And what exactly do you think my type is Max?”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I don’t know." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping lower. “I'd guess someone who doesn’t just talk big but can actually back it up. You know, a real challenge.”

You felt a flicker of heat rush through you at his words, the playful banter quickly taking on a different tone. “A challenge, huh?” you teased. “Funny, I don’t remember you being all that interested in challenges off the track.”

Max's grin widened, his eyes glinting with amusement. “I guess you’ve been paying attention to the wrong things then.”

Your breath faltered, and for a second you wondered if he was going to say something else, if he was going to push this conversation into territory you hadn’t quite prepared for. But then, just as quickly as it started Max leaned back, breaking the moment with a light laugh.

“Don’t overthink it,” he teased with a grin. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

You laughed lightly, shaking your head at his familiar cockiness. “You’re impossible.”

Max just grinned wider. “That's what they tell me.”

For a few minutes you fell into an easy rhythm of teasing each other, the tension from earlier fading completely. Max shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours under the table.

“So, what are you going to do for the break?” he asked, his gaze lingering on your face.

You shrugged, trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach at the way he was looking at you. “Probably just spend some time with family, maybe catch up on some sleep. What about you?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure yet,” he said thoughtfully. “Might go back to Monaco, or maybe not. Depends.”

“Depends on what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Max met your gaze, his expression unreadable for a moment. “Depends on if there’s anything... interesting keeping me around.”

There was a challenge in his eyes that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Or, maybe I’ll just catch up on sleep too,” he added with a wink, steering the conversation back into safer territory.

And before you could respond he reached out for his drink, his hand brushing yours briefly in a way that felt almost accidental. But the touch lingered, the heat of his skin against yours sending a jolt of awareness through you. Your eyes met again, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade away, the noise of the restaurant, the people around you. It was just you and Max, the world narrowing down to that single point of contact.

Race Weekend 20 – US Grand Prix

The Padel court was quiet, bathed in the late afternoon sun as you and Max stood on opposite sides of the net. This was meant to be a fun break from the track to let off some steam, but the second you both picked up your paddles it became clear neither of you were about to take it easy.

He’d been chirping at you since you got here, claiming he was going to wipe the floor with you. But you’d heard that song before.

"You sure you’re ready for this?" Max called from the other side of the net, casually tossing the ball up and catching it, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I mean, you can still back out. No shame in admitting defeat early."

You gave him a deadpan look, adjusting your grip on the paddle. "You talk way too much for someone who’s about to lose."

Max rested against his paddle, flashing that familiar smirk. "I’m just letting you believe you have a chance. Keeps things interesting."

You served the ball with a sharp flick of your wrist, sending it careening over the net. Max responded quickly, returning it with ease. The ball bounced between you, a quick exchange of volleys. His movements were swift, confident, but you weren’t about to let him get the upper hand so easily.

"Nice try," Max said after you missed a ball that bounced just out of reach. "You almost looked like you knew what you were doing there."

"Careful Verstappen," you shot back, repositioning yourself for the next rally. "I’m just warming up."

Max laughed, shaking his head. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re getting frustrated."

"I don’t get frustrated," you countered, serving the ball again, aiming straight for his side.

"Oh, you definitely do." He easily returned it, the smirk on his face only growing as you both rallied.

You grinned, already feeling the familiar rush of competition surging through you. This wasn’t racing, but it had the same energy—the need to outmanoeuvre, outthink, outplay. And if there was one thing you and Max did well it was push each other’s limits.

"You're really going to make me run for it, huh?" Max panted as he lunged to return a low ball, his paddle barely grazing it.

You smirked. "Wouldn't want you to get too comfortable."

After a particularly long rally, you smashed a shot just out of his reach, winning the point. Max groaned throwing his head back dramatically. "Unbelievable."

You pumped your fist, grinning from ear to ear. "And that’s how it’s done."

"Okay, okay," he wheezed, though his eyes were still bright with amusement. "I’ll give you that one. But don’t think I’m letting you win."

"Letting me win?" you repeated, wiping the sweat from your brow. "That’s cute Max."

Max walked to the net, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "Alright, you got lucky. One point, I’ll give you that."

"One point?" you scoffed, meeting him at the net. "Try four."

"Technicalities," he muttered, but the grin on his face betrayed his playful frustration. He watched you with a glint in his eye. "You know, you’re a lot better at this than I thought."

"Coming from you that means so much." you said dryly.

Max chuckled, his gaze still lingering on you. There was a moment of quiet, the sun casting long shadows on the court, the air between you thick with a kind of unspoken understanding.

"You’re not so bad yourself," you added, breaking the silence but not the tension. "For a guy who spends most of his free time gaming."

Max raised an eyebrow laughing again. "That supposed to be a compliment?"

You shrugged. "Take it however you want."

His grinned. "I think I’ll take it as a compliment."

Before you could reply, he stepped back, tossing the ball in the air. "Alright, rematch. Best two out of three. I’m not letting you walk away with that win."

"You just can’t handle losing to me can you?" you teased, taking your position, ready for another round. "I’m starting to think you just like seeing me sweat."

He chuckled, but the way his eyes lingered on you for a beat longer said more than his words did. "You’re not wrong."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, but there was no denying the subtle shift in the air. It wasn’t obvious or overt, but the dynamic between you had changed in the last few weeks. The teasing was still there, but there was a different kind of energy between you now, one that neither of you had quite acknowledged yet.

You cleared your throat, stepping back and spinning the ball in your hand. "Let’s finish this then. I’ve got a winning streak to keep."

Max’s grin returned, but it was softer now, less competitive and more… something else. "We’ll see about that."

Race Weekend 22 – Brazil Grand Prix

On race day, the tension was palpable. The roar of engines, the smell of burning rubber, and the hum of adrenaline filled the air. Max was standing next to his car helmet in hand, the pre-race jitters barely showing on his face. You caught his eye from across the garage, and for a moment, the world seemed to quiet around you.

You approached, trying to shake off the strange tension that always seemed to linger between the two of you lately. Max’s gaze met yours, steady but with an intensity that made your breath catch for just a second.

“Ready to lose today?” you asked, trying to keep things light, but your voice sounded a little shakier than you’d intended.

Max smirked, stepping closer than necessary. “In your dreams.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but the proximity made it hard to focus. There was a heat in his gaze and you found yourself holding your breath for a moment.

“Don’t get too cocky Verstappen,” you muttered, the playful tone masking the way your pulse raced.

He leaned in just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. “I think that’s your job now.”

For a second, it felt like everything had stopped—the noise, the chaos of the track, all fading into the background. But just as quickly the moment passed, and Max stepped back sliding his helmet on.

“See you at the finish line,” he said over his shoulder.

You stood there for a second longer trying to steady your breath, knowing that this race and whatever was happening between you two was far from over.

End of the Season – Abu Dhabi Grand Prix

The season had been a rollercoaster filled with highs and lows. You had stood on the podium for the first time in Canada, a moment that felt surreal after all the hard work. But there had also been heartbreak, a crash in Austria that had cost you valuable points, a mechanical failure in Mexico that had seen you retire from a race where you could have scored big.

Through it all your relationship with Max had continued to evolve. You still raced on track, fighting for every inch of tarmac, but off the track things had changed. There was mutual respect, an understanding that had grown over the course of the season. The animosity that had once defined your relationship was gone, replaced by something more complicated.

The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix was the final race of the season, and the championship was on the line. Max was in a tight battle for the title, and the pressure on both of you was immense.

The night before the race you found Max sitting alone in the team motorhome, staring out at the glowing lights of the Yas Marina Circuit. He looked unusually quiet, his usual air of confidence tempered by the gravity of the situation.

“You ready for tomorrow?” you asked, leaning against the doorway.

Max didn’t look at you, his eyes still focused on the track outside. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

You stepped inside, sitting down across from him*. “You’re going to win it.”*

Max finally turned to face you, a small, almost tired smile on his face. “You sound pretty sure of that.”

“I’ve watched you all season. No one’s better than you out there,” you said simply, meaning every word.

Max shook his head, letting out a short laugh. “You’re not so bad yourself you know.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eye. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You had fought hard to get to this point, and though Max was still your fiercest competition, he was also the one person who, you now realised, might understand you better than anyone else.

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix – Race Day

Race day was electric, the air crackling with anticipation. The championship battle had come down to this — the final race of the season, and everything was on the line. Max was in contention for the title, but his rival wasn’t far behind. Every lap, every pit stop, every decision mattered.

You were focused on your own race, but there was an underlying pressure you couldn’t ignore. Max needed you to perform today. If you could help him by holding off the cars behind, or making sure the team strategy worked in his favour, you would.

The race itself was a blur. The car felt good and you pushed hard, determined to finish the year on a high.

As the laps ticked down, the tension in the pit lane grew. Max was leading, but his rival was closing in behind you, and the team was on a knifes-edge. Then, with just a few laps to go, you got the call from your engineer.

“We need you to hold position, keep the cars behind you. Max needs this.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. It wasn’t the call you wanted to hear, but you understood. This was the team game. You weren’t fighting for the championship, but Max was.

“Got it,” you replied, gritting your teeth as you focused on the task ahead.

For the next few laps, you fought with everything you had to keep the cars behind you, giving Max the breathing room he needed. It was arguably the hardest race of your life, the pressure almost unbearable. But when the checkered flag finally fell, you had done it.

Max crossed the line first, securing the championship, and you finished in a solid second place.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, fireworks lighting up the sky as Max stood on the podium, the World Champion once again. You watched him celebrate, a mixture of pride and satisfaction swelling in your chest. You hadn’t won, but in a way you had still achieved something important. You had proven that you could compete at this level, that you could stand with the best.

Later that night, after all the celebrations had died down you found Max sitting alone in the quiet garage, his championship trophy resting beside him.

“Not partying with the team?” you asked.

Max looked up, his face still glowing with the satisfaction of victory. “Needed a minute,” he said, his voice soft.

You stepped inside, sitting down beside him. “You did it,” you said, a small smile on your lips.

Max glanced at you, his blue eyes filled with something deeper than just the thrill of winning. “We did it,” he corrected, his voice sincere.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The weight of the season, the challenges you had both faced, the fights on and off the track — it all hung in the air between you. But there was no tension now, no rivalry. Just understanding.

“You really helped me today,” Max said after a while, his voice quiet but firm. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but his words meant more to you than you’d expected. “Just doing my job.”

Max chuckled, shaking his head. “You did more than that.”

You turned to face him fully, your knees brushing against his, the closeness between you suddenly palpable. His eyes were on you, and the look he gave you sent a shiver down your spine.

You met his gaze smiling, the two of you had been through so much together, and now, sitting in the quiet aftermath of victory, it felt like the beginning of something new.

But then the playful smile faded, replaced by a more intense expression. His gaze flickered, dropping to your lips for just a fraction of a second, but it was enough to send your heart racing.

The space between you seemed to shrink. You felt your breath hitch as Max shifted closer, the warmth of his body brushing against yours. His hand moved, almost hesitantly, to your arm, his fingers grazing your skin in a way that made every nerve in your body stand on end.

You could feel it now, the weight of everything unsaid, everything that had built up over the season, all the unspoken moments between you. It was all right there, in the way his hand lingered on your arm, the way his breath caught as his eyes met yours again, more intensely this time.

“You’re not bad at this whole teammate thing,” Max murmured, his voice low.

You rolled your eyes, but the banter was thin now, the words barely a distraction from the way your heart was pounding in your chest. “I guess you're not so bad yourself.”

Max’s smile faded again, his gaze serious, and for a moment, everything else fell away. The garage, the race, the entire championship, none of it mattered. It was just the two of you, sitting there in the quiet.

And then, before you could even process what was happening, Max leaned in.

It was slow at first, as if he was giving you time to pull away, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. His lips hovered just above yours, the space between you almost unbearable, and then finally he closed the distance.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, but it didn’t stay that way for long. There was too much between you for it to be gentle. His hand came up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, and you felt your body respond, your heart pounding in your ears.

It wasn’t a kiss born out of victory or celebration. It was something else, something more intense, like all the tension, the rivalry, the unspoken moments between you had finally come to a head. It was raw, charged, and for a moment, it felt like the world had stopped spinning around you.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, Max’s forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed as he let out a shaky breath.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. There was a shift now, something irrevocable between you, but it felt right. Like this was where you were always meant to end up.

“You know,” Max murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, “Next year’s going to be interesting.”

You let out a breathless laugh, still trying to catch your breath. “You have no idea.” you teased, nudging him with your shoulder. “Next year, I’m coming for you.”

Max grinned. “I’d like to see you try.”

And as you sat there, still wrapped up in each other you couldn’t help but smile. The season may have ended, but the story between you and Max was far from over.

[maryleclerc]

could you do a fic about the reader being a singer and she goes to one of luke's NHL hockey games and she is spotted there like Taylor swift was and than she writes a whole love album about her and luke

love this request, and i hope you like this 💗

LOVE SONG FOR YOU

REQUEST OPEN

PAIRING: Luke Hughes x Singer!reader

SUMMARY: After a night of supporting your boyfriend, Luke Hughes, at a New Jersey Devils game, your love for him spills over into a new album. Known for your voice and now for showing up in the stands to cheer him on, you catch the attention of fans from both your worlds. The album becomes a heartfelt reflection of your relationship, and in a playful interview with a close friend, you confirm what everyone had suspected – the album is a love letter to Luke.

WARNING: English is not my first language. Fluff, public attention, fan excitement, playful teasing, and pure romance.

Your heart pounded with excitement as you made your way to your seat, attempting to keep a low profile under a hoodie and a baseball cap. But no amount of disguise could change why you were here. You weren’t just a fan tonight, you were here to see Luke, Luke Hughes.

After a year and a half of dating, both you and Luke were used to supporting eachother from afar, you always watching his games online or catching highlights later, but tonight was different. Being here in person you could felt something electric. Your gaze stayed locked on him as he took a few warm-up laps on the ice with his teammates. Even from a distance, he looked as focused and intense as ever, radiating a quiet confidence that made your heart swell with pride.

Despite your attempt to stay under the radar, the fans around you soon began to whisper and point. Some recognized you, and you couldn’t help but smile as a few nearby Devils fans struck up casual conversation.

“Oh, so you’re a fan, huh?” a young woman in the row ahead of you said, grinning knowingly.

“Something like that,” you replied, giving her a wink.

They teased you gently, but they didn’t pry, simply enjoying the game and occasionally sharing their enthusiasm for Luke. It was heartwarming to see how loved he was by his fans, and you couldn’t help but feel an unexpected sense of camaraderie with them.

Every time Luke skated onto the ice, your eyes followed him. Each save, each play, had you holding your breath, and every victory had you clapping louder than anyone else around. There were a few moments when you caught Luke’s eye from across the rink, and though he couldn’t acknowledge you directly, the slightest hint of a smile in his eyes told you he knew you were there. In those moments, the rest of the arena seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in your shared world.

When the game finally ended, with the Devils claiming a hard-fought win, you could hardly contain your pride. As you left the arena, fans with quick cameras snapped photos of you smiling, and before you knew it, they were posting online, tagging you with captions like

Spotted at Luke’s game! The way she looks at him tho…

Another power couple in sports and entertainment?

You couldn’t help but chuckled at the speculation, secretly thrilled by how much people adored seeing the two of you together.

For days after the game, memories of the night still lingered in your head. The loud cheers, the crowd’s energy, the sound of his skating on the ice, the sight of Luke in his element all of it stayed with you. Back at home, you found yourself replaying it in your mind over and over again, finding bits and pieces of inspiration in each moment.

Lyrics began to pour out, each one a line in the story of your love for Luke. Some were about the thrill of watching him play, while others were softer, quieter, capturing the moments no one else saw the late-night talks, the gentle laughter, the way he’d hold you close when no one was looking.

Writing the album felt like writing a love letter, something you considered a very romantic things. You poured all of your feelings into each verse, each melody, until the album began to take shape as a reflection of your love for him. The songs were intimate and honest, capturing the magic and the reality of being in a relationship with someone whose life was as much in the spotlight as yours.

When the album was complete, you felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness. You hadn’t told Luke about it yet, wanting it to be surprise. And as the release date drew near, you could barely contain your anticipation.

When your album “Love Song for You” dropped, fans were quick to notice the clues. They dissected every lyric, analyzing lines like “the thrill of the crowd” and “the ice under your feet,” connecting them to Luke and his career. Social media erupted with theories, fans tagging both you and Luke in posts saying,

This HAS to be about him!

She’s definitely a Devils fan now!

Even Luke was taken aback when he first listened to it. He had suspected you’d been working on something special, but he hadn’t anticipated that each song would feel like a personal dedication. The two of you sat together on the couch, listening to the album as he took in each lyric. He reached over to hold your hand, his eyes full of emotion.

“This is incredible,” he said softly, his voice filled with awe. “I don’t know what to say… thank you.”

You smiled, leaning into him. “I just wanted to capture how I feel. How much I love you.”

For the next few days, social media, tiktok was flooded with reactions to the album. Fans shared clips, tagging both of you with heart emojis and comments even edits of their boyfriend, girlfriend.

A few days after the album release, you were invited to a friend’s podcast. They were well aware of your relationship with Luke and the story behind the album, but they kept things light, creating an atmosphere of fun and excitement.

After a few warm-up questions, the host leaned in with a smirk.

“So, there’s one thing everyone’s been dying to know,” they began, grinning.

“What was this album really about?”

You laughed, giving a playful shrug.

“What do you mean, ‘what was this album about?’” you replied, a twinkle in your eye. “Isn’t it too obvious?”

The host laughed, clearly delighted with your answer. “So it’s official then?” they teased, leaning back in their seat. “Our hockey star has his own singer-songwriter.”

“Absolutely,” you said, beaming.

“Every lyric, every melody, each and every single words, it’s all for him. He’s… well, he’s pretty inspiring.”

That night, you and Luke went out to celebrate, choosing a quiet, cozy restaurent where you could relax away from the public eye. As you settled into your seats at the restaurant, you both shared a laugh at the sheer amount of attention the interview had gotten.

Luke reached across the table to hold your hand, his eyes soft looking at you.

“You really didn’t have to do all that… but I’m so glad you did.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “I wanted everyone to know how amazing you are. You inspire me every day.”

He chuckled, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. “Well, now the whole world knows.” His voice softened. “Thank you. For every song, every word. I’m… the luckiest guy in the world.”

The two of you spent the rest of the evening lost in each other’s company, reminiscing over memories, and sharing dreams for the future, about his hockey career. By the time you left the restaurant, the street lights was already on, and as you walked hand in hand, you could felt the love and gratitude around you. You had poured your heart into an album, shared your love with the world, and celebrated a relationship that meant everything to you.

[writingbuckets]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞: 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐢

paige bueckers x influencer!reader

wc: 1.7k

a/n: thanks so much for the kind messages on part 1! enjoy <3

You can feel the energy in the arena even from the parking lot. Fans are buzzing, and you catch glimpses of them sporting jerseys and waving signs in support of Paige and her teammates. There’s a spark of excitement mixed with nerves in your stomach as you make your way to the courtside seats Paige promised.

You glance down at the ticket she sent you through DM with a wry smile. It’s a little surreal, actually being here. The back-and-forth messages with Paige left you curious and maybe a little too interested in seeing her play. Overrated, you’d said. Well, tonight she’d get the chance to prove you wrong.

As you settle into your seat, you text Taylor to let her know you’ve arrived. She’s responds in caps “EXCITED FOR YOU”, sending laughing emojis and a “TRY NOT TO FALL IN LOVE, Y/N.”

In the locker room, Paige’s teammates are already in pre-game mode, stretching and reviewing plays, but Azzi catches sight of Paige checking her phone for the third time in five minutes. She grins knowingly, nudging Jana beside her.

“Okay, what’s up with you?” Azzi asks Paige with a teasing tone. “You’ve got that look.”

Paige pretends not to know what she’s talking about, tucking her phone away with a smirk. “What look?”

“Don’t play coy. This is a new level of focus even for you,” Jana chimes in, eyeing her with mock seriousness. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with your biggest critic being courtside tonight, would it?”

Paige rolls her eyes but can’t hide the grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Just trying to make sure she gets her money’s worth,” she says with a shrug. “Not every day you get a ‘critique’ from someone who’s never even seen you play live.”

KK, who’s been stretching nearby, perks up, catching the last part of the conversation. “Wait, is this the podcaster?” She laughs, sitting up and pointing at Paige. “The one who called you overrated? Oh, this is too good.”

“Yeah, we’ve been talking a little,” Paige admits, trying to sound casual but clearly enjoying the reaction from her friends.

Morgan snickers. “Talking, huh? I don’t think she meant that comment as an invitation, Paige.”

Paige gives a mock glare. “Please. She’s practically begging to be impressed.”

Aubrey chuckles, crossing her arms. “Just don’t get too distracted out there, superstar. She might be here to see you crash and burn.”

Paige laughs and waves them off, but there’s an undeniable confidence in her tone. “Oh, trust me. She’s not ready for what she’s about to see.”

**********

You watch the team make their entrance, the crowd roaring as each player is introduced. When Paige is called, the noise is almost deafening, and you find yourself instinctively clapping along, even as you try to stay cool.

Finally, the game starts. Within moments, it’s clear why Paige has all the attention. She commands the court with ease, weaving around defenders with a blend of grace and intensity that makes it hard to look away. Every shot, every pass—it’s like she’s putting on a show, and with each move, she glances your way, her gaze almost daring you to look impressed.

You catch her eye after she lands a particularly smooth three-pointer, and she gives a slight smirk, as if to say, Not bad, huh?

You raise an eyebrow, mouthing back, “Still not impressed.”

In response, she grins and picks up her pace, dominating every play with a flair that seems designed to taunt you. The more you watch, the more you find yourself pulled into the game, barely noticing the time passing. But every so often, her eyes find yours, and it’s like the entire arena fades away for just a moment.

The final buzzer sounds, and Paige’s team wins by a comfortable margin. As the players cool down and talk to the press, she sends a quick look in your direction, clearly reveling in her victory. She approaches the sidelines, her teammates trailing behind and giving her little nudges and knowing looks.

Azzi shoots you a cheeky grin as she passes. “Hey, thanks for coming. Glad Paige had her own personal cheerleader tonight.”

Jana adds with a laugh, “More like underrated, huh?”

Before you can respond, Paige strides up, wiping sweat from her brow and grinning with that signature self-assurance.

“So?” she says, folding her arms and looking at you expectantly. “Any thoughts from my favorite hater?”

You keep your expression neutral, even as your pulse quickens under her direct gaze. “Not bad. You almost looked like you knew what you were doing out there.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Almost? That’s high praise coming from you.”

You shrug, tilting your head thoughtfully. “Guess I’ll have to watch a few more games to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”

Her eyes light up at that. “Oh, so you’re coming back?”

“Only if you keep up that level of play,” you reply, not missing a beat. “I’d hate to waste my time.”

Her teammates are still hovering nearby, soaking up the banter with matching grins.

KK gives Paige a nudge. “Careful, Bueckers. I think she’s starting to like you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first,” Paige quips, giving you a sidelong glance. “Some people just need a little convincing.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “You think you’ve convinced me?”

“Not yet,” she admits, a teasing challenge in her eyes. “But I think I’m close.”

You can’t help but laugh, enjoying the back-and-forth more than you’d like to admit. She’s good at this—smooth, confident, and annoyingly charming. And the way she keeps looking at you, with that mix of amusement and intrigue, makes it harder to stick to your original opinion.

As the conversation winds down, you start to think about heading out. But before you can make a move, Paige’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“So, a few of us are grabbing food to celebrate,” she says casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You should come. Unless, of course, you have better things to do?”

Her eyes are challenging, and you can feel her teammates watching you, clearly curious to see what you’ll say. Part of you wants to play it cool, brush it off, but there’s a bigger part that’s intrigued, drawn to the idea of spending more time with her.

“Why not?” you reply, keeping your tone light. “Could be interesting.”

She grins, giving her teammates a triumphant look before gesturing for you to follow.

The group heads to a local spot where they’re regulars, filling up a large booth with laughter and chatter. You find yourself seated next to Paige, who’s now relaxed and fully in her element, her focus entirely on you.

“So, tell me,” she says, leaning in as she sips her drink. “What made you think I wasn’t as good as people say?”

You shrug, pretending to think hard. “I think some players need to be humbled sometimes. Keeps things balanced.”

“Oh, really?” She smirks. “So you’re, like, the self-appointed hype police?”

“If that’s what it takes.” You give her a challenging look. “And, judging by your performance, I think you’re taking my job pretty seriously.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Maybe I just like proving people wrong.”

Aubrey, who’s overheard, chimes in with a grin. “Yeah, Paige is kind of a show-off when it comes to impressing people.”

Paige rolls her eyes, but she’s clearly enjoying the attention. “Hey, I like a challenge.”

You lean back, folding your arms as you meet her gaze. “Good to know. Might have to challenge you more often, then.”

The night goes on, filled with jokes, teasing, and the undeniable chemistry simmering between you and Paige. Her teammates keep throwing her looks, nudging her when she gets too obvious with her attention, but she brushes them off with ease.

By the end of the night, you’re more than a little curious about where this dynamic might lead. Paige, it turns out, isn’t just an incredible player—she’s clever, competitive, and, as much as you hate to admit it, a lot of fun to be around.

As you say your goodbyes and head out, she catches your arm, pulling you back for one last exchange.

“So,” she murmurs, her voice low, “can I ask for your opinion on me now?”

You meet her gaze, a slow smile spreading across your face. “ I’ll tell you when you make an appearance on the show.”

She laughs, nodding as she steps back. “You can count on it.”

You linger a moment, savoring the playfulness in her tone and the easy confidence in her smile. Her teammates start calling her over, and you see her hesitate, glancing between you and her friends. It’s almost as if she’s weighing her next move, and the idea that Paige Bueckers might actually be a little reluctant to end the night brings a grin to your face.

“Better go before they start making up embarrassing stories about you,” you say with a nod toward her friends, who are watching the two of you with unabashed interest.

She chuckles, eyes glinting with something mischievous. “Don’t worry, they don’t have any dirt on me… yet.”

“Oh, so you’re planning on giving them some?” you shoot back.

Paige tilts her head thoughtfully. “Only if it’s worth it.” Her voice is low, suggestive, and you can’t ignore the electric undertone beneath her words. She glances toward the exit, then back at you, taking a small step closer. “But, you know… I wouldn’t mind getting to know my ‘biggest hater” a little better.”

Her words hang in the air, and you feel your pulse quicken. There’s a part of you that wants to keep this light, play it cool, but another part—a part you’re not fully ready to admit yet—is undeniably intrigued by her invitation.

With a playful smile, you shrug. “Maybe you’ll earn that chance. If you’re lucky.”

Her laughter rings out, bright and clear. “I think I make my own luck.”

You offer her a mock salute. “We’ll see about that, superstar.”

As you turn to leave, you feel her gaze on you, lingering, as though she’s already planning her next move. And as you step out of the restaurant, the night air feels different—charged with possibility. You’ve seen a side of Paige that few get to see, and it’s clear this game of wit and challenge between you isn’t over yet.

But for now, you head home, wondering what exactly you’ve gotten yourself into.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | modern!cregan stark x fem!oc ONESHOT

a/n: on this exciting version of 'second sight', it's the modern day, folks! Phones, fast cars, college, apartments, tabloids, money! (@justdazzling - I LOVE YOU, thank you, little genius)

summary: Cregan Stark, old-money, a grounded hockey star on scholarship, and Claere Velaryon, the botany-loving black sheep of a powerful dynasty, share a secret romance that teeters on the edge of scandal. Between the clash of their worlds, a gilded gala, and looming chaos, love either blossoms—or explodes.

warnings: I write this from beyond the Tumblr grave. too much fluff can kill you and this fic is proof. mild smut 16+. language. alcohol.

words: 20,000+, 1 hr read (full-time job + sleepless nights = ?)

This was it.

Final period. Tie game.

One shot could win it, and the puck was his to take. With every second, that little flat cylinder started to appear as a bomb.

The air in the arena was electric, thick with the howl of the crowd and the sharp scrape of blades against ice. Cregan Stark crouched low at the centre of the rink, the number on his jersey stretching, his stick planted, grey eyes locked on the puck. Around him, his teammates circled like wolves closing in for the kill, their jerseys streaked with sweat and ice shavings.

He could feel the pulse of the game in his veins, as natural as breathing, as wild as his home. His ears tuned out the deafening cheers and jeers of the crowd, the taunts from the opposing team, and even the PA announcer hyping up the stakes. Everything narrowed to a razor-sharp focus on the puck and the players around him.

He caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye—a man in a sharp suit stepping into the bleachers, clipboard in hand, right behind his coach. That was him. The scout. He didn’t need to hear the whispers from the bench to confirm it. The guy had been making the rounds in the college leagues for weeks, cherry-picking talent for a shot at the pros.

And Cregan was under his microscope.

Not for the first time, he felt the significance of his family’s name burning a brand at the back of his neck. The Stark boy. He wasn’t here because he was a Stark; he was here because he had fought like hell, clawed his way in, and earned every inch on this rink through blood and sweat. His scholarship wasn’t a handout. His leadership wasn't for the welfare of his parents. It was proof that he belonged.

To his left, Jacaerys Velaryon skated up beside him, his usual cocky grin flashing behind his mouthguard. Jace was different—here on his mother’s dime, her political sway. Rhaenyra Targaryen was a storm in a blazer, a powerhouse who could buy her son the world. Not that Jace ever let anyone forget it.

"Feeling the pressure, Cap?" Jace said, just loud enough for Cregan to hear over the din.

Cregan didn’t look at him, keeping his gaze on the puck. “Yeah, you should feel it some time, Velaryon. Builds character.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Jace blow him a dramatic kiss, mouthguard and all. Cregan rolled his eyes.

Gods, it was impossible to hate the guy. Annoying as hell, sure, but Jace had turned out to be the kind of teammate Cregan couldn’t help but respect. A love-hate friendship: hate off the rink, love on it. When the chips were down, he was the first one in the fray, throwing elbows and taking hits like his life depended on it. More than that, he was someone Cregan could trust, on and off the ice. He could think of one, sweet thing Jace had shut the hell up about...

“Eyes on the puck, Romeo,” Cregan said, smirking as the ref blew the whistle.

The faceoff was clean. Cregan exploded into motion, stick snapping the puck toward the boards, his legs pumping with the rhythm of the game. He barked out orders to his wingers, cutting through the defense like they’d choreographed it in practice. The crowd surged to its feet as the opposing team scrambled to keep up.

“Jace! Far post!” he shouted, spotting the gap in the defence.

Jace was already there, skating into position like he’d read Cregan’s mind. A quick pass, a deflection, and the puck was back in Cregan’s control. He faked left, cutting around the defender, his body moving on instinct.

The goal was in sight.

He barely registered the crunch of skates behind him, but he heard Jace’s voice, sharp and clear. “Take it, Cap!”

Cregan planted his skates, leaned into the shot, and let it fly.

The puck sliced through the air like an arrow, slamming into the back of the net with a satisfying clang.

The arena erupted.

Cregan’s teammates swarmed him, whooping and pounding his back as the scoreboard flashed their victory like a glitching billboard. His name was a chant through the crowds, as he yanked off his helmet, sweat dripping into his eyes, and grinned like a madman. The praise, the noise, his name—this was his addiction. He ran a hand into his mussed hair; this was a victory, ten times over.

“Not bad, Stark,” Jace said, slapping his shoulder as they skated toward the bench.

“Coming from you? I’ll take it as a compliment,” Cregan shot back, ruffling Jace’s hair just to annoy him.

As they lined up to shake hands with the opposing team, Cregan glanced toward the stands. The scout was gone, but that didn’t matter. Tonight, he’d proved himself. To the crowd, to the team, and to the name Stark.

And maybe, just maybe, to himself.

X

The locker room was alive with noise—players laughing, hooting, the showers roaring in the background. The air was thick with the sharp tang of sweat, soap, and the lingering charge of victory. Cregan stood apart from the chaos, leaning against the cold metal of his locker. His towel hung low around his hips, and his focus was locked on the ivory card in his hand. The embossed letters shimmered under the fluorescent lights like they knew they were about to ruin his day.

“A charity gala invite,” he read aloud, voice flat, unimpressed.

Across the room, Jace was busy toweling off his hair. The ends of his grin peeked from beneath the towel, smug as hell.

“You’re welcome,” Jace said, his tone soaked in self-satisfaction.

Cregan squinted at him, holding the card like it might bite. “It’s not for me, is it?”

Jace shrugged, yanking off his shirt. “Technically, it’s a family thing.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed as suspicion settled in. “So, what—you’re trying to set me up with a scout?”

Jace snorted, tossing his towel into the laundry bin. “I'm not that nice. It’s just an invite.”

“To your family’s gala,” Cregan shot back, the card feeling heavier in his hand. “Where your dad’s gonna be. The one who made that Tyrell boy piss his trousers.”

Jace smirked as Cregan tossed the card into his bag. “Daemon. And, yeah, he’s gonna be there. That’s kind of the point.”

Cregan sighed, crushing a palm into his eye, already regretting where this was headed. “Gah, why me? Why can't you?”

“Because you’re the team captain,” Jace said, leaning casually against his locker. “You’re the guy who gets shit done. And, oh yeah." He tapped his chin, pretending to think. "You need him. Talk about sponsorships for the playoffs, Stark. You know, things that could keep our asses out of the red.”

Cregan let out a bitter laugh, dragging on a pair of pants. “Oh, I see. So I’m supposed to waltz in, make nice with your dad, and beg for his money? Like none of the hard work I’ve done to get here matters?”

“It’s not begging,” Jace said, rolling his eyes. “It’s strategy. And it’s not just for you—it’s for the team. C'mon, man. Play the game.”

Cregan scowled, staring at the card again. “I worked my ass off to get here. You really think I’m gonna throw that away by showing up to some—”

“Claere’s going to be there, too,” Jace said, cutting him off.

That stopped Cregan cold. His head snapped up, his wide-eyed stare meeting Jace’s infuriatingly smug grin. “Shut the fuck up.”

Jace took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough to make Cregan’s stomach tighten with dread. “Maybe you’d like to explain to Daemon why you’ve been sneaking around with his darling daughter?”

Cregan’s pulse kicked up. His eyes darted around the room, checking if anyone was listening. Most of the guys were too busy horsing around to pay attention, but he still stepped closer to Jace, his voice a harsh whisper. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Jace said, his grin widening. “You’re going out with my sister. Daemon’s dear daughter. So unless you want to make that public knowledge—”

“You’re such a dick,” Cregan muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Absolutely,” Jace said cheerfully. “But hey, I’m trying to help.”

Cregan tilted his head. “Sounds like you're threatening to out the one good thing in my life.”

“H-E-L-P.”

“Ah, what ironic last words.”

Jace chuckled. “You show up, be the good guy, make a solid impression on my dad, and maybe—just maybe—you don’t end up on his shitlist. Hell, you might even get that sponsorship. Everybody wins.”

Cregan stared at him, torn between strangling him and walking out the door. “Or maybe this just guarantees I’m on his shitlist for life.”

Jace shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to find out.” He smacked Cregan on the shoulder and turned toward the showers. “Clock’s ticking, Stark. Better get that new suit pressed.”

Cregan glared at Jace’s retreating back, his jaw tightening as his fingers curled around the stiff card. The edges dug into his palm, a sharp contrast to the suffocating load settling in his chest. Anger was easy to name—it simmered just under his skin, directed squarely at Jace’s smug, grinning face. Dread, too, made its home in the pit of his stomach, twisting with every thought of the Targaryens’ judging stares. But there was something else, something hotter and heavier that sat in his chest like a stone.

He hated how well Jace knew him, hated the way he could be backed into a corner with nothing more than a pointed nudge and a knowing smirk. Hated, even more, the flicker of anticipation threading through his frustration—the thought of Claere, her silver hair catching the light, her sharp wit softened only for him. It made his stomach churn and his heart beat just a little too fast.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, stuffing the invite into his bag like it might disappear if he just crumpled it hard enough. “You fuckin' owe me, Velaryon. Big time.”

The room felt too small, the laughter and banter of his teammates grating against his ears. He wanted to slam his locker door, but it wouldn’t help. Nothing would, not when he was stuck between two impossible choices: walking into that dragon's den of a gala or giving Jace the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.

From across the room, Jace’s voice echoed as he sauntered toward the showers. “You’re gonna thank me for this someday! Right on my mouth!”

Cregan flipped him the bird without turning around, his scowl deepening as the other guys burst into laughter.

He should’ve ripped the card in two. Should’ve tossed it in the trash and called it a day. But he didn’t. Instead, he zipped up his bag, the crisp corner of the invitation peeking out from between the seams. He slung the strap over his shoulder and headed for the door.

X

Secrets had a way of thriving in the dark, and tonight, Cregan Stark was stepping straight into the shadows of his own.

The greenhouse was like something out of a fairytale or nightmare, depending on the beholder—old, forgotten, swallowed by ivy and moss. Glass panels speckled with dirt softened the moonlight, casting the place in a hazy glow. Somewhere in the back, the faint sound of water dripped, rhythmic as a heartbeat. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp soil and blooming flowers, the kind of stillness that made it feel like the world outside didn’t exist.

Cregan stood just inside the glass doorway, gold medal in hand, his breath still uneven from the game. He should be out with his teammates, sharing victory beers and soaking in their roaring laughter. He should be walking into a party, medal clinking against his chest, grinning like he owned the world. Instead, he was here, surrounded by shadows and greenery, drawn by a force he couldn’t name but didn’t dare fight.

And there she was. Claere.

She sat hunched over a parapet slab near the back of the greenhouse, her silhouette framed by an unruly braid that escaped the tie meant to tame them. Her fingers moved deftly over a sketchbook, shading lines with the tip of a pencil, her rings catching the low light as her hand darted across the page. She hummed to herself, her head bobbing lightly, earphones tucked in. She hadn’t noticed him yet, completely absorbed in her work.

His heart twisted at the sight of her. Gods, this girl. She was every rumour, every ridiculous story spun about her by the campus vultures: the weirdo who talked to squirrels, who fed crows in the quad, who disappeared into forgotten corners like this greenhouse for hours on end. But to him, she was so much more. She was warmth and chaos, the perfect motley of sharp wit and shy smile. His enigma. His Claere.

He could barely believe his luck every time he laid eyes on this girl. He should be dragging her out of there, into his car, kissing her breathless in the parking lot where his teammates could see just how fortunate he was. Instead, he was standing here like she was some impermissible jewel. A dirty secret. Something precious, hidden, just for him.

Cregan shook his head and took a quiet step forward. Then another. He stopped just behind her, close enough to see the faint blue smudge of ink on her cheek, the way her lips pressed together in concentration. Without a word, he reached out and poked her waist.

Claere yelped, her legs jerking against the parapet. Papers and pencils flew everywhere, her phone clattering to the stone floor as she twisted around.

“Don’t do that!” she hissed, smacking his chest with a feeble fist.

Cregan laughed, catching her wrist before she could hit him again. “Couldn’t resist,” he said, leaning down to pepper dramatic, open-mouthed kisses along her cheeks and temple, one after another, until she gave up trying to squirm away.

“Cregan, enough,” she muttered, though her voice had softened, her hands busy gathering her scattered papers of botanical drawings. She was so good at it, weirdly good. He envied how detailed she was when it came to her diagrams.

He grinned against her temple and pulled back just enough to look at her.

“How did the game go?” she asked, pulling her notebook onto her lap and brushing a curl out of her face.

Wordlessly, he raised the gold medal before his winning smirk, letting it swing from his finger.

Her face lit up, that radiant smile of hers robbing him of a breath. It was one of those rare moments, a prize earned every time she graced that smile.

“Go Wolves,” she cheered, clapping her hands together before her gaze darted to the flowers nearby. Her eyes gleamed as she reached out, plucking a feathery blue orchid.

“Congratulations, my lord,” she said, presenting it to him with a dramatic little flourish.

Cregan laughed, twirling the orchid between his fingers. “Thank you, princess.” He winked, dropping his hockey stick and bag to the ground before climbing onto the parapet beside her.

On instinct, he nudged her papers, notebooks, and pencils aside and laid his head on his favourite spot in the world, letting out a long, contented sigh. The cool skim of her skirt and the warm scent of her combined was a balm, soothing every ache from the game.

“This,” he murmured, his eyes falling shut, “this is the best feeling in the world. Victory and you.”

Claere smiled down at him, her hand finding its way to his hair, fingers threading gently through the strands, scratching at his scalp.

“You look tired,” she said softly, full of affection. The sound of music itself.

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm. “Not anymore.”

For a moment, there was only silence, the kind that made the world shrink to just the two of them. But even in this moment of calm, Cregan’s thoughts tugged at the edges of his peace. He thought about the whispers that followed her everywhere. He thought about Daemon, her father, and what he’d do if he found out.

But mostly, he thought about how none of it mattered. Not when she smiled at him like that. Not when he was in love with the campus, but moreover the city's so-called weirdo.

Claere leaned down, her lips grazing his forehead, soft and warm, the kind of touch that lingered even after it was gone. “You’re not going to tell me how many goals you scored, are you?”

Her voice, light as spun silk, carried an almost playful accusation, and Cregan couldn’t stop the smirk from curling on his lips.

“Only if you promise not to fall even more in love with me,” he teased.

Her laughter that followed was like a bell, ringing and airy, and when he opened his eyes, there she was again. Alarmingly violet eyes framed by lashes that cast soft shadows against her pale skin. Her silver hair tumbled around her ears and forehead, catching faint glimmers of moonlight filtering through the greenhouse glass. She was this arcane entity, spun from the fabric of a half-forgotten dream, so far removed from mundane that it made people uneasy.

This exotic little thing. Put there, it seemed, just to spite the ordinary.

“Jace asked me to drop by at the gala this weekend,” he murmured, letting the words fall softly between them like a test.

Her fingers paused mid-stroke in his hair, the stillness giving way to a small, almost imperceptible exhale. “Oh.” Her lips parted briefly, pressing together in thought before she nodded, the gesture light but resolute. “I’ll stay back then. You should have fun.”

“You don't have to do that, baby,” he murmured, guilt pooling in his chest. He hated this with all his heart, hated that he was making her feel worthless.

She scrunched her nose in that way she always did when he called her that, like it embarrassed her and pleased her all at once. “I never wanted to be there anyway,” she dismissed, though her eyes gave away more.

“It’s for the team,” he admitted, holding her gaze. “Daemon’s support could mean playoffs. And Jace…” He trailed off, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“You don’t need to explain, Cregan. This must be hard enough for you,” she said gently, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “ I can’t imagine what sort of nonsense my brother pulled to make you go.”

“For one, he lacks imagination,” Cregan muttered, a dry laugh escaping him.

Her laughter joined his, light and melodic, but it faded just as quickly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re the one who wanted to tell him.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face in despair. “You can break my jaw for that, really. What was I thinking?” But he knew the answer. He needed someone who had their back—both of them—if things went wrong.

Her fingers resumed their slow, soothing path, sliding down the slope of his nose, and it was almost enough to coax his eyelids shut. Almost.

“How long do we…” she trailed off, her voice dipping into a murmur.

“Claere,” he started, his voice gentle but firm, and her name tasted sacred on his tongue.

“It’s fine,” she answered quickly, brushing off the hesitation with a smile that refused to reach her eyes.

He sat up slightly, the sorrow behind her words tugging at his chest. “You know why,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. “Just until I’m done. A few more months, we're almost there. Then we can do whatever you want. Hell, we can stage a whole make-out session outside the rink. Kiss before a thousand cameras. You can even put my nudes on a T-shirt. Let the whole world know I'm all yours.”

Her palm pressed against his chest, her touch so steady it was almost enough to convince him. Almost. “I'm just tired of pretending like we don't exist,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

His hand found hers, pulling it to his lips. “You know it kills me too, right?” he whispered against her skin, an edge of desperation slipping through.

“I know, I know,” she mumbled, her lips twitching into a rueful smile.

Her violet eyes softened, and for a moment, they stayed like that—caught in each other’s orbit, as if the world outside didn’t exist.

“You worked so hard to get here,” she said finally, her voice trembling just slightly. “Me and my family name cannot be the reason anyone questions that.”

“You’re not,” he said fiercely, his eyes locked on hers. “You’re the reason I get through it.”

She exhaled, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “Then don’t make me wait too long, Stark,” she murmured, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not a patient girl.”

He couldn’t help the grin that broke across his face, a lopsided thing she always teased him about. “I’ll make it worth it,” he promised, and he meant it. Every word.

“You better,” she replied, her tone playful but laced with that steady, quiet assurance she always carried.

And then, with a swift motion, she shoved his head off her lap, laughing softly as he sprawled onto the greenhouse floor. “Come on,” she said, already searching for the greenhouse keys in the mess of notebooks and pencils scattered around her. “It’s getting late.”

Cregan groaned, propping himself up on one elbow. “You could at least kiss me for bringing home hardware,” he complained, watching her stack up her papers and zip up her sling bag.

“I already kissed you, and you’re not helping,” she retorted, her tone half-scolding, half-amused. He groaned with exaggerated effort as he rose up on his feet, cracking the tension on his shoulders.

“Not true,” he argued as he walked over to her, looping his arms around her waist as she tried to pull away. “I’m providing all the moral support.”

She huffed but didn’t resist when he pressed a lingering kiss to the curve of her neck, his lips brushing against her skin in a way that made her pause mid-zip.

“Cregan,” she murmured, though it lacked any real bite.

“Baby?” he asked, his voice muffled as he trailed more kisses along her shoulder, content to bury himself in her warmth.

“Don't call me that. Let me go,” she said, twisting around to face him, though the small smile tugging at her lips betrayed her sternness.

“Never,” he replied simply, his mischievous eyes gleaming as he tightened his grip for a moment before finally releasing her.

Claere shook her head, muttering something about sportsmen and their stubbornness, but the pink in her cheeks betrayed her. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she led the way out of the greenhouse. Her steps were light, but her shoulders were tense, as though she knew what was coming next.

They walked hand in hand, their fingers entwined, their conversation bubbling with the kind of playful ease that felt too private for the quiet campus night. Cregan exaggeratedly held the greenhouse door open for her as she locked up, bowing like an old-fashioned knight.

“After you, my lady,” he said, his grin boyish and crooked.

She rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Oh, such chivalry,” she muttered, but the teasing lilt in her voice made his grin widen.

Outside, the dim campus lights caught the sleek white of her electric Vespa. The thing gleamed as if it were her proudest possession, standing defiant against a world of roaring engines and gleaming sports cars. She clipped on her helmet, the scuffed and slightly dented thing perched atop her silvery hair like some bizarre crown. She'd even named her noble, janky steed—Luna.

“You know,” Cregan began, leaning lazily against his truck just behind her, “in a world of racecars and motorbikes, you ride this thing. It’s like a moving punchline.”

“Luna saves the environment, you disrespecting neanderthal,” she shot back without missing a beat, her tone so matter-of-fact he burst out laughing.

“And you never learned to drive a car,” he teased, his grin taking on a mischievous edge.

Her violet eyes narrowed at him, but before she could counter, he was already in front of her. His hand caught hers, pulling her close, his arm circling her waist with a practised ease that made her breath hitch.

“Cregan,” she warned, her voice low, but her wide, startled eyes darted around. “We’re still on campus.”

“It's too late for anyone to hang about,” he murmured, his voice soft but rough around the edges, filled with something she couldn’t name but always felt in her bones. “Kiss me. Make it big.”

She scoffed, her cheeks flaming. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, her palm pressed against his chest as if to hold him back, but the pressure was light, hesitant.

“Please, you like me unbelievable,” he countered, his grin tilting into something downright sinful as he leaned in again, trying to capture her lips.

This time, her helmet came between them with a soft, comedic thud, and she stepped back, shaking her head with an excessive sigh. “See you later,” she said, her voice airy as she mounted the Vespa, flipping the visor down with an air of finality.

He stepped back, arms spread, watching her like the lovestruck fool he was as she revved the little engine to life.

“I love you!” he hollered after her, his voice ringing out over the hum of her Vespa.

Her hands froze on the handlebars, and she turned, her cheeks redder than ever, her expression somewhere between scandalized and flustered.

“I thought you said low-key!”

“I said I love you, Claere!” he repeated, louder this time, laughter bubbling out of him.

“Shh!” she hissed, her violet eyes darting around like she expected the entire student body to emerge from the shadows.

He waved her off with a theatrical air kiss, his smile wide and utterly unshakable as her Vespa’s hum faded into the quiet of the night. For a moment, he just stood there, watching the tail light grow smaller and smaller until it vanished entirely.

Leaning back against his truck, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the grin still tugging at his lips. It wasn’t just the way she made him laugh or the way she said his name like it was her favourite secret. It was everything—her quirks, her sharp tongue, her fierce independence wrapped up in a frame so delicate he sometimes felt like just touching her would leave a mark.

Yeah, he was a goner. Completely and utterly.

And for her? For the girl who rode a funny scooter like it was a chariot, the girl who made the world feel small and vast all at once? He’d fall over and over again. And not regret a single fucking thing.

X

The lecture theatre was stifling. Not because it was warm—the air conditioning hummed overhead, doing its job—but because Cregan could think of a hundred better places to be than in this impractical "Philosophy of Human Civilization" module. Yes, because business administration called for the incredible knowledge of metaphysics.

He slouched in his seat, one leg stretched out beneath the fold-up desk, his pen twirling aimlessly between his fingers. The professor’s droning voice blended into white noise, accompanied by the faint clatter of keyboards and the occasional rustle of papers. The only reason he was putting up with this shit was that it was the only class Claere and he shared together. Who—surprise, surprise—was running late.

Cregan’s mind wandered. There was the game footage he still needed to review. A term paper he'd barely started. The extra drills Coach had suggested for tomorrow. And Claere. Always Claere. What was she doing right now? Probably something strange—like drawing the new dandelions around the quad. Or finding another crow to befriend. He smirked to himself, the thought warming him, even as he toyed with the pen between his knuckles.

And then it happened. The door at the base of the lecture theatre burst open, and all the simmering thoughts in his head vanished.

Claere Velaryon rushed in like a summer storm. The clicking of her sandals echoed off the walls as heads turned, the low hum of the room snapping into silence. Her long, thin brown dress clung to her frame as if she'd run halfway across campus, the loose sleeves slipping scandalously down her shoulders. She was red-faced, her silver hair a wild, untamed halo around her, strands sticking to her flushed skin. She clutched a tote bag like it might tumble out of her hands at any moment, panting as if she'd just completed a marathon.

Cregan straightened in his seat, pen forgotten in his palm.

Gods, she was a mess. A beautiful, heart-wrenching, completely irresistible mess.

The whispers started immediately. Of course, they did. This was Claere. She could walk into a room and turn every head, for better or worse. Cregan could already hear the vicious murmurs—the snide comments about her tardiness, her flushed cheeks, her dishevelled hair. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to glare at everyone around him.

“Miss Velaryon,” the professor’s voice cut through the tension, dry and unimpressed. “Late as usual. Do I even bother to ask for—”

“I’m sorry,” Claere gasped, her voice trembling but polite as ever. She clutched her tote tighter, her eyes darting to the professor. “I—I lost track of time.”

The professor sighed heavily, clearly debating whether to continue chastising her. Thankfully, he waved her off with an irritated gesture. “Sit down. I've got much to cover.”

Cregan watched as she nodded quickly, eyes wide, before hurrying up the steps. She climbed the rows with an elegance no one seemed to notice, her dress swaying with each step. Their eyes met for a fleeting second—just a heartbeat—but it was enough to send a jolt through him. Then she slipped into an empty seat a few rows ahead of him, pulling out her laptop in a flurry of quiet, frantic movements.

He fished out his phone from his pocket, sliding it under the desk deftly. His fingers flew across the screen.

Good morning, sunshine. That dress is tempting fate with me. Feeling okay?

She didn’t look at her phone, too busy digging through her bag. He frowned and texted again.

Hey. Overworked already?

Still nothing. Her computer whirred to life, and she tapped furiously at the keys. Cregan’s fingers hovered over his phone, his frustration bubbling over.

Baby.

Right behind you.

Answer me.

CLAERE.

The fourth ding caught her attention—and the professor’s.

“Miss Velaryon,” the man snapped, his irritation palpable. “I trust you can figure out how to silence your phone without further disrupting the class?”

“Sorry.” Claere’s cheeks burned as she scrambled to mute it, shooting a disconcerted glance around the room. The whispers flared up again, though most students had their eyes glued to the professor.

Cregan smothered a laugh, setting his phone face down on his desk. He stared at the back of her head, watching how her hair cascaded past her elbows, still slightly mussed from her rush. He wanted to close the distance, to sit beside her, to hold her hand, give her a sip from his water bottle, and dab away her sweat.

But he stayed put, grinding his teeth, the itch to be near her gnawing at him.

The lecture dragged on, and Cregan’s focus was entirely on her. It wasn’t fair, he thought, the way her presence could pull him out of his own head so completely. He couldn’t stop watching her—the delicate tilt of her head, the way her fingers flew over her keyboard, the little sigh she let out when she finally settled. He wanted to reach out, touch her, reassure her. He wanted—

A spark of mischief lit in his chest. He slid his phone back into his hand, shielding the screen between his chest.

Turn around if you love me.

He hit send, his smirk growing as he propped his elbow on the desk, feigning disinterest. He ran a hand over his face, trying to rub away the grin threatening to split his face.

Claere glanced at her phone, lips parting in alarm. She barely turned, eyes peeking through the curtain of her hair, shooting him a look that was equal parts caution and exasperation.

Cregan met her gaze with an unabashed wink, biting back a laugh. Her eyes narrowed, and her fingers tightened on the edge of her laptop, but she didn’t reply. Instead, she whipped her head back around and refocused on the presentation slides ahead.

Up ahead, Claere’s phone buzzed once, then again. She glanced at it, her lips parting in alarm as her shoulders stiffened. Her fingers twitched on the keyboard, clearly debating whether to check it. She gave in, the faint glow of the screen illuminating her frown.

Cregan had already sent a follow-up.

Panting into class like that. What’d you do, chase another mouse?

She rolled her eyes, typing a quick response.

Good morning, Cregan. I dropped Viserys off at school because he wanted to ride the scooter with me instead of the car. Now, please focus on class.

Undeterred, he sent another.

Oh, so, your little brother gets a free ticket, but I'm considered too big. Where's the justice?

When she didn't bother to respond, he scowled at her head and typed again.

You didn’t even look at me before. I love you so much that I shampooed my hair, especially for you.

Her phone buzzed audibly, and her head shot up, violet eyes darting around the room. When no one seemed to notice, she let out a small breath and typed furiously.

I will throw this phone at you, Cregan. Stop distracting me.

Cregan grinned at her threat.

With your aim, you might just get the professor instead.

He saw her shake her head, obviously masking a smile. Gods, how he wished he could see it. He leaned forward and typed.

Turn around before I come down there.

That one must have hit a nerve, because her shoulders straightened, and her fingers paused mid-hover over her keyboard. Slowly, she turned her head just enough to shoot him a glare that could've melted steel, her silver hair framing her face like a storm cloud.

He touched his chest, impersonating a broken heart. You're killing me, baby, he wanted to say. A side of her twitched up before it smoothed back into the same glare.

He tipped his chin to his phone, gesturing at her to text. She rolled her eyes and retrieved her phone, beginning to type again.

I love you very much. Could you shut up?

Time stopped. The grip on his phone tightened, heart racing. He looked both ways, seeing if someone caught sight of the irredeemably giant smile on his face. He typed through trembling fingers.

That's more like it. You chose a dress for tomorrow? May I kindly suggest red? Very short? Easy access and all. Also, stockings.

He saw her pause before she began typing again.

I'm not coming. Let's not risk it.

He nearly stood off his seat in irritation. Instead, he typed so hard, that he feared denting the screen.

We aren't risking shit. You're coming, Claere. I will throw you over my shoulder and lug you there if I have to.

When she didn't type back, he sighed and then followed up calmly. This had to work.

Please come, baby? For me? Please.

She turned around, sneaking a look at him again, thinking for a long moment. She gave him an infinitesimal nod before shifting away. He controlled every urge that made him want to punch the air in victory.

He puckered his lips, blowing a small kiss to the back of her head, thoroughly pleased with himself, but the professor’s sharp voice cut through the moment.

“Stark.”

Cregan straightened in his seat, leisurely lifting his gaze to the dais in the front of the room. The professor’s eyes were fixed on him, brows raised in expectation.

“Perhaps you’d like to share with the class what's so interesting on your phone or how Plato’s Allegory of the Cave applies to modern societal hierarchies?”

A ripple of amused murmurs spread through the lecture hall. Claere’s shoulders went rigid, and she sank lower in her seat, clearly praying she could disappear into the floor.

Cregan, however, leaned back with an air of calm confidence, resting one arm along the back of his chair. He could handle a little heat.

“I'll take option two,” he drawled, his tone smooth, “it’s about perception versus reality, isn’t it? How people are trapped by their limited perspectives, thinking shadows are the truth when there’s a whole world they’re not seeing.” He let the words hang for a moment, then added with a lazy grin, “Kind of like how people in this class assume they know everything about others when they really don’t have a single clue.”

The murmurs turned into a few low laughs, though the professor’s unimpressed glare remained.

“That’s… a creative interpretation,” the professor replied, his tone clipped. “Perhaps next time, you could demonstrate your engagement by listening, rather than texting.”

The class chuckled again, and Cregan shrugged nonchalantly.

“Noted,” he said, flashing a quick, disarming smile.

The professor sighed and returned to the lecture, but Cregan could feel Claere’s mortified glare burning between his head. He glanced down at his phone, considering sending her another message, but thought better of it.

Instead, he settled back in his seat, smug and unbothered, stealing one last glance at the silver hair a few rows ahead of him. Definitely pushing his luck.

The low hum of the lecture was interrupted by a series of sporadic buzzes and chimes from phones around the room. At first, Cregan ignored them, tapping his pen idly against his notebook, his mind wandering back to Claere. But when the faint murmurs started—those hushed, vindictive whispers that only grew louder—his focus sharpened.

Furrowing his brows, he slipped his phone from the desk, angling it over his thigh. One notification stood out in bold:

Breaking: Rhaenyra Targaryen Sparks Debate as "Unfit Parent" in These Latest Photos.

His stomach dropped. He clicked on it, and there it was—Claere.

The image was grainy, clearly taken from across the street, invasive but unmistakable: Claere leaning down to kiss little Viserys on the cheek from her scooter, waving as he ran toward the school doors. The headline was grotesque, spinning the scene into some damning evidence against her mother.

Cregan clenched his jaw, swiping at the screen to close the article. The pit in his stomach wasn’t just anger; it was fear. This—this circus—was what waited for Claere at every corner. They didn’t care about her life, her compassion, her unfailing talent. All they saw was scandal, drama, and an easy target. And if their relationship ever got out?

His chest tightened. He could take the scrutiny. They could call him a joke, a flash-in-the-pan athlete, whatever they wanted. But Claere? They’d shred her apart, drag her name through the mud, and no matter how much she pretended she didn’t care, he knew it would crush her.

He glanced up at her. She sat a few rows ahead, her back stiff, head bowed low, silver hair falling in curtains around her face. One hand was curled around the edge of her desk, the other fidgeting at her neck, rubbing the skin like she was trying to soothe herself.

Cregan’s fingers hovered over his phone for a second before he typed out a quick text.

Ignore them. It's not worth your time.

Her phone buzzed on her desk, and he saw her shoulders tense. She glanced at it briefly but didn’t respond. He frowned, tapping out another.

You're incredible, Claere. Viserys is lucky to have you.

Still nothing. She didn’t even look this time, just kept her head down, pretending to take notes.

Cregan sighed, setting his phone face down on his desk. His frustration wasn’t with her—it never was. It was with the world they lived in, the world that refused to leave her alone.

He glanced at her again, biting the inside of his cheek. She looked so small, so... tired. He couldn’t fix this, couldn’t shield her from all of it, but maybe he could remind her of one thing: she wasn’t alone.

He picked up his phone again, typing deliberately.

Rink tonight ;) After practice? I love you.

The response came quickly this time.

Okay.

He allowed himself a small smile, relief flooding his chest. His fingers itched to send something else—something cheeky, playful—but he stopped himself. For now, that one word was enough. Cregan leaned back in his seat, ignoring the professor’s droning voice, ignoring the whispers still circulating the room. His eyes lingered on the silver head a few rows ahead of him.

She'll be okay. He'll make sure of it.

X

The ice rink was silent now, save for the scrape of Cregan’s skates and the dull thwack of his stick against the puck. The overhead lights cast an icy glow on the smooth, untouched surface, the air was crisp and faintly metallic. One by one, the last of his teammates had filtered out, offering casual goodbyes that he barely registered, too focused on the rhythm of his movements.

He practised shooting goals, each slap of the puck echoing in the empty space. One. Two. Three. Each strike was sharp and precise, but his focus wavered as the minutes ticked by. He glanced at the clock mounted on the far wall. Twenty minutes late. Was she even coming?

He tried not to let the disappointment settle in. She’d been off all day—he’d noticed it in the way she fidgeted, her avoidance of his texts during class, and the weariness in her posture. Maybe she needed space. Or maybe…

No. He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

Just as he bent down to retrieve the puck again, the sound of the swinging doors creaking open cut through the silence. He straightened, his breath catching as he turned toward the sound.

There she was. Of course, she'd never disappoint him.

Through the plexiglass, he caught sight of Claere, her silhouette bright and out of place against the stark white of the rink. Her bag hung lazily over her shoulder, bracelets and sandals jangling as she made her way to him. She moved with an easy grace, that grin he loved lighting up her face as she spotted him. She leapt over the players' bench with a playful bounce, landing softly and leaning casually against the barricade.

“You finally made it,” he called, skating toward her, his voice teasing. “Thought you forgot about me.”

Her grin widened, and she propped her chin on her hand, her violet eyes sparkling. “You can hunt me down if I ever do. I was caught up in labwork.”

He laughed, pulling out his mouthguard and letting it dangle from his fingers. “You're never that hard to find.”

She tilted her head toward the doors, thumbing the direction. “What’s Jace doing out there? Don't you usually lock the front door?”

Cregan shrugged, smirking as he glided closer to the plexiglass, wishing it wasn’t in the way. “Your shitty brother owed me.”

Claere’s giggle was like a bell, light and melodic. “So he’s chaperoning us now?”

“Standing guard,” he corrected, his grin sharp. “Until I say we’re done. Son a bitch deserves it.”

She threw her head back in a full laugh, the kind that made her whole body move. “Our personal bouncer, huh?”

Cregan had threatened to dump estrogen into his daily intake of protein shakes one way or another following his lousy uptake to make him come to the gala. He was getting his revenge and this was the perfect out. Cut to Jacaerys, sitting on the curb outside the rink, grateful it wasn't the winter time. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the air. He flicked ash onto the pavement and leaned back, whistling at a couple of students who wandered too close.

“Oi! It’s closed, lads!” he called, waving them off with farfetched authority. “Run along, nothing to see here!”

One of them raised a brow but turned around with a shrug, clearly not in the mood to argue. Jace smirked, taking another drag.

“What a racket,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Little asshole.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the rink doors, his whistle turning into a lazy hum. The things he did for his little sister and her lovesick puppy.

Inside the enclosure, Cregan skated off the rink with a dexterity that came with years of practice, his blades cutting a sharp curve across the ice as he made his way to where Claere leaned against the barrier. Her arms were crossed, her nose red from the cold, but she still managed to look every bit like the faerie she was, completely out of place and somehow owning it anyway.

“Your turn,” he said, tugging her bag from her shoulder and setting it down. He pulled out a pair of skates from under the bench, holding them up like an offering.

She groaned, already shaking her head. “No way. It’s freezing, and I’m not wearing pants.”

He crouched in front of her, tapping the skates against the ice. “Freezing? You live in cardigans, baby. Come on, the ice is lonely without you. Lace up.”

Her protest was half-hearted, and within minutes, he’d coaxed her into the skates, inching them up her feet himself. She sat on the bench, her dress pooling around her knees, muttering complaints, pushing at his shoulders as she tied the laces.

“Do you always bully girls into skating?” she asked, huffing.

“Only you,” he replied, grinning. He stood and held out a hand, steadying her as she wobbled on the thin blades. “Let's go, chief. Just skate it all off.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips as she stepped onto the rink. It took a few hesitant glides before she found her balance, her movements rusty yet elegant.

Cregan hung back, leaning lazily against the barrier, his weight on one skate as he watched her begin to move more freely across the ice. Her arms swung naturally at her sides, the fabric of her skirt flaring with each gliding step. She spun slowly, deliberately, as though caught in the rhythm of some invisible melody, her hair catching the rink’s cool light like strands of molten silver.

She'd always found a way to draw him in, mesmerize him. Cregan felt his chest swell, warmth spreading despite the rink’s chill. There was something magnetic about the way she moved—not perfect, not trained, but alive and so unmistakably her. It was like she carried her own song wherever she went, a tune only she could hear.

Then she waved, breaking his trance. He blinked, startled, caught like a deer in headlights.

“You coming, or are you just going to stare all night?” she called, her voice carrying a teasing lilt.

He chuckled, pushing off the wall with ease, his movements smooth and rehearsed. He skated toward her, the faint sound of his blades slicing through the ice contrasting with her lighter, more playful strides. She stood waiting for him, hands on her hips, her smirk laced with challenges.

“Can I help you practice?” she asked, tilting her head, her hair falling like a curtain over one shoulder.

He shook his head, smirking. “What might you do for me, Claere?”

She tapped her chin, feigning deep thought. “Hmm... I can throw the puck?”

“Oh, excellent,” he replied, biting back a laugh. “What do you think I do on this rink besides 'throwing the puck'?”

She ticked off her fingers, her expression deadpan. “Elbow poor guys. Score goals. Make pretty girls flash you.”

Cregan snorted. “Not wrong,” he admitted, grinning wide.

Not moments later, a tenacious Claere stood at the net, a pair of oversized goalie gloves engulfing her hands and a spare hockey stick. She looked absolutely foolish—and yet, she carried herself with all the determination of someone about to win a championship. And gods, did she look fucking hot.

“I’m ready,” she declared, crouching low.

“You sure about this?” Cregan called a few metres across from her, his puck resting against the blade of his stick.

“Bring it on, Stark,” she challenged, knocking her gloved hands together like a boxer.

He smirked, took a few strides back, and lined up his shot. The puck zipped toward the net with a controlled flick of his wrist. Claere lunged—if you could call it that—sprawling onto the ice in a dramatic heap, her hockey stick missing the puck by a mile as it hit the post.

“Damn it,” she groused under her breath, shuffling awkwardly on all fours to retrieve the puck. “Go again.”

Cregan was bent over laughing, barely able to stay upright on his skates. “Baby, you didn’t even come close!”

She scowled at him, but there was no hiding the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re supposed to be coaching me, not laughing at me!”

He skated over, crouching beside her to help her up onto her feet. She skidded a little, and he caught her waist to steady her. “You’re hopeless,” he teased, brushing the dusting of snow off her skirt. “But sure, let’s try again.”

Many a failed tries, many bruises and complaints later, Cregan rested his stick between his knees, barely breaking a sweat, grinning down at Claere as she shuffled awkwardly back into position at the net, her oversized gloves flopping like the paws of some defeated cartoon character. The sight of her, sweating, sleeves slumping, so determined despite her absolute lack of technique, had him smiling ear to ear.

“You really think you’ve got this, don’t you? You don't even have knee pads,” he teased, his voice rich with amusement.

Claere narrowed her eyes, her lips pulling into a stubborn pout. “I know I’ve got this,” she shot back, her tone defiant despite the fact she’d barely managed to touch the puck all night.

He cocked his head, an idea forming, his grin sharpening with mischief. “Alright, let’s make this interesting,” he said, skating a slow circle around her. His voice dipped low, teasing. “You block one goal, just one, and you can sit out the gala.”

Her eyes widened, and her head snapped up, following him as he circled her. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he replied, stopping in front of her and leaning on his stick like it was a crutch. “One clean block. No cheating.”

Claere’s brows furrowed in thought before her smirk returned, victorious before the battle even began. “Deal,” she said, pointing a glove at him. “If you lose, I can use this as my trump card and say that I'm better than you at this.”

“Oh, don’t worry, baby,” he said, his voice low, deliberately playful. “I'm never going to let that happen. But if you lose...” He skated closer, so close their breath mingled in the cold air. “You’re coming back home with me after the gala, and you better be wearing red.”

Her smirk faltered, just barely, and Cregan caught the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. But she straightened, squaring her shoulders like she was heading into a war. “Fine. You’re going to rue this day.”

He chuckled, skating backwards and giving her space. “We’ll see about that.”

After that, it was game time. He let the first few shots skim past her, fast but not too fast, watching her dive, stretch, groan, whine and lunge in increasingly absurd ways, forgetting she even had a stick to block it. He didn't have to try, she was terrible at this. The puck hit the back of the net every time, but her determination was relentless, her lips pressed tight as she shuffled back into place after every failure.

On the fourth attempt, she swiped too early, sprawling onto her back with a dramatic groan. Cregan skated over, crouching beside her and offering her a hand. “You okay down there, champ?”

“Shut up,” she muttered, glaring up at him as she took his hand. But her cheeks were pink, and not just from the cold.

He pulled her to her feet effortlessly, his hands sliding to her waist to steady her. She pushed the hair out of her face, blowing a breath into the curls over her forehead.

“You’re making it too easy for me,” he said, his voice dropping into a low murmur.

Her breath hitched, just for a second, her hands landing on his chest to balance herself. “Maybe I’m lulling you into a false sense of security,” she quipped, her voice softer now.

“Mm, is that it?” He let his fingers linger, brushing against the fabric of her dress before he finally stepped back, grinning. “Alright, let’s see your dumb strategy in action.”

Honestly, he should've given up trying to smack the puck and just hit it with his foot. By the sixth attempt, Claere was all but crawling across the ice, clumsily batting at the puck as it glided lazily toward the goal. She managed to stop it—barely—her triumphant shout ringing out as she waved her arms in victory.

“Oh, I did it! I caught it!” she celebrated, her grin splitting her face.

Cregan skated over, stopping just short of her, shaking his head in mock disbelief. He clucked his tongue in disapproval.

“That doesn’t count,” he said. “You didn’t stop it clean.”

“It does count,” she argued, more in desperation than anger, jabbing her glove at his chest.

“Nope,” he said, popping his lips. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “But I’ll give you one more shot. One last chance. Otherwise, I win.”

She swallowed hard, her breath hitching again as his hand found her waist, steadying her. “Fine,” she whispered, her bravado cracking just a little.

He let her go, giving her space as he lined up his final shot. He skated forward, slow and deliberate, the puck gliding along with him. Her focus was unwavering, her determination fierce. He sent the puck toward the net—not too fast, not too slow.

Claere lunged, stick outstretched—and miraculously, it stopped just short of the line.

Her triumphant laugh filled the rink as she scrambled to her feet, throwing her gloves into the air like confetti.

“I did it!” she squealed, spinning in place. “Ha, ha! I’m free!”

Cregan skated over, catching her by the waist mid-spin and lifting her off the ice. “You’re still coming tomorrow,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

“Deal’s a deal,” she laughed, leaning into him.

“Unfortunately for you, I don't give a shit,” he said, his voice low and soft.

Claere leaned into him, her laughter softening into something gentler. “I know you let me win,” she accused, her violet eyes narrowing as she looked up at him.

“Maybe,” he admitted, his grin turning sly. “But only because I’m nice like that.”

Her response was a roll of her eyes, but the playful tilt of her lips betrayed her. “Nice doesn't involve having your girlfriend pant after you like that.”

“I like you panting.” He winked.

Before she could retort, he moved. A sudden shift of his weight sent them tumbling onto the ice, Cregan's hand protectively going around her head and back, Claere yelping as he pinned her beneath him, careful to keep his skates and hers positioned safely.

“Victory tackle?” he declared, smug, straddling her as she wriggled beneath him.

“Cregan!” she hissed, her cheeks flushed from the cold—or maybe from being caught so off guard. “Get off me! It's freezing!”

“Here, I'll keep you warm,” he said, his grin softening as he leaned in. His lips grazed her cheek, then the tip of her nose, lingering as though the moment might slip away if he let it.

Claere stilled beneath him, her breaths coming slow and even, her gaze locked on his. Her hands lifted, her cold fingers finding the nape of his neck, slipping into his hair. The chill of her touch made him shiver, but it wasn’t unwelcome. It was his anchor.

He exhaled, letting his forehead rest against hers, closing his eyes briefly as her fingers tangled deeper into his hair. God, this was everything—she was everything. He didn't care that his arm was going numb from bearing his weight up and the freezing ice. His lips found hers, urging them apart, vying for more, too starved, a little too much until his head spun and his breaths came up in pants. A heady daze had him sneak his fingers under her skirt, feeling the softness of her thigh, fingers leaving impressions on her skin. He'd done this too many times to know, especially when her hips lifted up to his, his hand sliding onto her ass.

Her voice broke the quiet, coming out as a gasp. “You’re too big.”

He laughed softly, pressing one last kiss to her temple. “That's never been a problem for you.”

“That was before you tackled me,” Claere shot back, though her fingers threading lazily through his hair betrayed her amusement, her contentment. Her laugh was soft, breathless, and it warmed the cold air around them, sinking into him like the best kind of ache.

Cregan opened his mouth to tease the soft skin on her neck, maybe even pull her closer—but the sharp crash of the rink doors cut through the quiet, echoing across the ice. The sound shattered the little world they’d built for themselves, the fragile intimacy dissolving in an instant.

Neither of them moved at first, too wrapped in each other to care—until a familiar voice broke through.

“Guys, I'm getting bored. Seriously?” Jace’s tone carried across the rink, equal parts incredulous and exasperated. “Claere—what the fuck! Not on the fucking ice! Get off my sister!”

Cregan groaned loudly, burying his face into the curve of Claere’s neck like a child avoiding a scolding. “C’mon,” he muttered against her skin, voice muffled, his shoulders slumping dramatically.

Claere tilted her head, her laugh soft against his ear. “Should we let him think this was all spontaneous?”

“Let’s not,” Cregan grumbled, his lips brushing her collarbone as he spoke. “He’s already halfway to murdering me.”

Jace’s footsteps echoed closer, leaching with frustration. “I mean it, Stark!” he barked. “Get off her!”

Reluctantly, Cregan lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting Claere’s. There was something unspoken between them—a shared defiance, a quiet kind of rebellion. Still, he eased off her, careful and deliberate, and offered his hand to help her stand. She accepted it without hesitation, and when he caught her waist to steady her, he took his time guiding her to a slow glide toward the rink’s edge.

“You ruin everything, Jace,” Claere called over her shoulder.

Jace stood at the edge of the rink, arms crossed and expression thunderous. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, the smoke curling upward into the dim light. “I ruin everything?” he repeated, incredulous. “You’re lucky I’m not scraping either of you off the ice right now. What were you even thinking, Claere?”

Claere shrugged, leaning casually against the barricade. “That I’m twenty-one and don’t need a babysitter?”

“You’re not twenty-one in my book,” Jace shot back, stabbing the air with his cigarette for emphasis. “And you—” He turned his glare on Cregan. “What’s your excuse, Stark?”

Cregan raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk utterly unapologetic. “I'm a sucker for your sister, I guess.”

“You shameless fuckin' bastard,” Jace bit out, his voice rising.

“Jace,” Claere cut in sharply, her tone enough to make her brother pause. Her gaze was steady, unwavering. “Take it easy.”

Jace hesitated, his shoulders tense as he looked between them. Finally, he threw his hands up in exasperation. “Fine. But if you two keep pulling shit like this, don’t expect me to cover for you.” He turned toward the exit, muttering under his breath, “Goddamn idiots…”

As the doors slammed shut behind him, the rink fell quiet again. Claere turned to Cregan, her smirk gentling to a sincere smile.

“So,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “thank you for tonight, Captain. Consider it a success. Spirits lifted, smiles wide.”

Cregan stepped closer, his hands finding her waist, his touch lingering. He grinned as he leaned in, kissing her cheek, long and deep. “I am at your fingertips, my lady.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, everything else faded. But just as he was about to kiss her again, the sound of distant voices drifted into the rink, the faint shuffle of footsteps approaching.

Cregan glanced toward the doors, his jaw tightening. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, his voice firm but tinged with urgency.

Claere arched a brow. “What’s the rush?”

He gave her a crooked grin, skating backwards toward the exit as he held out his hand to her. “Call it a hunch. Trust me. Besides, I ought to warm you up with some cocoa this time.”

She hesitated, then took his hand, her grin matching his. As they left the rink, neither of them noticed the shadow lingering near the edge—a figure stepping into the dim light, watching them laugh and discard their skates with sharp, calculating eyes.

X

The chandelier above glimmered like a constellation, casting warm golden light over the Targaryen mansion’s sprawling, opulent hall. Every detail of the place spoke to its ancient grandeur—the polished marble floors, towering arches, and gilded frames enclosing weathered tapestries that told forgotten stories. Yet despite the atmosphere of high elegance, the purpose of the evening felt hollow, as if the mansion’s walls echoed with feigned cheer instead of sincerity.

Cregan Stark leaned against a polished column near the edge of the room, a champagne flute balanced in his fingers. He didn’t even like champagne. He hated this kind of thing—his kind of people didn’t belong in gilded halls. But Jace, Luke, and Joffrey made tolerating the event slightly easier.

“Tell me why we need an ‘art restoration fund’ when every artist they’d actually pay is on the brink of starvation,” Jace mused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

“Oh, Jace, for fuck's sake.” Joffrey snorted, brushing imaginary lint off his lapel. “It’s not about the art. This is just networking in a shiny costume. Daemon calls it charity, but really, it’s just a more expensive way to sell lies.”

Luke smirked, raising his glass lazily toward the crowd. “Take a good look, boys. Every handshake tonight equals at least three new yachts and an unspoken promise to backstab someone in six months.”

Cregan chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. “You’re all so cynical for a family raking in the benefits of this circus.”

“Yeah, well.” Jace grinned at him. “We grew up knowing exactly what it is. Don’t act like your world doesn’t have its share of political games.”

“True,” Cregan admitted. “But at least I don’t pretend it’s for charity. I just fight it out on the ice.”

They all laughed at that, and for a moment, Cregan allowed himself to relax, but his attention kept darting across the gilded room, scanning for the one person who mattered. The air felt heavy, too hot, the collar of his tailored suit suddenly too tight. He tugged at it with one hand, the other gripping his glass as though it might shatter.

Until his gaze strayed to the far end of the hall.

The glint of velvet red at the far end of the hall pulled Cregan’s attention like a shot of adrenaline straight to his chest. His breath caught, his pulse quickening before his brain had fully registered what—or rather, who—he was looking at.

Claere.

Her dress was every bit as bold as he’d imagined when he’d teasingly suggested she wear red, and yet it managed to surpass his wildest expectations. The fabric hugged her body in all the right ways, short enough to make his stomach tighten and billow around her legs like the petals of a rose flower. The neckline dipped just low enough to be tantalizing, thin sleeves baring her shoulders, and her silver hair, swept into a loose updo, left her neck exposed—a detail he was entirely too aware of.

She was on Daemon’s arm, the man laughing with the effortless arrogance of someone who knew he held the room in his grip. Cregan barely noticed. His focus was consumed by her, by the way her gaze flicked through the crowd. Searching. Until her eyes found his. And then she fucking smiled.

It wasn’t a coy smile or a subtle one. It was full and toothy, innocent in a way that made his blood burn hotter. She knew. She had to know. That smile unravelled him like a spool of thread tossed down a flight of stairs.

Cregan’s hand brushed over his lip, his thoughts growing dark and unreasonably wicked. She must’ve sensed it—her gaze dropped to the floor, a faint blush dusting her cheeks, and she looked shy. Shy. As if she wasn’t fully aware she had just upended his entire sense of self-control.

He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to break the spell before it completely destroyed him. His gaze snapped to Jace, who was busy swiping hors d’oeuvres off a passing tray with all the subtlety of a thief in broad daylight.

“Come on,” Cregan muttered, grabbing Jace by the arm and shoving him forward.

“Hey! Easy, Cap,” Jace grumbled around a mouthful of croquettes, stumbling into step. “What’s the rush—oh. Oh, no. Are we seriously—”

“Yes,” Cregan bit out. “We are.”

Claere’s back went visibly stiff as the two of them approached. She must’ve seen him coming, but she didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge him. Not yet. Her posture was perfectly poised, her smile serene as Daemon continued to regale someone with his booming charm.

When Jace cleared his throat, Daemon turned, his sharp eyes sweeping over the two newcomers with an appraising gleam. Cregan felt that gaze like a predator sizing up a potential threat.

“Ah, Jacaerys, my boy,” Daemon said, his voice cutting through the din of the room with an authority that demanded attention. His smile was cordial but didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’ve brought a friend.”

Jace, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat. “Daemon, this is Cregan Stark. You’ve probably seen him on the ice. Our captain. He’s one of the best defensemen we’ve got.”

Daemon’s attention shifted fully to Cregan, undeniably calculating. “Cregan,” he repeated, rolling the name over his tongue like he was testing it. “Perhaps you've seen my daughter around campus? I don’t suppose you have. Claere’s rather modest.”

“Daemon,” she mumbled up at him.

“Yes, I've seen her around,” Cregan drawled out.

Cregan felt Claere’s gaze flick toward him, a subtle shift he doubted anyone else caught. She was playing along, just as she always did, her face the picture of passive disinterest. Meanwhile, every inch of his body was hyper-aware of her presence, her scent, and the way her fingers tightened on Daemon’s arm.

He cleared his throat, carefully schooling his expression into something neutral. “We've not officially met. Cregan,” he said, extending his hand. “Your brother’s teammate.”

Jace coughed suspiciously beside him, earning a sharp, sidelong glare from Cregan.

Daemon took his hand instead, his grip too firm, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if he could sense something unspoken hanging in the air. Claere let her waiting hand move to her hair, twirling a curl behind her ear.

“Teammate, huh?” he said, releasing Cregan’s hand and giving him another once-over. “Well, I imagine you’ve got plenty of stories about Jace. Unlike his sister, Jace could talk the hind legs off a donkey.”

“Agreed,” Cregan said dryly, casting Jace a sideways glance.

Claere’s lips twitched, just barely, but her gaze remained fixed ahead. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

“Yes, we're all proud of me. Anyways,” Jace sang out, clapping a hand on Cregan’s shoulder with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. “My buddy's also here to discuss some team business. You know, funding and stuff.”

Daemon’s attention shifted back to Cregan, his expression hardening ever so slightly. “The politics of sport,” he said smoothly. “I assume this means you’re here to make a pitch?”

Cregan nodded, forcing himself to focus on the moment, on the task. “That’s right. But I’d also like a word with... Claere. If you don’t mind. Later.”

Daemon’s brow arched, his gaze flicking between the two of them for a fraction of a second too long. Claere sucked in a soft breath. Then he smiled—a thin, knowing smile.

“I believe Claere has a bit more introductions to make around the room before that. Her mother expects her to keep up with appearances before the gala starts. She's quite adamant about it.”

The most cavalier and haughty a father could say to keep Cregan away. He needed no other hints. Cregan only shifted his cuffs, clearing his throat. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Daemon nodded at him. “Business first, Stark. Let’s see if you’ve got the skills to convince me.”

Cregan’s jaw clenched, but he nodded at him, his gaze darting to Claere one last time. She still wasn’t looking at him, but he caught the faintest twitch of her fingers at her side. A silent message. Wait.

“I'll see you at the table,” Claere said to Daemon, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. She smacked Jace's chest and took him away from them. Before she left, her shoulder vaguely brushed against Cregan's forearm, and he swore that the whole portion caught on fire. It took everything in him to not glance at her back as she left.

Cregan accepted the champagne glass Daemon offered him, only to set it down on the table nearby, shaking his head.

“Sorry. I’m driving tonight.”

Daemon smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a sip. “Call a cab then,” he said, his tone light but edged with challenge. “Break some rules, Captain. The youth aren’t entirely fucked yet.”

Cregan forced a smile, keeping his words and tone professional. “Some of us prefer to stay on the right side of the line.”

Daemon chuckled, leaning back slightly, his sharp gaze never quite leaving Cregan’s face. “So, what is it you wanted to discuss? Something about funding, wasn’t it?”

Cregan seized the opportunity and maintained it, measured but precise. He tucked his loose hands into his pockets. “Yessir. The playoffs are coming up, and our team’s resources are... stretched thin. We’ve been looking for sponsors who can—”

Daemon raised a hand while taking a sip, cutting him off. He wasn’t brusque about it, but his disinterest was palpable. “Mm, first off,” he murmured, tipping his glass toward a man across the room. “Do you know who that is?”

Cregan followed his line of sight to a golden-haired, middle-aged man in a sharp suit, standing at the centre of a small group that seemed to hang on his every word.

Cregan shook his head. “No, sir. Someone in your trade?”

Daemon smirked, as though amused by the guess. “Yes, in a manner of speaking. That is Tyland Lannister. One of the richest men on the continent.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed, unsure where this tangent was going, but he remained polite. “Impressive.”

Daemon continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “My wife—Rhaenyra. You’ve heard of her, of course. She holds the title. She's got queen's blood in her veins.” He gestured vaguely toward the man as if Tyland were nothing more than a mildly entertaining threat.

Cregan inclined his head slightly, not wanting to show his confusion. “Of course.”

Daemon finally turned his gaze back to him, sharp and assessing. “I can’t have anyone coming for my wife’s crown, you see. Not Tyland Lannister. Not the fucking Martells. Not anyone.”

Cregan nodded, though his mind churned, trying to parse Daemon’s meaning. “Understandable.”

Then, abruptly, Daemon’s smirk deepened. “Claere.”

Cregan’s nod faltered, his jaw hardening just enough to give himself away.

Daemon chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You see, Claere would martyr me if she found out what I had in mind for her. She’s got this... aggressive sense of autonomy, my soft little girl. She knows what she wants, very much like her mother.”

He took another sip of champagne, savouring it. “But here’s the thing—Tyland Lannister’s been circling. Do you know what Claere would say if I suggested she spend some time with him this weekend?”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond, sensing the trap.

Daemon leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “She’d say not to whore her out, that he’s twice her age, smells like barrel whiskey, and probably has a harem tucked away somewhere. And you know what? She’d not be wrong.”

Cregan’s gaze darkened, his fists clenching at his sides. He didn’t trust himself to speak yet, and Daemon noticed, his smirk widening.

“But you,” Daemon said smoothly, neatening an invisible crease on Cregan's jacket. “You’re an honourable one, aren’t you? Loyal. Dependable. Steady as they come. Stark in name and spirit,” He held the back of his hand to his lips as if speaking libel, “moneyed, too.”

Cregan’s voice came out firm, collected. “I do my best.”

“Mm,” Daemon hummed, clearly entertained. “So tell me, Cregan. Where do you stand when it comes to my daughter? Hypothetically, of course.”

Cregan’s lips pressed into a thin line. Oh, he was fucked. He thought of Claere—her soft smile, the brush of her shoulder against his arm, the unspoken connection that hummed between them like a live wire. But this wasn’t about him, or even her. It was a test, a game Daemon was playing, and Cregan wouldn’t fall into the trap. If he wanted a reaction, he would very much like this one.

“We've never really talked, sir. That being said I stand where she needs me to stand,” he said simply, holding Daemon’s gaze. “With respect.”

Daemon’s smile turned sharp, a predator recognizing another who refused to back down. “Great answer.”

Cregan took a careful breath, steering the conversation back on course. “About the team funding, sir,” he said, his tone firm but respectful. “I believe investing in us isn’t just about hockey—it’s about legacy. The team represents something bigger than just a game. Community. Resilience. And with your support, we’d be unstoppable.”

Daemon’s expression didn’t betray much, but the amusement lingered. He swirled his glass again, considering. “Legacy, you say.”

“Yes,” Cregan said, meeting his gaze head-on. “Something worth standing for.”

After a moment’s pause, Daemon’s tone shifted, quieter but no less intentional. “I knew your parents.”

Cregan froze, the words hitting him like a sudden gust of wind, but he didn’t drop Daemon’s gaze.

“They were good people. Devoted to legacy, just like you,” Daemon continued, his voice carrying a surprising sincerity. “It’s a shame what happened. Truly. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Cregan hesitated, his chest tightening at Daemon’s words. He hadn’t expected that shift—the quiet acknowledgement of his loss. He nodded once, his voice steady. “Thank you. It was a long time ago.”

Daemon studied him for a moment, a glint of something inscrutable in his sharp eyes. “Yes. Loneliness can be quite suffocating. Something I find myself... thankfully lacking.”

His gaze drifted across the room, settling on Claere. She stood near her brothers, radiant, unconcerned as ever, quietly laughing at something Joff had said. She had an ease about her, but her fingers still played idly with the hors d’oeuvre stick, twirling it in an anxious rhythm only he could tell. Cregan’s breaths constricted further, watching her. She was magnetic, utterly herself, and it was impossible not to be drawn to her.

Daemon’s voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. “She’s beautiful, is she not?”

Cregan exhaled slowly, his composure slipping just enough to betray the impact of the question. “She is.”

Daemon chuckled softly, as though he’d expected the response. He swirled the champagne in his glass before taking a conscious sip, his gaze returning to Cregan.

“A thing like her is a blessing—and a curse. It draws attention. Finds flaws. Makes her untouchable. Spins lies. Envenoms the mind. Fools lads to think they’re worthy of even standing beside her.”

Cregan’s fists clenched at his sides, but he kept his expression neutral. “I'm sure she's smart enough to tell between worth and lack.”

“Oh, I’m sure she does,” Daemon said, a note of pride threading through his voice. “But even the strongest need someone to stand with them, don’t they? And the world has plenty of Tyland Lannisters to offer up.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened. “Then you've certainly not prospected the world as well as you have, sir.”

Daemon tilted his head, his smirk returning. “Hm. You’ve given me a lot to think about, Stark. Not just about funding your team, but... other things.” His eyes flicked toward Claere again, then back to Cregan, his meaning unmistakable.

Cregan’s heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm, to keep his tone level. “I’ll leave you to your deliberations.”

Daemon chuckled again, a low, knowing sound, and extended his hand.

“Good luck, Captain. You’ll need it.”

Cregan clasped his hand firmly, their gazes locking for a brief, loaded moment. This wasn’t just a handshake—it was a battlefield. And as Daemon’s gaze flicked once more to Claere, Cregan realized that this wasn’t just about funding or hockey. It was about something far more personal.

His heart thudded with a rhythm that refused to calm as he ascended the staircase on the far side, each step graver than the last. He grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing tray, adjusting his cuffs with snaps. The drink fizzed against his tongue, but it did little to quiet the storm brewing in his chest.

Daemon suspects something. He knows.

The thought circled like a vulture, preying on his moment of vulnerability. For all his control, all his precision, Daemon had chipped away at his armour with a few pointed words and a too-sharp smile. Now, Cregan felt raw, exposed, like a pawn being manoeuvred on a board he wasn’t fully prepared for.

When he reached the landing, he paused, leaning on the railing. The champagne flute was cold in his hand, a poor contrast to the heat in his chest. He tilted his head back, rolling his shoulders in a futile attempt to release the tension coiled within him.

Then he heard it—the faint, feverish clack of heels against the marble staircase. His gaze flicked down to the source, and his breath hitched.

Claere moved through the crowd with the kind of grace that seemed almost involuntary, her red dress clinging to her like it had been painted on. She was excusing herself from someone, her smile polite but distant, and the sight of her—all of her—made Cregan’s pulse quicken.

When her gaze lifted and met his, it hit him like a freight train. Her eyes softened: a silent question lingering in them.

He tilted his head toward the corridor at the top of the stairs—a subtle invitation.

She didn’t hesitate, her pace quickening as she made her way to him.

The sound of her heels followed him as he slipped into the corridor, each step echoing like a countdown. He didn’t turn, didn’t dare to look back, even as his senses flared with her presence drawing closer. By the time her hand caught his, warm and grounding, he felt like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

“Hi,” she whispered, with a touch of her fingers on his wrist.

Cregan exhaled, allowing himself the smallest smile as she gently tugged him further down the corridor. They stopped in front of a gilded white door, its handle gleaming like polished gold and she unlocked it with a soft click.

The room was as extravagant as he’d expected. It was hard to imagine Claere growing up like this. Marble floors gleamed under the warm light of an ornate chandelier, and every piece of furniture seemed designed for display rather than comfort. A heavy desk stood at the centre, flanked by bookshelves filled with untouched tomes, their gilded spines catching the light.

Claere shut the door behind them, the lock clicking softly into place. The world outside faded, leaving just the two of them.

Cregan shrugged off his jacket like it had been a harness, draping it over a chair as he loosened his tie with a sharp tug. He ran both hands over his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes like he could erase the exhaustion clawing at him.

“I like your suit,” she remarked. “You look so handsome. And smart.”

He mumbled a quiet, “Thanks,” from behind his fingers.

“Do you like my dress?” Claere’s voice was soft, tentative. She stepped closer, her hands brushing his chest as she settled them there, her warmth seeping into him. “I hate it, really. It's too tight. I wore it for you. I much prefer your jerseys.”

He peeked through his fingers, groaning softly at the sight of her. She was standing so close, her lips painted with that damned red lipstick, her hair tumbling in soft strands from its updo. Her hips swayed slightly as she shifted, the dress clinging to her curves in a way that made it impossible to think straight.

“Terrible timing for you to be acting cute,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Really, really terrible timing. I suppose that runs in the family.”

Her smile faltered, concern flickering in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

He sighed, his hands sliding into his hair, fisting it tightly. “I don’t know. It feels like Daemon suspects us.”

Claere tilted her head, a soft laugh escaping her. “Why would he—” She stopped abruptly, realization dawning. “Unless you said something. Please tell me you didn't.”

“I had to say something, Claere,” he shot back, his frustration slipping through. “I spoke up for you. He was practically making a case for whoremongering.”

“You’re an idiot,” she said, but her voice was laced with affection. She cupped his cheek, her palm warm against his skin. “And so sweet.”

Cregan closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into her touch. Everything about her—her perfume, warmth, the peace she offered—was an anchor. She felt like a reprieve, the only thing in his chaotic world that made sense, even as she drove him to the edge of his restraint.

After a moment, she tilted her head, studying him. “Are you going to take me to your place now?”

His eyes flickered open, amusement curving his lips. He cocked a brow. “Oh?”

She nodded eagerly, her excitement bubbling just under the surface. “I miss your place. It’s cushy. Not like this.” She motioned to the gilded office, a faint wrinkle of distaste creasing her brow.

Cregan couldn’t help the laugh that rumbled from his chest. “Cushy, huh?”

He slid his hands to her waist, the fabric of her dress soft under his palms. Slowly, deliberately, he let them drift lower, settling at her backside. He gave a firm but teasing push, drawing her body flush against him, her stomach pressed to his hip. Heat flared between them, sparking in her widening eyes.

“If I said, come away for the whole weekend, what would you say?” His voice was low, almost a growl, his forehead brushing hers.

Her grin was instant, lighting up her face. “I'd say yes,” she breathed, her hands sliding against his chest.

He dipped his head, the tip of his nose grazing hers in a gentle, intimate caress. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, his lips just a whisper away from hers.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the rest of the world disappeared—the marble floors, the gilded edges, Daemon’s shadow looming somewhere outside.

X

The party faded behind them, the hum of the gala replaced by the buzz of their escape. Cregan walked a pace ahead, his hand clenched into a fist at his side as they turned the corner. Claere followed, her soft laugh bubbling under her breath as she swiped at her phone. Her one-day worth of supplies hung in a poofy bag off her shoulder, and she hadn't even changed out of that gorgeous dress. Good, he wanted some fun with it.

“Jace says he’s got it covered,” she murmured, slipping her phone back into her purse. She glanced up at Cregan, her silver hair glinting under the fountain lights. “Something about you ‘owing him again.’”

Cregan snorted but didn’t slow his stride. “Remind me to get him a six-pack. Or an actual job, so he stops eating off trays.”

Her phone buzzed again, and she glanced at it. “Oh, a follow-up: ‘Be safe. Use protection.’”

“And also to strangle him.”

Claere giggled, quickening her pace to catch up. “He cares, in his own way.”

“I care, in my own way,” Cregan replied, waving his hand toward the street corner where two cabs idled. “Like making sure we don’t end up as tabloid fodder. Separate rides, Claere.”

Her nose scrunched, that playful wrinkle that never failed to tug at something deep in his chest. She sighed, clearly unimpressed with his plan, but without protest, she slid into the first cab. Her dress glinted in the dim light as the door shut, and Cregan let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

He climbed into his own cab, shutting the door with more force than necessary. The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, realization flashing, but Cregan ignored it, staring out at the blur of city lights. His knee bounced involuntarily, a jittery rhythm to match the thundering in his chest.

He hated this. Not her—never her. It was the situation, the secrecy, the creeping unease that came with living half in shadows. She deserved better than that, better than slinking into a cab alone because he was too afraid of what people would say, of how her family would look at her if they knew. His fingers drummed against his thigh, restless. What if someone did see? What if Jace slipped up? What if this—whatever this was—crumbled under the weight of all his fears?

But then the cab pulled up in front of his building, and there she was, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes gleaming, a soft smirk playing on her lips. All the noise in his head went quiet.

“I thought you'd forgotten me,” she said as he approached. There was a glint of good mischief in her eyes.

“You can hunt me down if I do,” he replied with a grin, his voice quieter than he intended.

She smiled back, the kind of smile that made his chest ache, and he led her into the building.

Inside the elevator, the air between them felt charged, electric. Cregan pressed the button for his floor and stepped back, his hands sliding into his pockets. He tried to keep his distance, to focus on the dim numbers counting upward, counting down the seconds. But then she moved, just the smallest shift, and her perfume wrapped around him like a thread, pulling tight.

He broke.

In an instant, he was on her, his hands finding the curve of her waist and drawing her close. His lips found her neck, the warmth of her skin sparking something wild in him.

“Cregan, no. We're almost there,” she moaned, her voice high and startled, though it melted quickly into a laugh. Her hands pressed against his chest in a half-hearted attempt to push him away.

“Almost isn’t here,” he murmured, the words low and gravelly against her skin. He nipped lightly at her jaw, grinning when she groaned in mock exasperation.

“Control,” she managed between giggles, but her arms were winding around his shoulders, holding him close even as she protested.

The elevator chimed, and he pulled back reluctantly, his breath unsteady as he smoothed his shirt. She was grinning up at him, cheeks flushed, and he could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

“For now,” he muttered, his voice rough.

The doors slid open, and they stepped out together, the tension between them buzzing like static. As they approached his door, he stole a glance at her, taking in the way she skipped forward, that gentle spirit always seemed to undo him. She glanced up at him, catching his gaze, and her lips curved into an excited, knowing smile.

She reached for the keypad, keyed in the code and welcomed herself inside.

“Home sweet home,” she sang out, violet eyes glowing in the track lighting overhead. She kicked her heels off and let them clatter untidily. “You know, you should get a dog. To greet you at the door. A teeny little Maltese. No, wait—a Saint Bernard. Something drooly and... where's that mat I put down here? See, I...”

Cregan shut the door and followed her inside, letting her voice fill the space. He liked the sound of it here, the way it softened the edges of his stark, contemporary apartment.

The place was quintessentially him: sleek black and white, all sharp angles and clean lines. The walls were bare except for a few geometric art pieces, and the furniture was minimalist and masculine, with steel and leather dominating the furnishings. The only bursts of colour or life in the entire apartment were hers, scattered like breadcrumbs from her many visits.

The dried flower petals in the shallow glass bowl on the coffee table—lavender and pale pink, her handiwork. The stitching art that hung above his dining table, a whimsical, colourful thing she had given him as a joke but insisted he put up. The row of herb pots lining the kitchen windowsill, the faint scent of rosemary and basil lingering even now. And her favourite plants—towering palms and fiddle-leaf figs—clustered by the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the glistening city.

“Oh, no!” She gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks. “What did you do! Cregan, you completely destroyed them!”

Cregan raised a brow as she hurried over to the plants, her expression one of pure heartbreak. “They’re still alive. I’d know—I waste fifty bucks a week on that girl to take care of them.”

Claere crouched by the nearest pot, inspecting a browning leaf with despair. “Poor babies,” she mumbled, stroking one of the stems as though it could sense her concern. “Oh, it's okay. I'm going to make this better.”

Cregan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with a faint smile tugging at his lips. Her outrage over the plants was genuine—he could see it in the little furrow of her brow and the way she pouted at the wilted leaves—but it was endearing, too. There was something deeply comforting about seeing her here, in his space, moving through it as if she belonged. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone or hide behind politeness. She simply was.

The thought settled in his chest, warm and steady: this was his future. The sight of her scolding him over plants she’d insisted on, her voice filling the silence of his apartment, wasn’t just familiar—it felt right, like the missing piece to something he hadn’t realized was incomplete.

With an amused shake of her head, he let her be and turned for his room.

Cregan loosened his tie as he stepped into his bedroom, the tension of the night finally starting to unravel from his shoulders. His room was a sea of muted blacks—dark wood furniture, a sleek grey comforter on the bed, and soft lighting that made the space feel calm and uncluttered. A large window dominated one wall, the city lights glittering beyond it, while a shelf in the corner held a surprising touch of life: books Claere had picked out for him, a framed photo of his late parents, and a small succulent she’d insisted he wouldn’t kill. It was thriving. Barely.

He tugged the tie free and draped it over a chair, then rolled back his sleeves, popping the cufflinks off. His phone buzzed in his pocket as he unbuttoned his shirt, and he pulled it out, unlocking it with one hand. Jace had texted him.

Told Mom that Claere's staying with Helaena for the weekend. Ask her to run with it when she calls.

Cregan smirked, his thumb tapping out a quick reply.

So I shouldn’t do my best Helaena impression this time?

The response was instant.

Only if you want to get skinned alive by Daemon.

Cregan’s grin widened.

Thanks, Jace. I owe you.

He vanished for a moment before he responded.

Six-pack Bud Light and Milk Duds, and we’re even.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. Typical Jace.

The familiar jangle of bracelets caught his attention, and he glanced toward the door. Claere stood there, leaning against the frame with one hand, her other clutching the edge of the door as though debating whether to come in. Her silver hair spilt over her shoulders, slightly mussed from the cab ride, and the warm golden light from the bedside lamp kissed her skin, underscoring the faint pink that crept up her neck as her eyes raked over him.

He knew that look. That wide-eyed, half-bitten-lip, soft-breathing look. She didn’t even try to hide it.

His shirt hung open, exposing the expanse of his chest, and he reached up to scratch the back of his neck, feigning obliviousness to the way her gaze lingered. His lips quirked in a lazy, teasing smile as he leaned against the edge of the dresser.

His gaze sharpened on her. He crooked a finger toward her, the gesture commanding yet playful.

“C’mere,” he murmured, low and rough.

For a second, she hesitated, and then, like a puppy being summoned—she crossed the room with small, slothful steps, her feet barely making a sound on the plush rug. Her velveteen red glowed with her every movement, the billowing skirt teasing just enough leg to make his head spin. By the time she stood before him, looking up with those wide, expectant eyes, Cregan was holding onto his composure by a thread.

Gods, he’d been dreaming of this moment all night. Dreaming of her in that dress, torturing him with how devastating she looked. And now here she was, close enough to touch, her scent wrapping around him like a spell.

“You remember,” he said, his voice a husky drawl, “how you asked me if I liked your dress?”

Her grin bloomed instantly, nodding. “Yeah?”

He crossed the distance between them in two long strides, towering over her now. His lips twitched into something wicked as he tilted his head. “I love it so fucking much... I'm actually starting to hate it.”

Her smile faltered, confusion flashing in her eyes. “You do?”

“I do.” He made a face, feigning distaste as he let his gaze sweep over her again, slower this time, savouring the way she shifted under the intensity of it. “It makes me want to rip it right off you.”

Her breath hitched, a faint gasp trembling out of her as her cheeks turned an even darker shade of pink. She bit her lip, the beginnings of a shy, flustered smile twisting at the corners.

“Oh,” she managed softly.

Cregan’s smirk deepened. “Yeah. Oh.”

Without another word, he reached out and took her by the waist, guiding her backwards until the backs of her legs hit the edge of the bed. Gently, he eased her to sit, her dress pooling around her like liquid fire. He sank to his knees before her, the movement fluid, reverent.

For a moment, he just looked at her. All flushed and breathless, her chest rising and falling with anticipation. His hands settled on her knees, his thumbs brushing back the fabric of her dress, tracing lazy circles as he fought the urge to give in too quickly. She was his, yes—but this moment felt sacred, and he wanted to make it last.

“I’ve been dreaming of this all night,” he confessed, his voice low and almost raw. “You. In this damn dress. Driving me insane. And now...” He let his hands slide up her thighs, slow and careful, his calloused palms grazing her soft skin where the rippling skirt of her dress exposed her. “Now you’re here, looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her gaze locked on his.

“Like you know exactly what you’re doing to me.” He leaned forward, his forehead brushing against hers for a moment before his lips found her cheek, his stubble scraping lightly against her skin. “Like you're enjoying this.”

Her hands found his shoulders, her fingers digging into his bare skin where his shirt hung open. “I am,” she whispered, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I like seeing you like this.”

He laughed softly, kissing a trail down her neck, whispering, “Good. Because I’m not letting you go tonight, Claere. Not until you understand exactly how much I hate this dress.”

Her breath hitched as his lips brushed against her collarbone, lingering like a promise. The warmth of his mouth sent shivers rippling through her, tender and insistent. She felt the tension in his hands as they tightened on her thighs, stopping her in place as though he feared she might drift away.

Cregan’s kisses moved lower, intent dark, his stubble grazing her skin in a way that left her tingling. She gasped softly, her fingers slipping from his shoulders into his hair, tangling in the thick, dark strands.

“Cregan, please,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need, each syllable a plea she barely recognized as her own.

He paused just long enough to murmur against her skin, his voice rough and heady, “Beg all you want, Claere. You’re not going anywhere.”

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as his hands slid upward, skimming the silky fabric of her dress with an unbearable slowness that made her tremble. His thumbs brushed her bare skin, igniting sparks that danced along her nerves, and with one smooth, practised motion, he lifted her legs over his shoulders. The shift brought her even closer to him, and when his eyes met hers, the intensity in his gaze sent a chill up her spine.

“You ready?” he murmured, his voice a quiet confession that made her breath catch.

Her lips parted to respond, but the words dissolved as he pressed his lips to the inside of her knee. The kiss was soft, almost reverent, but it sent heat rushing through her veins. He moved slowly, teasingly, his lips trailing higher with each kiss, each touch deliberate and unhurried.

“Dreamy girl,” he whispered again, his breath hot against her skin, the nickname carrying a kind of reverence that left her lightheaded. His hands held her firm, his grip strong but careful, as if he was both claiming and protecting her.

When he finally ducked his head beneath the fluttering fabric of her dress, her gasp was immediate, one hand flying to his hair, the other clutching the edge of the bed for support. His lips found her where she needed him most, warm and insistent, and her head tipped back as her body arched into him, the tension in her muscles snapping like a taut wire.

Cregan moved with precision, a man starved but savouring every moment, his mouth pressing kisses that felt like vows against her most sensitive skin. The graze of his teeth, the willful flick of his tongue—it all worked in tandem, unravelling her in ways she couldn’t control.

She bit her lip hard, desperate to stifle the sound rising in her throat, but he wasn’t making it easy. He hummed against her, a low, resonant sound that sent shockwaves through her body.

“Cregan—” she whimpered, her voice breaking, her hand tightening in his hair.

He glanced up, his lips glistening, his pupils dark and wide with hunger. The look on his face—possessive, devoted, and utterly captivated—made her throat go dry. He looked at her as though she was a gift he’d spent his whole life waiting to unwrap.

“Everything okay up there?” he teased, his voice low and gravelly, but the smirk tugging at his lips couldn’t mask the affection in his eyes.

She could barely nod, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. He chuckled, his thumb brushing a soothing circle against that needy space of hers, a small gesture of care amidst the chaos he was creating.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his tone softening as he kissed her thigh. “Because I’m not even close to done with you.”

And then he bent his head again, this time undoing the zip and bow at the back of her dress, his hands sliding up to carefully lay her down, his focus entirely on her. The rest of the world faded away as he pulled her deeper into his orbit, leaving her no room for anything else but him.

X

Claere stretched languidly, her limbs reaching toward the edges of the bed before she rolled onto her stomach, her hair a tangled mess. Cregan let his head tilt toward her, unable to keep his eyes from tracing every curve of her body as she moved. She was entirely bare, her skin kissed by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and for a moment, he couldn’t believe she was real. That she was his.

Without a word, she slipped off the bed and padded toward his closet, effortless and confident. It had taken her some time to be so bold and bare-skinned before him. Cregan propped himself up on his elbows, his grin softening as he watched her braid her hair back loosely. She pulled open the closet doors, running her fingers over the rows of neatly hung clothes before plucking out a jersey—his name and number proudly emblazoned on the back.

She turned toward him, slipping it on over her head, the fabric swallowing her frame and skimming the tops of her thighs. Bare legs. His jersey. Gods. He ran a hand down his face, dragging out a groan. He didn’t stand a chance against her.

Claere twirled once, holding her arms out with a grin that could have powered a city. “Huh?”

“A billion bucks, Claere,” he said, his voice low, his gaze darkening as he took her in.

“Make that one-hundred-and-thirty,” she teased, hugging herself and letting out a dramatic sigh. “Finally comfy.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Fuckin' hell. Why can’t you sponsor my team instead?”

“What can I say? I’m a trust fund baby.” She climbed back onto the bed, all elegance and mischief, the hem of the jersey riding up to reveal the curve of her hips as she sprawled beside him. She flashed him a wicked smile from the pillow’s edge, her chin propped on her crossed arms.

“You’d get all of it if you married me.”

He snorted, rolling his eyes. “Like I care.”

“I’ll sponsor your team if you marry me?”

“No, thanks.”

“Please marry me?”

He snickered. “Wait for me to ask.”

Claere’s smile faltered slightly, softening into something more thoughtful as she studied his face. “When’s your next game?”

“Friday,” he answered, leaning back against the headboard. “Last one before the season starts. Coach has already pulled out all the stops.”

Her brows knitted slightly, though she tried to keep her tone casual. “So this might be the last time I’m coming over for a while.”

The words hit him harder than he wanted to admit, his chest tightening. She wasn’t wrong. Once the season started, it was a relentless grind—early mornings at the rink, punishing hours of practice, travel, classes, and social obligations he couldn’t ignore. And as much as he hated it, fitting her in would become a challenge. It always did. But the thought of her not being here, of nights without her easy laughter, her sly remarks, or just the quiet comfort of her presence—it unsettled him in ways he couldn’t quite name.

He forced a smile, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “We’ve still got Sundays.”

She barely nodded. “Yeah. Sundays.”

But even as he said it, the words felt thin, like they couldn’t hold up against his growing unease. What if Sundays weren’t enough? What if the distance stretched too far, the gaps between their moments together becoming too wide to bridge?

His mind ran ahead of him, racing through possibilities he didn’t want to entertain. This was their rhythm every season—he disappeared into hockey, and she stayed back, quietly supporting him from the sidelines. But what if this time was different? What if she got tired of waiting? What if the secrecy, the stolen moments, became too much?

He glanced at her, trying to gauge her expression, but Claere only shifted closer to him. She didn’t look upset—just thoughtful, her gaze distant as she toyed with the hem of his jersey.

He wanted to reach for her, to hold her, to ask her to stay. To promise her that he’d make time, that they wouldn’t drift, that this—they—would still be okay. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled with his pride and the knowledge that he couldn’t keep her tethered to him, not when she deserved more.

Claere seemed to sense his turmoil because she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Her lips lingered there for a moment, warm and reassuring, brushing his hair, before she pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“I can wait,” she said gently, her voice calm in a way that made his chest ache. “It’s just a few more months. What’s that compared to everything else?”

He stared at her, the knot in his chest loosening just enough to let him breathe. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly, hating how uncertain he sounded.

Her smile returned, small but unwavering. “It’s your last season in college, right? We just have to keep this private a little longer. And then…” She trailed off, her gaze mellowing as she stroked his jaw. “Then it’ll be easier. It'll be date nights, dinner at schmancy restaurants, weekend jet to St. Kitts.”

He nodded, her words sinking in like a balm, though the lingering doubt in the back of his mind refused to quiet completely.

Claere shifted again, resting her head against his shoulder, her fingers idly tracing patterns on his arm. “You’re worth it, you know,” she murmured, almost to herself.

His throat tightened, and he tilted his head to rest against hers, the faint scent of her shampoo quirking a smile on his lips. “I don’t deserve you,” he admitted, his voice rough.

She laughed softly. “Probably not. But you’ve got me anyway.”

Cregan closed his eyes, letting Claere’s words settle into the cracks of his uncertainty. She was right—what were a few months? They’d made it this far. They could make it further. And yet, that lingering fear, the whisper in the back of his mind that someday even her patience might run out, refused to fade entirely.

He exhaled deeply, shifting to press a lingering kiss to the top of her head. “You deserve a big breakfast, baby,” he murmured against her hair. “Fit for a queen.”

Claere hummed, the sound soft and content as she leaned into him. “Aw,” she teased. “Please don’t. I don’t have the number for poison control saved.”

He tossed the covers over her head, muffling her delighted giggles. “Smartass,” he said as he fumbled for his pants over the bed. Dragging them on, he hefted himself off the bed and stretched. “I’m going to make it for you anyway.”

“Poison control's toll-free!” she called after him, the smile evident in her voice.

Cregan shook his head, grinning as he padded into the hallway. The apartment was still, the faint hum of the city outside the only sound. He rolled his shoulders, the warmth of Claere’s words lingering in his chest. Gods, he loved her. Even with the challenges, even with the secrecy, she made everything feel worth it.

His smile was still tugging at his lips as he stepped into the living room—until he saw her. He froze the second his gaze landed on the figure in his living room.

Rhaenyra.

She sat on the edge of his sofa, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, her gown from the gala still immaculate like she’d stepped out of some high society painting and decided to grace his apartment with her presence. Her intricate braid was sleek and perfect, not a strand out of place, and the faint glint of a diamond bracelet caught the dim morning light as she reached for her purse on the coffee table.

She looked at him; calm, composed, unreadable. It was the kind of look that commanded attention and gave away nothing in return.

Cregan stood rooted in place, his heart thundering in his chest as his mind scrambled for answers. How did she get in? How did she find out? His panic clawed at him, wild and unrelenting. Fucking Daemon. Fucking Jace. But despite the storm raging inside him, he couldn’t move—Rhaenyra’s unflinching gaze pinned him like a predator locking onto its prey. She didn’t even need to speak. Her silence was louder than any confrontation.

Soft, cheerful footfalls approached from behind, jolting him like a slap to the back of his head.

Completely unaware of the brewing disaster, Claere leapt up, hanging off his shoulder, laughing. She nipped at his ear, her voice playful. “I’ll make us breakfast, okay? Peanut butter sandwich. No? How about eggs? Preferably not fertilized.”

Cregan’s heart sank to his stomach. Gods-fucking-damnit. He shut his eyes for a long, steadying breath, hoping against hope she would take notice—and she did. He felt her freeze against him as her gaze followed his, landing on the figure sitting serenely in the living room.

“Mom!” she squeaked, her voice a pitch higher than usual, betraying her shock.

Claere slowly dropped, her bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. Her hands smoothed down the oversized jersey she wore—the jersey with his fucking name in white letters—as if it could somehow erase the evidence of everything.

Rhaenyra inclined her head slightly. Placid, regal. “Claere,” she replied as though this were nothing more than a routine check-in rather than the powder keg it clearly was.

“What are you—?” Claere’s words tumbled out in a rush, her hands flitting nervously as she glanced at Cregan, then back to her mother. “We were just—I mean, I—”

“Put on some pants, darling,” Rhaenyra said with a faint wave toward Claere's jersey. “Then we can talk. I’ll make us some coffee, hm?”

Cregan blinked, his mouth opening to say something, but nothing came out. His throat was dry, his thoughts a chaotic mess. All he could do was stand there, shirtless, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar—except this time, the stakes were infinitely higher. He chanced a glance at Claere.

Her face was flushed, her lips parted like she was trying to catch up with what was happening. “Right,” she mumbled, tugging at the hem of the jersey as if it might magically grow longer. “I’ll… just go. Um, change.”

She darted out of the room, not a single glance in his direction, her footsteps hurried, leaving Cregan standing alone in the eye of the storm. His gaze flicked back to Rhaenyra, who had already risen from the couch. She adjusted the bracelet on her wrist, her expression still maddeningly composed, giving away nothing.

Cregan swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. He felt like a deer staring down a wolf, but there was no running from this.

“I—uh—” he started, but the words died in his throat.

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, her lips curving faintly—not quite a smile, but something close. “Sit down, Cregan,” she said, her tone even. “We’ll talk when Claere’s ready.”

She turned, walking toward the kitchen without so much as a glance back.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. How in the fuck was he going to survive this?

X

Cregan sat stiffly on the stool, his hands clasped on the island counter as though he might steady himself against the tension in the air. Claere was beside him, separated by a single stool, and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing her way. His stomach churned at how comfortable she looked, perched there in teeny shorts and a camisole, her hair pulled back lazily. She might as well have been at her own apartment, not sitting across from her mother, who looked as though she was deciding whether to disown her on the spot.

He wanted to slam his head against the table. Why, Claere? Of all the things to wear, why this? As if that drawer full of her clothes was going to make anything better. She could've just put on a pair of pants and he could've salvaged the situation as an unrepeatable situation. Her bare legs swung idly, her toes occasionally brushing his shin under the counter, oblivious to the silent chaos in his head.

Across from them, Rhaenyra stirred her spoon in the mug in front of her. The ceramic was decorated with Claere’s initials and a dainty painting of peonies. Cregan hadn’t even noticed her bring it over, which somehow made it worse. She moved with a terrifyingly calm authority like she was the only one in control of this room, of him.

"Two years," Rhaenyra said suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence like a whip. She didn’t look up from her mug, as if she’d simply plucked the number from his mind.

Cregan gritted his teeth, but before he could respond, she tilted her head, her brow furrowing in mock deliberation.

"Four?" she guessed. Her eyes finally lifted to meet theirs, sharp and unyielding. "Five? Longer? Are my grandchildren in preschool?"

Cregan flinched.

"Three," Claere muttered, her voice barely audible.

"Three years." Rhaenyra’s lips twisted into a humourless laugh, and she shook her head. "Amazing. You looked me in the eye for three years, darling, and strung me along. I must say, that's got to be some sort of record." Her voice was light, almost conversational, but there was a razor-sharp edge to it that made Cregan’s palms sweat.

Cregan cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak. "It's not her fault," he said quickly, his voice steady but tense. "I was the one who wanted to keep it hush—"

"I don’t care," Rhaenyra interrupted, her tone icy as she pointed at Claere. "I am your mother, Claere. I am responsible for you, even if you're well into being an adult. Believe me, I want to end this here and tear you two apart right now, but you've already taken every liberty."

"Mom, I'm—" Claere began, her voice trembling, but Rhaenyra cut her off with a sharp gesture.

"Don’t apologize, don't you dare," Rhaenyra snapped, her eyes narrowing as she turned her mug slowly in her hands. She let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. For the first time, she looked genuinely tired, as if this immense confrontation had finally caught up to her.

"Let me ask you something," she said softly, fixing them both with a piercing stare. "Are you pregnant? Is that something I need to—"

"No!"

The denial burst from both of them in unison, their voices overlapping in their panic.

Cregan’s heart pounded so loudly it was a miracle he could still hear the conversation. His throat felt like sandpaper, and his body screamed at him to move, to stand or pace or anything to break the suffocating stillness of the moment. But he remained rooted in place as if Rhaenyra’s unflinching gaze had nailed him to the stool.

He glanced at Claere, hoping to ground himself, but the sight of her only made his chest tighten. Her cheeks were flushed, her hands twisting in her lap as though she were trying to wring the tension out of them. It made his stomach churn to see her like this, and the urge to shield her from her mother’s scrutiny was nearly unbearable. But what could he do against her?

Rhaenyra leaned back in her seat, finally breaking the tension as she took a sip from her mug. "Good." She set the mug down with a soft clink, her eyes darting between them. "That simplifies things."

Claere hesitated, her voice trembling slightly when she finally spoke. “Who told you?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted to her daughter, her expression betraying nothing. "Why?"

Cregan could see where this was heading, and his instincts flared. He nudged Claere’s ankle under the table—a quiet warning to tread carefully—but Claere either didn’t notice or chose to ignore him.

"Was it Daemon?" she pressed, her voice stronger now, though it wavered at the edges. "How did he know?"

Rhaenyra set her spoon down. "Daemon has known for some time now. As have I. Tonight simply confirmed our suspicions." Her lips curled into something between a smirk and a scoff. "I took a little drive down to Helaena's myself and when I didn't find you there... that's when I decided I had had enough."

Cregan’s stomach twisted further. Helaena. Of course. Always so sweet, so guileless. He could almost picture her accidental slip, the quiet unravelling of a lie they’d spent years perfecting. He forced himself to sit straighter, trying to shake the knot in his gut, but Rhaenyra’s eyes pinned him again, sharp and unyielding.

“Then why didn’t you just ask me?” he said eventually, his voice firmer than he expected. He locked eyes with her, refusing to look away. “You knew. Why wait until now?”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, studying him as if he were a particularly perplexing puzzle. “Oh, I wanted to,” she admitted, her tone as cool and cutting as ever. “Believe me, I wanted to drag Claere home and ship her off to the Arctic if it meant getting her away from you.” She let out a soft sigh, the first crack in her carefully composed demeanour. “But Daemon convinced me…” She turned her gaze back to Claere, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Of some things.”

The intensity of her stare made Claere visibly shrink, her shoulders curling inward as though she could physically shield herself. The red flush on her cheeks deepened, and she looked down at her hands as if they might offer her some kind of escape.

Cregan’s chest burned with equal parts frustration and guilt. He could feel the unspoken accusations hanging in the air, the disappointment Rhaenyra didn’t need to voice. This was his idea—keeping things quiet, hiding their relationship from her family, from everything that mattered to her world. She didn’t deserve this.

“I pushed for this,” he said, his voice steady but low, like a dam holding back a flood. “She didn’t. I wanted to keep it quiet because… because I didn’t want people saying I wasn’t here on my own merit.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked back to him, sharp and scrutinizing, as though she were weighing his every word. “So, this wasn’t about protecting her from the world. It was about protecting yourself. Your career. Your reputation. Tell me, Cregan, was that your plan all along? To make a mess out of my daughter's life?”

Her question struck like a blow, but he refused to back down. “There was no plan. I saw her, we talked, I fell. We just—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair, his frustration spilling over. “We just fell in love. I didn't want to lose it.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous edge creeping into her tone as she shifted her gaze back to Cregan. "You’re good at this, aren’t you? Taking the blame, making it seem noble. But let’s be honest here. The real reason you kept this hush isn’t about you, is it?”

Cregan was caught off guard by the accusation. “That’s not true.”

“No?” Rhaenyra tilted her head, her voice was as sharp as a blade. “You thought they’d see you as the boy who rode her coattails. The hockey player who only got his shot because he’s tied to the girl from the headlines. No. You kept it quiet because you didn’t want to be seen with her. Because my daughter—this beautiful, extraordinary girl—is also the woman the tabloids love to shred to pieces. Because her family is a circus, and my name is a spectacle.”

“Mom—” Claere tried to interject, but her voice wavered.

“Hush, darling,” Rhaenyra dismissed, not even glancing at her daughter. Her focus remained locked on Cregan. “You can sit there and tell me this was all about protecting her, about keeping her out of the spotlight, but the truth is, you didn’t want the world to see you with her. Did you?”

“That’s not fair,” Cregan shot back, his voice rising despite his effort to stay calm. “I worked my ass off to get to where I am. And I’ve never once been ashamed of her.”

“Then why the secrecy?” Rhaenyra countered, her voice growing colder. “Why hide her if you’re so proud? You’ve been out with your friends, your teammates, your fans—but Claere? She’s been stuck in the shadows.”

“I am not about to—”

“Stop,” Claere’s voice cut through, trembling but loud enough to silence them both. She looked between them, her cheeks flushed, her hands gripping the edge of the counter as if to stabilize herself. “Just stop.”

Her wide, tear-brimmed eyes turned to Cregan, and he felt his chest tighten. “Is that true?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is that why you wanted to keep us quiet? Because you were embarrassed to be with me?”

“That’s not what this is,” he said, desperation lacing his tone. “I love you, Claere. I’ve always loved you. This was never about hiding you. It was about keeping what we have safe.”

“Safe?” Rhaenyra’s voice sliced through the moment, cool and unforgiving. “Or convenient? Let’s call this what it is: fear. You’ve let your fear and insecurity of how the world sees you dictate how you treat my daughter.”

“That’s enough!” Cregan snapped, slamming his hand on the counter. He turned to Claere, his face softening even as his voice stayed resolute. “I was afraid of what they’d think of us,” he said, his voice tight. “Afraid they’d turn something real into just another news article. I didn’t want to risk people saying I didn’t deserve what I worked for, or that you were some kind of shortcut. I didn’t want them tearing us apart before we even had a chance.”

Claere’s lip quivered, her eyes searching his face for truth. “I thought we were in this together,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “All of it. Not just the good parts.”

“Baby,” he tried.

Cregan reached for her hand, but she pulled away, shaking her head. His stomach sank, the ache in his ribs almost unbearable. He looked back at Rhaenyra, whose face remained impassive, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or vindication.

“This isn’t about how we started,” Cregan told Rhaenyra, his voice quieter now, but no less determined. “It’s about where we are. I love her. I’m not perfect, but I’m here, and I’m willing to fight for her. Can you say the same for anyone else who’s ever come into her life?”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by his outburst, but she didn’t respond immediately. She leaned back, crossing her arms as she studied him.

“Prove it to me. Step out of the shadows, Cregan. If you love her as much as you say, stop hiding. Own it.”

The challenge hung in the air, heavy and impossible to ignore. Cregan looked at Claere again, her expression still hurt but softening as his words sank in. He nodded slowly, a decision settling over him like a weight he was finally ready to carry.

“I will,” he said, his voice steady. “If she’ll have me, I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it.”

Cregan reached for her hand, desperate, and this time, Claere’s fingers slipped into his, anchoring him, and she looked up at her mother, meeting her piercing gaze with surprising steel.

“Mom,” she began, her voice calm but unyielding, “I’m sorry I lied to you. I should have told you sooner, and I regret the secrecy, but I don’t regret falling in love with him. Not for a second.”

Rhaenyra’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened, flicking to their intertwined hands before returning to her daughter’s face. “You can say that now,” she said evenly, “but what about when this—” she gestured to the space between Claere and Cregan, “—inevitably complicates everything? The headlines? The scrutiny? Do you really think you can keep his world and ours from colliding forever?”

Claere squared her shoulders, the flicker of doubt in her eyes extinguished by a quiet, steady resolve. “We’re not trying to live in two separate worlds, Mom. We’re building one of our own. We knew this wouldn’t be easy—we’ve known that from the start—but we’re... handling it.”

Cregan felt a little lighter, her words a balm to the storm of emotions raging inside him.

“And if it becomes too much? If his career takes him somewhere you can’t follow, or if the media turns on you?” Rhaenyra pressed, her tone deceptively soft. “Are you prepared for that kind of fallout?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Claere said firmly, her voice rising with conviction. “We’ve already figured out so much, and I trust myself. And him. Whatever comes our way, we can handle it.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, her features still impassive, but there was a flicker of something—approval?—beneath the surface. “And what about me, Claere? Do you trust me?”

Claere hesitated for only a moment, then nodded. “I always do. I know you’re trying to protect me, and I love you for it. But I’m not a child anymore, Mom. I can do this on my own.”

Rhaenyra leaned back, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “Strong words,” she murmured, almost to herself. Then, after a long moment of silence, she sighed, setting down her mug with deliberate care.

“Very well,” she said finally, her voice measured. “You’ve made your choice, my love. And it seems you’re determined to see it through.” Her gaze shifted to Cregan, sharp as a blade. “But make no mistake, Stark. If you break her—if you make me regret giving you this chance—you won’t have to worry about the press. You’ll answer to me.”

Cregan swallowed hard, but he didn’t flinch. “Understood.”

Rhaenyra exhaled deeply, her gaze resting on Claere with a quiet intensity that seemed to fill the room. She straightened, smoothing her dress with a deliberate gesture before speaking, her voice low but unyielding.

“Get your things, darling,” she decided. “I’m taking you back home.”

Claere sighed, her breath catching as her mother’s words settled over her. She opened her mouth as if to argue, but Rhaenyra’s firm tone silenced her before she could begin.

“Now, please,” Rhaenyra added, her voice softening slightly but still brooking no resistance. “Don’t fight me on this. Say your goodbyes. You can talk to him later.”

Cregan felt the air leave his lungs, his chest tightening as the meaning of her words sank in. He glanced at Claere, whose wide eyes darted to him in silent pleading. She looked torn, her hands fidgeting at her sides as if searching for something to hold onto.

For a moment, the urge to speak rose in him—to push back, to argue, to demand—but as his eyes locked with Rhaenyra’s unrelenting gaze, he stopped himself. He could see it there: not malice, but a mother’s determination, a fierce desire to protect her child. As much as it pained him, he understood.

He turned to Claere and gave her a small nod despite the ache beneath it. The message was clear. It’s fine. I understand. Go with her.

Claere’s lips trembled, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she searched his face. Her shoulders sagged slightly, but she nodded back, acknowledging his silent reassurance.

Rhaenyra stepped back, her company filling the space between them as she waited. Claere hesitated, then reached for her overnight bag on the counter. She moved with reluctance, and when she turned back to Cregan, her eyes were full of longing. She did not want to leave. Not like this.

Cregan forced a small smile, hoping it would be enough to hold them together for now. “Go,” he murmured, the word more breath than sound, though he knew she understood.

As Claere followed her mother out of the room, the sound of the door closing behind them left an aching silence. Cregan stood frozen for a moment, his eyes fixed on the spot where Claere had been. The pang in his chest surged until it was unbearable.

Rage and despair blinded him to control, and he grabbed the nearest object—his water bottle—and hurled it against the fridge. The loud clang echoed through the kitchen, reverberating off the walls and doing little to ease the frustration coursing through him.

Cregan braced his hands on the counter, his head hanging low as he tried to steady his breathing. The fight with Rhaenyra replayed in his mind, her sharp words, Claere’s indefinite voice, the way her hand slipped from his without hesitation. Every detail twisted in his gut.

He wanted to scream, to chase after them, to promise Claere he’d fix this. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

This isn’t over, he thought fiercely, his jaw tightening. Not by a long shot.

X

The days without Claere passed like months. Cregan had tried to push through it, burying himself in practice, but it was like skating on dead ice. Every empty glance at his phone added fuel to the frustration simmering under his skin. Practice was a disaster—his passes were off, and his shots lacked precision. His coach had barked at him twice during drills, and even his teammates—guys who usually let him brood in peace—started asking if he was okay. He wasn’t. Not even close.

The worst part wasn’t even the uncertainty; it was the silence. No texts, no calls. He’d tried reaching out to Claere and Jace both, but his messages hung in limbo, unanswered. Every attempt ended in static like they’d been wiped off the map. The hollow ring of her number before the dreaded voicemail beep made his stomach twist every time.

He hated not knowing. Was this it? Was she done with him? Or worse—had her family made the decision for her?

By Thursday, he was running on fumes. His body ached from overworking himself on the ice, and his mind was a mess. The Targaryen mansion wasn’t far from his practice rink, and he’d driven past it so many times that the guards were starting to eye him like he was some kind of stalker.

Four days. Four days without a word from her, and he was losing it.

Then Friday came, game day, and it hit him like a slap. He didn’t have time for this. If he didn’t get his head in the game, he’d tank the team. But just as he was about to haul himself to the locker room, he saw someone jogging toward him near the player’s bench like some divine intervention. Cregan, mid-drill, tossed his stick aside, and practically stormed to meet him, relief and frustration competing for dominance.

“About fucking time!” he said, his voice incredulous. Cregan muttered, half-tempted to hug the guy and half-tempted to shove him, “Where the hell have you been?”

Jace, dressed down in jeans and a hoodie, stopped short, hands on his hips as he caught his breath. “Man, I am so sorry. Look, I really tried. I stalled her as much as I could that night, but you know my mom. And Daemon was her accomplice—”

“Not your fault,” Cregan interrupted quickly, shaking his head. “You tried. Thanks for coming.”

Jace gave a sheepish grin. “It wasn’t just me. Daemon went full dictator. Took all our phones, and said we needed a ‘digital cleanse.’ Packed us off to fuckin' Croatia. Ancestral home or some shit. Total lockdown. No phones, no Wi-Fi, just… swimming, food, and lectures about how we’ve all failed our parents somehow and forgotten our history.”

Cregan exhaled sharply. That explained a lot. “So, you’re just getting back now?”

“This morning,” Jace confirmed. He shifted awkwardly, as if unsure of what to say next, before finally adding, “Claere’s still at home. She’s okay, though. She was miserable the first day, but… y’know. We made her come around and have fun.”

Hearing her name felt like both a balm and a wound. Cregan let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “That sounds about right.”

“Yeah,” Jace agreed. He hesitated, studying Cregan for a moment. “Mom and Daemon? Still pissed. Claere… I don’t think she gives two shits.”

Cregan’s lips twitched into a weak smile. That was Claere all right. “When’s she coming back to class? Or… anything?” His voice trailed off, unsure how much more he could ask.

Jace shrugged. “Don’t know. She’s kind of in this holding pattern right now. Guess she’s waiting for something.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Thanks, Jace. Really.”

“Look, man…” Jace scratched the back of his neck, his usual easy demeanour clouded with worry. “She’ll come around. Just… give her time.”

Cregan gave a tight nod, though the frustration bubbling inside him was threatening to boil over. Time. He’d already spent four days in limbo, and he didn’t know how much longer he could take it.

Later, after practice, he called her again. The line rang twice before going straight to voicemail. That greeting looped in his mind like a cruel joke.

“Hi, it’s Claere! I can’t come to the phone right now, probably because I’m doing something infinitely more interesting. Leave a message! Or not. Up to you.”

He clenched his jaw at the teasing tone in her pre-recorded message, so familiar yet so distant. The beep sounded, and he hesitated before speaking, his voice gruff with tension.

“Baby, it’s me. Look, I—” He stopped, dragging a hand down his face. What could he even say? “I miss you. I don’t know what you're feeling, what you're thinking, or if you’re just… done, but I need to talk to you. Please. I'm losing my mind. Call me back. Or find me on campus. Just—please, Claere... I love you. So much.”

He hung up, his chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. It felt futile. Every unanswered call, every unreturned message, chipped away at the hope he’d been clinging to.

What was he supposed to do? Wait? Move on? Fight harder? He didn’t even know if she wanted him to. All he knew was that every day without her was stretching him thinner, and he didn’t know how much more he could take.

His teammates had practically dragged him to the coffeeshop on campus grounds after the brutal loss that afternoon, insisting he “needed to get out of his head.” He appreciated the effort, even if their chatter washed over him like static. This whole place was crowded and loud, a stark contrast to Cregan’s own hollow mood. He gave them a smile or two and answered a few vague questions, but his responses always had a way of circling back to her.

“Man, this chick must’ve really done a number on you,” one of the guys joked, nudging him.

Cregan huffed a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that.”

It wasn’t just her. It was everything—what she represented, what he felt for her, and how much he’d probably screwed up everything, right from the start. He missed her more than he could explain, more than he was even comfortable admitting to himself. And now? He didn’t even know where they stood.

He was nursing his coffee, trying to shake off the tension pressing on his chest, when the door jingled. Normally, he wouldn’t have noticed, but the sudden shift in the room's energy was unmistakable. Conversations dimmed, and heads turned.

Cregan looked up—and the air left his lungs.

Had it been weeks? No, just one. Claere stepped inside, her sun-tanned skin glowing against the blue eyelet blouse and shorts she wore, sandals clicking softly on the tile floor. Silvern hair was in a loose braid, a few strands framing her face, and a scattering of thin silver rings glinted on her fingers as she adjusted the strap of her sling bag. She looked like she’d walked straight out of some sun-drenched dream.

And all he could do was sit there. Frozen. Thinking. She hadn't bothered to call him. Was she angry? Was she done with him? Didn't he deserve an explanation? Had her parents changed her mind?

His stomach twisted with longing, with a desperation that felt almost painful. She was the one thing he wanted most, and yet here he was—rooted to a chair, surrounded by people who had no idea what she meant to him. She glanced around the room, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. When her eyes met him, there was not a muscle in his body that did not clench.

She hesitated, just for a moment. He could see it in her face—the effort it took to act like she didn’t know him. Like she hadn’t been his everything all these years. He felt it too, that same instinct to pretend, to keep up the lie, even as it killed him inside.

Her gaze flicked to the guys at his table, then back to the door. His heart sank, thinking she might leave, but instead, she turned and walked to the counter. Ordered something—juice, by the sound of it—and then settled at a corner table by herself.

Cregan couldn’t help it. His eyes followed her, drawn to her like gravity. He'd been conditioned to be aware of her, near or far. Even when she pulled out a book and rolled a few pencils onto the table, so calm and indifferent, he knew her too well. There was tension in her posture, a stiffness in the way she held herself. She wasn’t as unaffected as she seemed.

“Hot damn,” one of his teammates said, cutting into his thoughts. “You saw that fine ass? Those shorts just—oomph.”

“I want a piece of that,” another chimed in, smirking. “Last week's news? That little red dress at the gala? Fuuuuckable.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his coffee forgotten in his hand.

“And a whole lot of crazy bitch,” the first one added, laughing, and something in Cregan snapped. His grip on the cup tightened, but he forced himself to stay still. He wanted to put their heads through the nearest wall.

“Crazy bitch is my speciality,” the other said, clearly feeling lucky today.

One of them leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing some great secret. “She's still screwed in the head, bro. Last semester, someone saw her—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Cregan said sharply, his tone cutting through the noise.

The guys turned to him, surprised. “Hey, what’s your problem?”

“Just drop it, okay?”

But they shrugged him off with a burst of laughter. One of them, clearly feeling bold, got up and crossed the room toward Claere, sharing an encouraging fist bump and shoulder slap. Cregan’s pulse spiked as he watched the guy tap her on the shoulder. She looked up, calm and polite as always, even when she shouldn’t have to be. Pulling out her earphones, she flashed a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Yeah?" she said, her voice as sweet as it was distant.

The guy’s grin widened as he pulled the chair out, his audacity a palpable stink in the air. “Claere, right? Mind if I join you? Name's Wil.”

For a fleeting moment, she looked at Cregan. It wasn’t just a glance—it was sharp, pointed, expectant. It wasn’t a plea for help—it was a challenge. Are you going to sit there and let some dickhead hit on your girlfriend?

But Cregan stayed rigid. His hand gripped the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his jaw locked. He wanted to move, to stop this, but something held him back—his frustration, his guilt, his need to keep up with appearances.

Claere’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long, and when he didn’t act, she let out a soft, bitter breath and turned back to Wil.

“Sure,” she said lightly, gesturing to the seat.

Cregan’s stomach churned. He dropped his gaze, staring at the scratched surface of the table, as if ignoring it would make it stop.

Wil slid into the seat across from her like he owned the place, leaning forward on his elbows. “So, what’s it like being you?” he started, his tone dripping with fake charm. “Must be hectic. Fancy trips, photographers hounding you everywhere, that kind of thing.”

Claere raised an eyebrow, somewhat bored. “It’s not all that exhilarating, I suppose.”

“Really? Come on, you don’t have to be modest with me.” His eyes swept over her, lingering just long enough to make Cregan’s stomach tighten further. “I mean, someone like you? Hot, famous, loaded—what’s not to love?”

“Hmm.” Her response was flat and dismissive, but Wil wasn’t taking the hint.

“You know, I’ve always wondered...” he started, his voice dipping conspiratorially. “What’s it like growing up with a mom like Rhaenyra Targaryen? Must’ve been wild. All those scandals, all those headlines. Does she, like, give you tips? On how to work the cameras, pose just right? Or is that all-natural?”

Her grip on her glass cup tightened, but her face remained composed. “Are you always this curious about other people’s families?”

“I’m just trying to get to know you better.” He leaned back, smirking. “I mean, everyone’s already seen so much of you, right? All those little ‘oops’ moments with the paparazzi? Those dresses, those photos—”

Cregan tensed like a coiled spring. Wil, oblivious, kept going. “Honestly, it’s impressive. Takes guts to pull off some of those pretty skirts. Or lack of them.”

The small, tense smile on Claere’s face vanished, replaced by a cold, hard stare.

“But hey,” he said, his voice dropping, as if her silence was encouraging, “if you ever wanted to, I don’t know, lean into that a little more... I’ve got a camera. Real discreet. No one even has to know.”

The table went silent. Cregan’s head snapped up, his blood boiling. The words didn’t fully register—he didn’t want them to. His chair screeched against the floor as he shifted, his vision narrowing on Wil's smug face.

Claere beat him to it. The slap echoed through the coffee shop like a gunshot. Conversations halted. Heads turned. Even the barista at the counter stopped mid-pour.

Wil stared at her, stunned, his cheek flaming red. Claere’s hand trembled as she dropped it to her side, her chest heaving. Tears gathered in her eyes, but her voice was steady, cutting. “I hope you get run over by a car and go brain-dead, you pervert.”

She grabbed her bag with sharp, jerky movements, her poise splintering as she shoved her things inside. “Can't believe this,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone, her voice thick with anger and humiliation. Without another glance at Wil—or at Cregan—she stormed out, shoving the door open so hard the bell jingled violently behind her.

Cregan moved before he could think, his chair tipping as he stood and grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt. He saw red for a moment, teeth grounding to dust.

“What the hell, Cap?” Wil sputtered, raising his hands.

Cregan shoved him back against the wall, hard enough to rattle the shelves and cups nearby. Wil's grin had vanished, replaced by wide, panicked eyes.

“You think that was funny?” Cregan hissed, his voice low and shaking with rage.

“I—it was just a joke—”

“Here’s the zinger,” Cregan snapped, leaning in close. “You’re benched. Next game, next practice, next season. I don’t care. You’re done. You so much as look at her again, and you’ll be picking your fucking teeth off the floor.”

He shoved the guy back against the wall one more time for good measure before letting go, his chest heaving.

Cregan didn’t wait to see the reaction. Grabbing his gear, he strode out of the coffee shop, his heart racing, his mind spinning. The quad was alive with students, but Cregan didn’t care about any of them. His focus locked onto Claere, halfway across the lawn, her head down and her steps hurried. He sprinted to catch up, but she moved too quick, as if she could escape the humiliation still clinging to the air around her.

“Cregan! That was sick, man!” A friend clapped him on the back as he passed, but the praise barely registered. Another student waved, calling his name, grinning like the drama was just a show for their entertainment. Cregan brushed past them, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. Not now. Not now. Just get to her.

But then he stopped dead in his tracks. Claere had turned to look at him, her face pale except for the flush high on her cheeks. Her red-rimmed eyes locked onto his, and the sight gutted him. She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her wrist, her hand trembling, almost frantic.

The breeze carried the faint sound of a sob, and he saw the way she glanced around her, the way her gaze caught on the groups of students whispering, watching. He knew what they were saying. He could feel their eyes on her, hear the speculative laughter just out of earshot. The exasperation on her face made his breaths falter, her helplessness a mirror to his own.

He took a step forward, but her head snapped to the side, and she spun on her heel, heading toward the scooter parked by the curb.

He wanted to call out to her, to tell her to wait, but his throat felt like it had closed up. He watched her as she fumbled with her keys, all jerky and rushed.

Say something, his mind screamed but held too still. The whispers around him grew louder, and he could feel the eyes of the crowd shifting from her to him. Rumours hinted at, fingers pointing. For once, he just wanted to let it happen.

Her head lifted briefly, and their eyes met again—just for a heartbeat. In that glance, he saw everything. The pain, the frustration, the feeling that she was completely, utterly alone. The tears, the tremor in her shoulders, the way her chin tilted up defiantly—it was all too much.

She climbed onto her scooter, the engine sputtered to life, and she didn’t look back as she pulled out onto the campus path.

X

The gravel crunched under Cregan’s tires as his truck rolled to a stop in front of the towering iron gates. For a moment, he just stared. The Targaryen estate loomed ahead, its opulence stark against the dusk-painted sky. The tree-lined path that curved out of sight behind the gates was shadowed by towering oaks, their branches interlocking above like a cathedral ceiling.

He lowered his window, leaning out to nod at the guard.

The man stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. “You again? I told you, kid, unless you’ve got an invite—”

Cregan sighed, gripping the wheel tighter. “Just let me talk to her. Please. I'm dying out here, pal.”

The guard studied him for a beat longer before letting out a reluctant huff. “Fine. Don’t make me regret this.” He pressed a button, and the gates creaked open slowly.

“Legend,” Cregan muttered, easing the truck forward.

The path was even more imposing than it looked from the outside, even for the second time he was here. The oaks stretched endlessly ahead, casting long shadows that danced across his windshield. The air felt cooler here, quieter, the outside world muffled by the wealth and history that clung to this place.

When the house finally came into view, it hit him like a punch to the chest. The mansion was massive, every detail of its gleaming white facade a testament to money and power. Towering pillars lined the entrance, their bases flanked by intricately carved dragons. The sheer scale of it made him feel small, like a kid crashing a royal ball. Focus, Stark.

He parked near the grand staircase and climbed out, his boots feeling too loud on the polished gravel. The enormous doors loomed ahead, but before he could even knock, one swung open. A man in a crisp black suit appeared, giving him a sharp, disapproving glance.

Cregan stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. He grabbed the man’s arm fiercely. “Claere?”

The man looked at him like he’d just insulted his ancestors. “You can’t just—”

“Where is she?” His voice cracked slightly, and the man froze, clearly taken aback. With a shake of his head, the man yanked his arm free and scurried off.

“The fu—” Before Cregan could follow, a small, clear voice echoed from above.

“Captain Stark!”

Cregan looked up to see Viserys poking his head through the railing of the first landing, his pale silver hair gleaming in the chandelier light nearby. The boy grinned, his face lighting up.

“Jace went out to see a girl,” Viserys sang out.

“Hey, little man,” Cregan called back, managing a strained smile. “Nah, not Jace. You seen your sister around?”

Viserys twisted his arms around the railing, tilting his head in thought. “Mhmm. Claerie’s in... oh, the back! She's with Auntie Hel. They're talking about big girl stuff.”

“Thanks, superstar!” Cregan called, already heading toward the back of the house as directed.

As he stepped outside, the evening air wrapped around him, cool and fragrant with the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming jasmine. The gardens stretched endlessly, but his eyes locked onto the little pagoda near the edge of the reflective pond. Its white pillars gleamed faintly under the fading light, and beneath its domed roof, from a distance, he spotted them—Claere and her aunt Helaena.

They hadn’t noticed him yet. Claere sat on the bench, her head bent over something in her lap. She was working with a needle and thread, stitching a button onto a shirt that looked about two sizes too big for her. Beside her, Helaena was lounging with the lazy grace of someone who never seemed hurried, one leg tucked beneath her as she picked at a flower on the vine

“Boys are idiots,” Helaena said lazily, flicking a petal away. “Especially Stark. That guy couldn’t comfort his way out of a paper bag.”

Claere’s fingers stilled for a moment on the button she was sewing onto Jace's shirt, the needle poised mid-air. She didn’t look up, but her lips pressed into a thin line. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like, then?” Helaena sat up straighter, arching a sceptical brow. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like he panicked and left you hanging. Again.”

The words struck deep, even though Claere tried not to let it show. She didn’t respond, instead knotting the thread with quick, precise movements.

From his vantage point just outside the pagoda, Cregan heard every word. He’d been rooted there for the last minute, unable to bring himself to interrupt, even as Helaena’s words sank into him like daggers. His fists clenched at his sides, his nails biting into his palms.

“Hel, please,” Claere said softly, tying off the thread and setting the shirt aside. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Helaena snorted. “Of course you don’t. Because you’re too nice to admit he’s a hurtful jerk.” She leaned forward, her gaze narrowing. “Do you know how many guys would’ve killed to defend you in that café? To put that pervert in his place and walk out with you? But no, you had to fall for the one guy who can’t figure out how to use his own damn spine.”

Cregan felt his breath hitch, a sharp pang hitting him square in the chest. He wanted to storm in, to defend himself, to tell her she was wrong—that he had tried to defend Claere in his own way, even if it hadn’t been enough. But the truth was, Helaena was right. He’d left Claere when she needed him most. He’d failed her.

Claere shook her head, her voice quiet but firm. “It's unfortunate circumstances. That does not make Cregan a bad person. Or a jerk.”

“No, just a scared one,” Helaena countered, her tone biting. “And scared people hurt others because they’re too caught up in their own head to think about what anyone else needs.”

That was it. Cregan couldn’t take another second of listening. He stepped into the pagoda, the gravel crunching under his boots loud enough to draw their attention.

Helaena’s sharp eyes snapped to him immediately. Her pale brows shot up, and she leaned back with an amused smirk. “Well, well. Speak of the devil. Loverboy’s here,” she announced, loud enough to pull Claere’s attention from the shirt in her lap.

“Breaking my heart, Hel,” Cregan remarked.

Claere’s head whipped around, her eyes widening as they met his. Her lips parted, but no words came out, and she looked as though she wasn’t sure whether to be angry, relieved, or both.

He stepped forward, trying to look more confident than he felt. “I just need five minutes with her,” he said quickly, his voice steady but low, almost pleading.

Helaena tilted her head, studying him like he was some curious artefact. Then, with her signature mischievous grin, she said, “You can get five hours, Cap. Do you think you can talk with your shirt off?”

Cregan made an impressed face, some of the tension easing from his chest. “I can be persuaded.”

Helaena turned to Claere, deadpan. “I’m down.” He glanced back at Cregan's abdomen, biting her lip. “Look at him—you've got to reap your benefits. Is it a six-pack or eight, big guy?”

“Wanna count together?” Cregan suggested with a wry smile.

Claere shook her head as she muttered, “Really, Hel.”

Helaena stood, brushing her hands on her skirt. “Alright, alright. No fun. I’ll leave you two to… whatever this is. Five minutes.” She passed by Cregan, leaning in just enough to whisper, “When in doubt, take your shirt off. Don’t mess it up.”

And then she was gone, leaving Cregan and Claere alone in the pagoda.

He stepped closer, his gaze locked on Claere as she sat, her expression caught somewhere between guarded and curious. Her hands were still clutching the shirt, the needle and thread dangling loosely between her fingers.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Cregan didn’t trust himself to, not with the way she was looking at him. He took in every detail—the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her braid curled at the ends, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

When he finally broke the silence, his voice was rough, unsteady. “Gods, I missed you.”

Before she could react, he was moving. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing the delicate planes of her cheekbones as he pulled her close. Her body stiffened for half a heartbeat before melting into his, as if unable to help herself. He cradled her head against his chest with one hand, the other pressing into the small of her back. His fingers trembled slightly as they traced the length of her spine, grounding him in the reality that she was here, that she was real.

He kissed her forehead, then her temple, then her hair, his lips moving as if to memorize her all over again. His hands slid down to her back, pressing into the curve of her spine as he held her. The scent of her shampoo—floral and sweet—was almost overwhelming.

“Before you kick me, punch me, or ask me to fuck off to the world’s end,” he murmured against her hair, “I just needed to do that.”

She let out a soft, breathy laugh against his chest. “I think I stabbed you.”

Cregan blinked, pulling back slightly to look down at his chest.

She gestured to the needle, which had pricked his side at some point during the hug. He glanced down, lifting his shirt just enough to see the faintest dot of blood beading up near his abdomen. How had he not noticed?

“Fuck. Ow.” He laughed, shaking his head as he tugged the hem back down. “You trying to finish me off, baby?”

Her lips twitched, but her brows furrowed as she reached out, brushing her fingers lightly against his side. “Sorry. Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as being without you,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Her hand stilled, and for a moment, she just looked at him. Her eyes searched his face, her lips pressing into a thin line as though she was weighing what to say next. She stepped back and turned away, pushing her fingers into her hair.

“Cregan...” she sighed. “Don’t make this harder.”

Her words hit him like a slap, and his stomach twisted into a knot. Harder? Harder than what? He took a step toward her, his brows knitting together in confusion and a flicker of hurt.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his tone sharp with a desperation he couldn’t hide. “So, what… we're over? Is that it? I'm not allowed a clean break after three fucking years of being yours?”

She hesitated, her back still to him, her shoulders rising and falling with each measured breath. He could see the tension in her posture, the way she held herself so rigidly as if bracing for something.

“I guess…” she started, then stopped, lips thinning to a straight line. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quieter, and it nearly crushed him. “I guess Mom finding out about us was a wake-up call.”

“From what, Claere?” he shot back, the anger bubbling beneath the surface, anger born of confusion, guilt, and the unbearable ache of losing her. “She’s fine with us. All this is excessive. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

Claere turned to face him then, and the look in her eyes stopped him cold. It wasn’t anger, not entirely—it was something deeper, rawer, an exhaustion that made his chest tighten.

“Not the part where you treat me like some dirty secret,” she said, each word cutting like glass. Her voice was steady, but her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Trust me, today made me realize that. And also, you're only mine when it's reasonable for you.”

Cregan staggered back a step as if the force of her words had physically struck him.

“I wiped the floor with that fucker's ass for you!”

“I don't care,” she sighed.

“So fucking unfair,” he snapped, his voice hoarse. “You knew what this was from the start. From day one, you agreed—we agreed—it wouldn’t be public. You knew what I had to lose. My whole credibility.”

Her brows shot up, her mouth parting in disbelief before she laughed, bitter and sharp. “Oh, is that right? What you had to lose?” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “What about me? Do you have any idea what it’s like to only be worth something to you in the shadows?”

“You don’t think I’ve sacrificed?” he growled, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’m trying to balance all of this—the team, the pressure, the press and us. It’s not that simple.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “It is simple, Cregan! You care more about what everyone else thinks than what I feel. You make me feel so difficult. Like I'm this vexed question. And for so long, I convinced myself that was okay. That we were okay. But it’s not. It’s not okay anymore.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and Cregan’s anger faltered, replaced by a wave of guilt so heavy it nearly knocked him over. She was right, wasn’t she? He’d asked her to carry their secrecy for him, put her in this tight corner because of him, and he hadn’t even realized how much it had crushed her.

“Claere,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I never wanted to hurt you. I thought—” He stopped, his hands falling uselessly to his sides. “I thought we were alright. I didn’t know.”

“Because you didn’t care to see it,” she said, her tone quieter now, but no less sharp. “You thought that I’d keep accepting scraps, keep lying low because I…” She trailed off, looking away, her arms crossing over her chest. “Because I love you.”

His heart clenched. “I love you too,” he said quickly, taking a step toward her. “I love you so much, it hurts. You know I do.”

She shook her head, letting out a shaky breath. “Sometimes love isn’t enough, Cregan.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Then, as if he couldn’t bear the distance any longer, he stepped forward and reached for her. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and before she could push him away, he buried his head into the curve of her neck. Her scent, that faint floral sweetness, flooded his senses, grounding him even as the world seemed to tilt beneath his feet.

“I brought you something,” he murmured, his voice thick.

She stiffened slightly, her confusion clear, but he stepped back and reached into his jacket. Pulling out the jersey, he unfurled it carefully, holding it out to her. His name was stitched on the back in bold, unmistakable letters. STARK 01.

“Come to my game,” he whispered, his voice breaking under the strain of hope and fear. “Please.”

Claere’s eyes flicked to the jersey, her expression unreadable. For a moment, he thought—hoped—that maybe she would take it, that this small gesture could bridge the impossible distance between them. But then she shook her head, slowly, deliberately.

“I think we should meet after you’re done with…” she gestured toward the jersey, her voice faltering for the first time, “everything. Give us both some time to figure things out.”

The rejection hit like a fist to the gut. Cregan’s jaw tightened as his shoulders stiffened, his fingers curling tightly around the fabric.

“That’s months,” he burst out, his voice tinged with desperation.

“Good,” she replied, her tone clipped and firm. “Then this will all be over, and we can talk.”

For a long moment, they just stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other like they were on opposite sides of a battlefield. Then Cregan let out a hollow laugh, the bitterness spilling out before he could stop it. He tossed the jersey aside.

“Fuck you, Claere.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing. “Well, fuck you too, you pathetic jerk!” she shouted back, her voice trembling with both anger and something far more fragile. She shoved at his chest, her palms pushing against him hard enough to make him stumble back a step. “Get out. Get the fuck out of my house!”

“No!” he snapped, his voice low and rough, filled with all the things he couldn’t seem to say. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here. I’m trying to fix this—”

“Yeah? You want to?” Her voice cracked as she stepped closer, her body trembling with the force of her emotions. “You want to?” She shoved him again, her hands pressing against his chest, her voice rising with every word. “You want to fix this? Then kiss me, and—”

He didn’t let her finish. He didn’t let himself think. He surged forward, ducking his head, his hands finding her waist and pulling her close as his lips crashed into hers. The kiss was fierce, raw, filled with everything he didn’t know how to say—his frustration, his fear, his longing, and the overwhelming need to not lose her.

She gasped against him, fingers clawing at his shoulders as though she didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer. He pressed forward, guiding her back until she hit the pillar behind her, her body arching against his. One of her legs hooked instinctively around his waist, and he gripped her tighter, his fingers digging into her hips as though he were afraid she might disappear.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against hers, they were both gasping for air. Her lips were swollen, violet eyes wide and shining, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.

“You…” she started, her voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“I’m trying,” he hissed. His hands trembled as they slid up her sides, searching. “I’m trying, baby. Just… don’t make me leave. Don’t—”

She reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek, silencing him. “Then stop running,” she whispered. “Prove it, Cregan. Prove you’re here. Prove this is real.”

Cregan’s breath came ragged, his body still pressed against hers, his heart hammering like a drum in his chest. He stared down at Claere, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. She was breathtaking, defiant and vulnerable all at once, and her whispered challenge—Prove it—rang in his ears like a dare he couldn’t refuse.

Her hand on his cheek was warm, grounding him. The fire in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks—she was everything at once: defiant, vulnerable, and heartbreakingly beautiful. And she was right. He had spent too long running, avoiding, second-guessing. It was time to stop.

His breath hitched as he cupped her face gently, his thumb grazing her temple. The rush of emotion—fear, love, determination—swept over him, but this time, he didn’t let it drown him. He let it anchor him.

“Fine,” he said, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest. “Come to the game next week.”

Her brows knitted in confusion, her lips parting to speak, but he pressed on.

“Just come.”

The words were a promise, and they felt like a leap off a cliff. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. His gaze stayed locked on hers, searching for something—doubt, hope, anything—that could guide him.

Her silence stretched between them, and he wasn’t sure if it was acceptance or uncertainty, but it didn’t matter. He had made his choice.

Slowly, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, lingering just long enough to feel her inhale sharply. It wasn’t desperation or passion—it was quiet, a gesture of faith. When he pulled back, he gave her hand a firm squeeze, his fingers brushing against hers like an unspoken vow.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he said softly, his lips quirking into the faintest of smiles. Then he let go, stepping back, his hand slipping away from hers reluctantly.

X

The rink was electric, the roar of the crowd pulsing through the air like a living thing. The energy was infectious—chants, clapping, the rhythmic pounding of drumbeats echoing through the arena. The smell of ice and the distinct tang of adrenaline filled the air, and Cregan stood at the edge of the player’s bench, helmet tucked under his arm, a storm of exhilaration coursing through his veins.

This was it. Game season was here. And for all the noise and excitement around him, his focus was entirely on one thing—or rather, one person. Players milled around the bench, adjusting pads, stretching, and hyping each other up. Cregan, though, was glued to the boards, scanning the stands with the intensity of a hawk.

"Is she coming?" he asked, his voice low but insistent as he nudged Jace, who was lacing up his skates beside him. "You’re sure she’s coming?"

Jace groaned, yanking his laces tight. "Dude, chill the fuck out. She’ll be here."

Cregan’s jaw tightened as he scanned the stands again. It was stupid, how his chest felt like it might crack open if he didn’t see her soon. “I just need to know, Jace.”

Jace slapped his shoulder, grinning despite the tension in Cregan’s voice. "You’ll know, Cap. Now quit looking like a lovesick puppy and get your head in the game."

Cregan muttered something under his breath and turned his attention back to the stands, his stomach doing flips. She wouldn't sit too far, would she? What if she was too late? What if she changed her mind? All this would be a big dud.

Then, like the universe finally decided to cut him a break, he saw her.

Claere stood just behind the barrier, like another face in the crowd, a figure of calm amidst the chaos, her silver hair braided in two, the faintest smile gracing her lips as their eyes met. She wasn’t wearing just any jersey. She was wearing his—his name, his number proudly displayed on her back. And for a moment, everything else fell away: the noise, the crowd, the game ahead. It was just her, and the unshakable certainty he felt when he looked at her.

“Stark, get your ass on the ice!” the coach yelled, but Cregan didn't find it in himself to look away. Couldn’t.

He caught Jace’s smirk out of the corner of his eye. “Toldja,” Jace muttered, nudging him again. "Now quit gawking and do something about it."

And that’s exactly what Cregan intended to do.

The tension in his chest, the coil of uncertainty and hope that had wound tighter and tighter all week, snapped into motion. Without thinking, without hesitation, he closed the distance. His gloves hit the bench with a soft thud as he reached over the boards, his hands finding her waist like they belonged there.

“What,” she mouthed to him, amazed.

“Proof,” he mouthed back with a grin.

Her eyes widened, startled, as he pulled her closer, the warmth of her body against his enough to set his pulse racing. For a moment, he thought she might push him away, and the doubt—the fear of rejection—flared hot in his chest. But then her expression softened, and all the noise around him dulled to a hum.

He bent his head, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was everything he felt and more. It was slow and hurried, soft and desperate, deep and tender. It was everything he hadn’t said but needed her to know: that he was here, that she mattered, that he couldn’t stop thinking about her no matter how hard he’d tried.

For a second, time seemed to freeze. The roar of the crowd became a distant echo as Claere responded, her hands sliding up to cup his cheeks. Then, as her fingers tangled in his hair, the tension in his chest unraveled entirely. She was here. She wasn’t pushing him away. She was real.

The arena erupted. Cheers, whistles, and applause surged like a tidal wave, crashing into him with the force of a thousand voices. His teammates banged their sticks against the boards, shouting and hollering. The noise was deafening, but for once, he didn’t care. This moment was his—and hers. The world around them could burn for all he cared.

When they broke apart, her cheeks were flushed, her violet eyes bright and alive. She looked at him like he was the only person in the room, and his chest tightened with something dangerously close to gratitude. She didn’t shy away from the commotion or the hundreds of eyes on them. Instead, she leaned in, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Go get ’em, Stark.”

Her words lit something fierce in him. He leaned his forehead against hers, his voice low but steady. “Always do, baby.”

He pulled back reluctantly and winked at her, squeezing her hand once before letting go. As he turned back to the bench, the adrenaline coursing through him had nothing to do with the game ahead. His blood was pumping, his heart pounding, but it wasn’t nerves—it was her. The knowledge that she was there, that she’d chosen to be there, wearing his name and looking at him like that.

The crowd’s energy was his, the ice was his stage, and the world now knew she was his.

As he slid his helmet on, the chants and shouts of his teammates met him with even more fervour than before. Cregan Stark stepped onto the ice, the rush of the competition pulling him forward.

It's game time.

X

wooo!! LONGEST, TRYING ONESHOT EVER! @justdazzling this one's for you, my love! Thank you such a wonderful idea, and I couldn't get it out of my head, so here it is! I hope you love it, caught the little references, the banter, the love and just them as a whole :)

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[bettysupremacy]

idk if you write for finnick.. but could you write something where it’s the beginning of the quarter quell and he can’t find her? Just pure panic as he runs around the cornucopia?

I’ve never written for him before but I love him! idk how I feel about this but I hope truly that u like it.

Icy hot terror is all Finnick feels when the timer hits one. Loud and disorienting, the bang ripples against the water in vibrations that rumble under his feet.

Where are you?

The sun blares disgustingly into his eyes and skin, an obvious manipulation of the gamemakers sick amusement, but he ignores it, plunging into the only water he’s ever dreaded to tread. You’re not in sight. He’d told you to stay away, to swim, to run as far away from the cornucopia as you could. Don’t risk it, he’d shaken your shoulders, listen to me I’ll find you.

The water is warm and gross against his skin. It’s not as refreshing as the district four that he’s familiar with. It’s hot and fake. He comes up gasping for air, letting the terror settle into his bones as he pushes against the current of a manipulated riptide. Katniss climbs the stone so he does too; pushing his feet deeper into the ground with every step he takes. His breathing is labored, jagged as he runs. He can’t find you, but he will. He can’t find you, but he can find a weapon.

The cornucopia glistens in the sun, never lacking the weaponry he’d expected from it. Bows, arrows, knives, he eyes a backpack stuffed with supplies. Could he lug it with him? Probably not. He diverts his eyes to the trident beside him. Perched in its stand, it gleams in artificial sun as the grip molds to his fingers. He squeezes the deadly lifeline.

The sound of metal on metal scrapes behind him. Katniss. He turns quick, flashing the bangle around his wrist tauntingly. “Good thing we’re allies, right?”

She breathes hard in front of him, eyebrows pulling as she pauses in bated confusion. The weapon doesn’t lower. “Where did you get that?”

“Where do you think?” He gravels, quick enough to be considered panicked. “Duck.”

She listens, dropping to the floor hard enough to sting the weeping palms she balances on. The sick squelch of his trident in the fallen tribute is covered by her hands tight over her ears as she waits for the boom. The gong sounds, and then a scream. An unmistakable scream. It settles in his stomach and throat thickly, sweating his already wet hands. You didn’t listen.

“Finnick!” The voice screams. Sobs. “Finnick! Finnick!”

The sound is nightmare-ish. Something the gamemakers could never manipulate that accurately, and deep down he knows it’s the sound you’ll wake him up from if you ever gets out of this arena alive.

“I’m coming!” His feet hit hard against the gravel as he sprints. His breathing dries his throat quick. “I’ve got you!”

“Finnick!”

“I’m coming-“

The moment skids to a halt as he finds you. Trapped in the arms of a larger, broader tribute, you struggle for air as he headlocks you. He considers doing something rash, but Katniss behind you shakes her head. Like she can see it in his eyes. It’s a slow, quiet moment, hunter quiet as she stalks closer. Finnick eyes her wary to give her away.

“We can talk about this.” Finnick rationalizes slowly. “It’s the beginning of the game.”

“So?” His arm tightens around your neck. Your squeak breaks Finnicks heart.

“Finnick.” You strain.

“Give the viewers what they want.” Finn pleads. “A show. You can’t kill her so quick.”

“I don’t see a bargain being made.”

A bargain? It’s the first ten minutes and he stands next to a gleaming cornucopia filled with sharp armory. He could get something better than a simple metal trident. Throwing knives, poison, a machete. Finnick suspects the victor is doing what he pleaded. Giving the audience a show.

“Take my trident!” He nearly crashes, cool demeanor dropping as he watches you tap the man’s arm in panic, your air slowly constricting. “Give me her.”

It sickens Katniss; the ability to kill someone for views. To feed into the capitals agenda. This is a necessary kill, she reasons, this isn’t for her own survival. This isn’t a selfish homicide; this is Rue in the net, Prim on the stage. This is the girl she could save. Katniss’ fingers loosen, letting the elaborate metal fly from her grip. It hits the nameless career in the back. Her target.

The moment slows in Finnicks eyes. Katniss stands far, arms hanging limply at her sides. She stares at him, grateful for the thankfulness in his eyes that eases her burdened chest.

“Y/N.” He gasps as the man falls hard on you. He runs, helping you from under the heavy weight. “I’ve got you now.”

“Finn.” You weep, hands in his as he lifts you. You stumble, crashing into him hard. He hears a sob in his tribute suit. “I’m sorry.”

“I told you to listen to me.” He doesn’t anger, but this feels close to it as he grips you tightly. “I told you to run.”

You heave, greedy for fresh air, but your lungs are infiltrated by the heady scent of salt water. His hand calms the coughs that rake through your chest, guilty for his scolding. It’s a quiet moment in the calamity of the bloodbath, a stolen moment that he can’t afford to prolong another second.

“Cmon,” He eyes you, hands cupping your face, then falling as he looks up to Katniss. “Let’s go find Peeta.”