#caps lock shouting under the cut

[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!

[kquil]

JAMES POTTER | 04:01 ⏤ALWAYS SAFE

SUM. : you bring james his lunch that you cooked yourself and almost get injured

G. : fluff ; modern au ; muggle au ; ice hockey player james ; girlfriend reader ; very angry james ; protective james ; team training ; drill accidents ; reader being caring and sweet ; reader is wifey material ; james is husband material

LENGTH : 0.8k

NOT PROOFREAD OR EDITED

“James!” you shout across the rink, standing by one of your boyfriend’s coaches, Richard, who’s become like an uncle to you. The hockey captain doesn’t stop, however, unable to hear past the whistling wind by his ears atop his thick and sturdy headgear.

“Gonna have to shout louder than that, little lady ,” the older man chuckles, adjusting the cap on his head of silvering hair. 

You ponder to yourself for a moment before smirking, which makes Richard arch a curious brow at you, “Darling!” The instant you call across the ice rink, you see James’ head whip towards you before he grins widely behind the front guard of his head gear. Behind him, the rest of his team come to a skidding halt and also look over to your waving and cheering figure. You’ve become quite familiar with all of his teammates and they love to tease their captain for being so head over heels for you so the team begin snickering to themselves, some even cheekily whistling and nudging at James who pays them no mind, his sole focus fixed onto you.

“Baby!” he cheers, delight and excitement evident in his voice before he speeds his way over to you. Richard whistles for the rest of the team to run short drills while the ‘lovely couple’ have their lunch. 

“I’m sorry for being late,” you gnaw at your bottom lip regretfully, a guilty look taking over your expression as James hurriedly takes off his headgear and gloves, revealing his sweat-soaked locks matted down and clinging onto his forehead, “Richard told me you didn’t eat anything-” because you wanted to wait for me…

“Don’t worry about it,” James says gently, his smile just as bright but much softer as he takes in your sweet expression. There’s so much love in his gaze, you feel your own heart bursting at the seams to attempt at reciprocating his adoration. James brings a finger under your chin and lifts your gaze to meet his kind stare; even though he appears sweaty, dishevelled and rugged from training, he’s just as handsome as ever, “you sounded really excited over the phone about cooking my lunch for me,” a heat crawls up your neck and explodes across your cheeks as James grins, his eyes staring lovingly at you, “and I was just as excited to eat what you so graciously cooked instead of the canteen food here,” James giggles to himself, dopey and carefree, “you cooked it just for me~ I’m so lucky~” 

You returned his wide grin and felt yourself losing your will to hide his surprise. He didn’t know it but you were only late because you went and bought his favourite treacle tart from his favourite bakery across town.  

“Actually~” you begin to reach down so that you can present the bakery take out box when you suddenly see James pull back, his spine fully erect as his eyes and ears become fully alert. The words were on your tongue, ready to question his odd behaviour when he suddenly shoots his arm up to the side; just as you were beginning to register a faint whistle in your ear, it was followed by a resounding WHHHIIIIP!

In James’s stretched out hand was a hockey puck. And it was on a one way course of high velocity towards you. Seeing this, anger flares up like the fuse of an explosive ready to violently detonate in James’s eyes.

“SHE’S! MY! FUCKING! GIRLFRIEND! WATCH IT! YOU FAT FUCK!” James’s booming voice cuts through the air and silences all activity on the rink, not only that but he was easily able to narrow down the perpetrator of the hazardous stray puck, “...WELL?!! SAY SOMETHING YOU DICK!” you look past James’s figure and lock eyes with guilty brown pools, likely the offender of your potential accident.

“S-sorry,” you hear his teammate stutter, which you accept with a small nod and place a gentle hand on James’s arm, attempting to calm him down and bring his attention back to you. As he slowly turns to you again, James slams the puck to the ground and kicks it away with his ice skate. 

“Are you okay, angel?” James asks, his voice soft and kind, a complete contrast to the booming, angry shout he just projected. 

“I’m perfectly fine,” your warm voice visibly soothes the hockey team captain and he rests his forehead against yours with a sigh of relief, “...accidents happen James, please don’t lash out on the poor g-”

“Accident or not, hurting you— almost hurting you is deserving of a beat down from hell,”

Looking into his hostile but worried hazel eyes, you silently express your objection alongside some appreciation too. You’re thankful for his worry, his aggression over your safety even makes your heart flutter but he’s better than any violence. It takes a moment but James finally sighs and nods, a silent promise to watch himself and stay civil. 

Smiling softly, you lean up to kiss his lips, “thank you for saving me,” his lips smile against yours. 

“You’re always safe with me, princess,”

NAVI.

A/N : im a bit rusty on writing since i haven’t been able to write for a while from stressful home stuff but here’s me trying to get back into it with another ice hockey james au (inspired by another tiktok). hopefully, this will get me in the headspace to write good requests from my milestone event.

TAGLIST : @melinajenkins @aastonishment @until-i-found-you @corp0real @celestcies @lovelydoveval @inlovewithremusjohnlupin @calums-betch @futurecorps3 @hihihi1112 @simpingforthe80s @yrluvjane @neeezza101 @chaosofmanyfandoms @storyofaromance @loving-and-dreaming @somewereinthegalaxi @chullu-bhar-paani @ghostgardn @rosalyn-s @seungtelevision

[puckinghischier]

alli there is this idea in my head and since I love how you write Nico I wish you could write this

there is a Gracie Abrams song called In Between and I’ve been thinking about a headcanon or something based on that song so it’s like gracie is describing yours and Nico relationship

it’s such a cute song describing two people falling in love and to me it screams falling in love with Nico

really hope you could do something with this request ❤️

this is such a cute request and i hope this is at least semi close to what you were thinking of 🫶🏼

(i kinda manipulated the lyrics and left some out of certain sections just so it would make more sense/flow better)

I just can’t come between em’, they got their own thing; I wish he’d stop pretendin’, he won’t let his phone ring for more than a couple seconds oh I think maybe two

Nico drags behind his teammates as they come off of the ice, hearing the various grunts and complaints about needing an ice bath and a shower.

He smirks to himself as he makes his way to his locker, taking his time, watching the hoard of sweaty hockey players quickly trickle out of the room. Taking a peek behind his shoulder, making sure he’s mostly alone in the large room, he pulls his phone out of his bag, making sure he has no missed calls or messages.

“Cap! Thought you said no phones in the locker room this season? Or does that only apply to us lowly alternates and unlettered players?” Jack pokes fun at his captain, slapping a hand on Nico’s back, startling him.

Sliding his phone out of sight, he turns to greet Jack. “Just checking to make sure I didn’t miss anything important,” Nico gives a nervous smile.

Jack eyes Nico skeptically. “C’mon, Neeks. You’re acting like a lovesick fool. Just ask her out already.”

“Jack, I told you it’s not like that. She’s just…nice to talk to,” Nico won’t meet Jack’s expectant eyes, focusing his attention on the wooden cubby for any vibration or buzz of his phone against the hardwood.

Ever since the night he met you at one of the post-game trips to the bar, Jack knew Nico was smitten, encouraging him to do something before someone else came along and whisked you away under his nose.

“Bullshit. You’ve been glued to your phone for weeks now. Every time you hear even the slightest indication your phone is ringing, you’re jumping at the chance to answer it,” Jack calls him out on his eagerness.

“I have not been! I’m just-“ Nico’s defensive tone is cut short by the quiet ring of his phone, head snapping over to where it rests next to his helmet. His hand immediately shoots out to grab it, smiling when he sees your name on the screen.

“Hey! I was just thinking about giving you a call. Just got done with practice and was wondering if you wanted to-“ Nico stops mid-sentence after hearing Jack clear his throat, already having forgotten where he was and that Jack was standing right behind him.

Jack raises his eyebrows at his friend, giving him a much deserved ‘I told you so,’ look.

“Hang on a second, okay?” Nico puts his hand over the speaker of his phone, addressing Jack. “Can you just go shower already? This proves absolutely nothing. It’s an isolated incident,” he whispers, not wanting you to be hinted to the previous conversation.

Jack shakes his head, laughing. “Whatever you say, Cap. Hi, y/n!!” Jack shouts out as he walks towards the showers, hearing you return his greeting with a small giggle through Nico’s phone, wondering when the two of you are finally going to admit your feelings for each other.

I wish that you could see ‘em, their faces lighten up; Their past is cold and empty, they know it’s been enough; Of waitin’ on somebody, someone who doesn’t care; But he knows her name, she knows he’ll always be there

“Y/n, when are you finally going to lock that man down? You know he’s absolutely obsessed with you, right?” your best friend asks you, watching Nico glide across the ice.

Your cheeks involuntarily turn red, not knowing how to respond to her. You know how you feel about Nico, but you can’t just assume that he feels the same way. “You don’t know that. He’s just a nice guy. He could act like this towards all of his friends.”

No sooner than the words leave your mouth, Nico makes eye contact with you from across the ice. His face breaks out into the widest grin you think you’ve ever seen, your own matching his. You give him a small wave, his gloved hand returning the gesture as you watch Jack skate up to his side. The disappointment settles in your stomach the second his bright eyes are no longer focused on yours, trying really hard not to be mad at Jack, considering they are working right now.

Your best friend, witnessing the entire interaction, has her own smile on her face, knowing that you deserve someone like Nico in your life after your previous relationship endeavors. You’ve been hurt time and time again due to how quickly you become attached, always seeing the best in the worst people. Nico is different, though. She can see how much he wants to make you happy, how kind he is. If any man’s face lights up like that when looking at you, there’s a 100% chance he’s already in love with you.

Which is why, when her and Jack catch each other’s eye, a silent understanding is passed between the two, a small nod of confirmation shared.

Jack feels the same way about Nico as your best friend does about you. Nico deserves someone like you after all of his past failed relationships. All of the girls taking advantage of his loving nature and kindness because they want the status that comes with dating a professional athlete, moving on to the next sport when they get bored with Nico. Jack having been there to pick up the pieces, Nico getting far too attached far too quickly with all the wrong people. But watching the way you always look at Nico, like he’s the only person in every room you’re in, he knows you’re someone Nico needs to keep around.

So, Jack starts putting his part of the unspoken plan into motion.

“Go, do it now,” Jack encourages Nico.

“Do what? What are you talking about?” Nico turns to face Jack, trying to not be annoyed he’s stealing his attention away from you.

“Ask her out, duh? Now’s the time. She can’t say no in front of all these people, right?” Jack gives him a slight push, skating him right over to the glass.

“I don’t want her to say yes because she’s been put on the spot, Jack. I want her to say yes because she genuinely has feelings for me,” Nico protests, trying to stop himself from being pushed towards you.

His efforts are pointless, hearing Jack yell out “Y/n!!” loud enough that you’re able to hear him through the glass.

“Hi!!” you giggle out, laughing at the pout on Nico’s face.

Nico looks up at you, pout immediately dissolving. “So, can I expect a win tonight or am I going to end up being some kind of bad luck charm, since it’s my first game?” you shout at Nico, being brave and taking your friend’s encouragement to heart, attempting to be a little flirtatious.

“Are you kidding me? You could never be bad luck. If anything, I think this will be our best game this season,” Nico perks up a bit, skating a little closer to the glass, wishing the barricade wasn’t there, wanting to hear your voice and see your blushing cheeks without the slight blur from the scratched surface.

“I don’t know if I can handle that kind of pressure,” you laugh out, unconsciously leaning forward, focused on how much you love the way Nico’s hair flares out in little tufts on either side of his helmet.

“No pressure, just the truth,” Nico shrugs. He catches Jack out of the corner of his eye, remembering the younger forward’s words as he was pushed over here against his will. The small look of expectancy on Jack’s face pushes Nico to take the risk, deciding he’s done tiptoeing around his feelings for you.

“In fact, after we win this game due to the luck you have running through your veins, why don’t I take you out for a celebratory dinner? Or drinks? Or ice cream? Or whatever you want?” Nico starts rambling, his nerves sky rocketing once he sees the soft surprise take over your features.

You’re beginning to think the blush on your face is permanent at this point, feeling it grow deeper at his question. You’re trying to think of a clever response, not wanting to seem too eager, but you blurt out “Ice cream!” before your brain can stop your mouth.

Nico chuckles in both relief and amusement.

“Uhm, I mean, that sounds fun,” you try to recover. “As long I’m not blamed when this supposed ‘good luck’ backfires on everyone.”

Nico shakes his head, assuring you that’s not possible. The sound of the buzzer signaling warm ups are over startles you, feeling embarrassed at how much you jumped.

“Meet me after the game, okay? I’ll be in the tunnels, waiting,” Nico shouts before he skates off, giving a small wave.

Watching him glide away, something tugs at your stomach, telling you he’ll always be there waiting for you. Not just after games. Not just tonight.

Jack and your best friend look at each other through the glass, having witnessed the whole conversation. You’re so focused on Nico’s retreating figure that you don’t notice the air high five they give each other.

She toes the line between em’, he says he’s new at this; There’s holy ground beneath them, and sparks fly when they kiss; He hates it when she’s crying, he hates when she’s away; Even at their worst, they know they’ll still be okay

It’s your first time dealing with Nico being on the road for this long (over a week) since your impromptu ice cream date months ago. They ended up winning the game, so Nico kept his promise. By the time the game ended, however, every ice cream parlor he drove you to was closed.

He ended up taking you to the grocery store, telling you to pick out any flavor you wanted, and he’d take you back to his apartment for an ice cream party. He casually bought 10 half gallons of ice cream, because he claimed he couldn’t decide on a flavor. He set up an extravagant topping bar, too, and did a whole bit as if he worked in an ice cream shop.

Ever since that night, your ice cream dates became a routine, meeting him at his apartment after home games, bad days, and just nights you wanted to see him. The two of you were determined to eat through all of the ice cream he bought, Nico complaining that all the extra sugar was slowing him down on the ice.

Tonight, however, you were sitting in your apartment with your best friend, upset because you haven’t heard from Nico in three days.

“I’m sure they’re just busy, Y/n. I have a hard time believing Nico would just ghost you,” she tries to reason with you, not liking how down you seem.

“I thought that on day one, then again on day two. But then you came over and Jack has been messaging you for the past hour, so they’re obviously not busy right now,” you huff out, staring at your cold, black screen.

Despite how much time the two of you have been spending together, nothing has really changed between the two of you. There’s never been a conversation about what the cuddles on his couch mean, or the fact that you’ve been coming to all of his games that are in Jersey. You never discussed what it meant when he gave you one of his jerseys to wear, and you still haven’t given it back. Not a word about it was shared the night you tagged along to the bar with him and the rest of the team and he drove you home, walking you to your door because you were a little too tipsy, only a small goodbye shared after you stood in your doorway, staring back at him for an eternity.

“Well, Nico is the captain. Maybe he’s got other stuff going on that Jack doesn’t. Do you want me to ask Jack why-“

“No!” you’re quick to interrupt. “I don’t want him thinking I’m some level 3 clinger when we’re not even dating.”

She just rolls her eyes, everyone but the two of you aware that you’re basically dating without the label.

“Alright, I won’t. It was just a suggestion,” she puts her hands in the air, surrendering.

Looking at your phone again, you sigh at the lack of activity.

“They’re coming back tonight anyways, right? Maybe he’ll call when he gets back in. He might be asleep on the bus or something. Yeah, I’m sure that’s what it is,” you reassure yourself.

You best friend texts Jack anyways, tired of seeing you freak out over this, wanting to know why Nico just suddenly went radio silent on you the last three days of their roadie.

~~

“Neeks,” Jack nudged Nico, knowing he was awake.

“What? I told you I just wanted to be left alone to sleep. I’m tired,” Nico snapped, his mood matching yours, even from miles away.

“Okay, mr pouty butt, no need to take my head off,” Jack responded, earning an eye roll from Nico. “Just wanna know why you’re in such a bad mood when you know you can call Y/n at anytime.”

Nico hadn’t talked to you in three days and it was killing him. Luke had made a comment about how often he called you, sometimes two to three times a day, and it made him worried he was being annoying, considering the two of you weren’t even officially together. But, he hadn’t heard from you, either, so he didn’t want to be the one to break the silence incase you really did think he was being clingy.

“I’m just…giving her space,” Nico shrugged, not wanting to get into the details with Jack on the slightly smelly bus.

“Whatever you want, man, but maybe you should call her when we get back. Just so she knows you’re not ghosting her,” he advises, not wanting to tell him that you’re sitting at home pouting just like he is. He didn’t want you to find out your best friend had betrayed your trust, either.

It’s like an alarm went off in Nico’s head. He never once thought that you’d think he just up and quit talking to you for no reason. Or because he didn’t want to. Because god, did he want to. All he ever wanted to do was talk to you. First thing in the morning, before he goes to bed at night, when he’s bored, when he sees a stray cat, when he passes by your favorite bakery, when he sees someone with a cup from your favorite coffee shop, always. He always wants to talk to you.

“Shit, you’re right,” Nico sits up, grabbing his phone and opening your contact.

~~

“Uhh…he’s calling me,” you blurt out, finally seeing the Nico’s contact picture pop up on your phone screen, watching his smiling face with whipped cream everywhere stare back at you. “What do I do?”

“Answer it, dummy!” your best friend rolls her eyes at you.

“I don’t know if I want to,” you tell her, still just watching it ring. “He did just ghost me for three days, what if it makes me look pathetic?”

“Oh my god you’re not going to look pathetic, just answer the damn phone!”

You watch the phone screen go black, the decision being made for you.

“Well, I guess that answers that one. Or…doesn’t answer it,” you look up at her.

“I swear, you’re both so helpless,” she groans out, raking her hands down her face in frustration.

“Maybe he’ll get a taste of his own medicine,” you say, the taste of the words on your tongue bitter, knowing you should have just answered the phone.

“Whatever, I’m going to pick up Jack. He said they just got in, incase you were wondering,” she tells you before leaving your apartment, leaving you to sulk alone, again.

~~

Nico rushes over to your apartment, praying that you’re still awake so he can fix this. After you didn’t answer his call, he freaked out, thinking he’s fucked this whole thing up before it even started.

Jack told him to just wait until tomorrow and try to call you again, but Nico needed to fix this now.

Nico barely puts his car in park before he’s running into your building, pressing the elevator button over and over again in hopes it’ll make the door open faster. Once he finally reaches your floor, he’s speed walking straight to your door, knocking on it like his life depends on seeing your face.

“Y/n! It’s me!” he tries not to shout, but he makes sure he speaks loud enough for you to hear him through the door. “Please open up. I wanna see you. Wanna talk to you,” he pleads.

He’s about to start the harsh assault on your door again, at this point trying to wake you up in case you had gone to sleep, just needing to see you and fix all of this.

He hears the lock click, his breath catching in his throat.

When you open the door, he’s met with you clad in your pajamas and hair haphazardly thrown on the top of your head in a knot. You look confused, not expecting to see him outside of your door this late at night.

“Nico?” is all you say, not knowing how else to react.

“Hey,” he breathes out, thinking about how cute you look right now, even if there is a frown on your face.

“It’s one o’clock in the morning, is something wrong? Didn’t you just get back? Why aren’t you home right now?” he sees you staring at his tired eyes with sympathy.

“I had to see you,” is all he can manage to say, not exactly having a plan.

He hears the small giggle come out of your mouth, loving the sound.

“Okay, well here I am,” you respond to him, switching your weight from one foot to the other.

Nico shakes his head, like he’s clearing his thoughts. “I had to see you, and fix this.”

He watches your face morph into confusion. “What do you mean?”

Maybe he was just being paranoid? And dramatic?

“This. Us. The fact that we haven’t spoken in three days,” he starts, knowing he was right when you stand a little taller, like you were bracing yourself. “I swear, I didn’t mean to just go silent on you. Luke got in my head, made me think I was being annoying. I got a little crazy thinking about how ‘we’re not even dating, why am I being so clingy right now?’, but then I realized, I want to be clingy. I want to talk to you every hour of every day. I want to be dating you.”

He hears your gasp. “You…what?”

“I want to be your boyfriend,” he speaks softer and slower this time. “Hell, according to Jack I basically already am. But I want it to be real. I want us to be real.”

He watches the tears fill your eyes.

“Hey, hey, hey. No, I didn’t mean to make you cry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he reaches forward, pulling you into a hug.

“No, it’s fine, I’m not-“ you can’t finish your sentence, Nico squishing your face into his chest.

“I’m new to all this, okay? I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, I don’t have much experience actually dating people. I didn’t want to scare you away by moving too fast, but then I kinda did the opposite, huh?” he keeps talking, his nerves getting the best of him once again.

“Nico, listen to me,” you pull back, looking up to meet his brown eyes. “I want this too.”

Nico breaks into a smile so wide you think his skin is going to split.

“I don’t know how to do this either,” you confess. “I don’t know how to get used to you being gone all the time, I don’t know how to have these conversations, I don’t know how to keep myself from falling so fast, but I want to figure out how to do it with you.”

He wipes at the tears under your eyes. “Even if they’re happy tears, I don’t like seeing them in your eyes.”

Once again, that blush that seems to be a permanent fixture on your face makes an appearance.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your call earlier. I was being a brat and trying to give you a taste of your own medicine,” you confess, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, too. For letting Luke get in my head and then pouting because you never called me,” he responds, sounding just as guilty as you feel.

“Promise me we won’t be bratty with each other again? I don’t like it, it seems very out of character for us?” you ask, looking up and resting your chin on his chest.

“Promise,” he tells you, staring down at you.

You move your head back, feeling the moment intensify.

“I’m going to kiss you now, okay?” he whispers.

“Okay.”

His lips feel exactly as you imagined, soft and plush, slotting against your bottom lip perfectly.

As you walk backwards, leading him into your apartment, you can feel the sureness of this. How right it feels. How, no matter what comes at the two of you, no matter if it’s something big or a silly little misunderstanding like tonight, you’ll always come out okay on the other end.

He laughs at her eyes, at her smile, at the glasses on her face; She loves how he talks late at night, when there’s no one else to say; How she’s beautiful and funny and smart like nothin’ he’s ever seen; He’s good to her, and she wants it more than everything in-between

“I can’t believe they made us sit through that god-awful play,” you say as Nico unlocks his door. “I mean, the entire thing was in French. I don’t speak French! And neither does Jack! I swear, I love my best friend, I do, but just because she was a French double major in college doesn’t mean everything we do has to be in French.”

Nico chuckles at you, having understood the play quite well. “I told you I could play translator if you wanted me to, but you said no,” he takes off your coat, hanging it on the small set of hooks in his entry way.

“It was more fun to make up my own plot,” you shrug, taking off your shoes and making your way to his couch.

Laughing at you again, Nico makes a pit stop in his kitchen to make both of you a small bowl of ice cream before joining you on the couch.

“You know, I really like it when you wear your glasses, you should wear them more often,” he blurts out, handing you your bowl.

“These bug-eyed things?” you pull a face, earning a real, belly laugh from him. “I’m sorry? Does my face look funny or something?”

He waits until he catches his breath to reply. “Not at all. My beautiful, bug-eyed girlfriend.”

You don’t know why you even buy blush anymore, not ever having to wear any around Nico. “I love that you always say things to give me an ego boost,” you joke.

“I’m being serious,” he responds, the change in his tone confusing you. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You’re the smartest woman I’ve ever met, and the funniest jokester I’ve ever interacted with.”

“You did not just seriously call me a ‘jokester’” you deadpan, ruining the moment.

“Hush, woman, I’m trying to compliment you here,” he lightly scolds, earning a laugh from you. “I’m trying to tell you how much I love you, and you’re caught up on my choice of words.”

You’re stunned to silence. “You…love me?”

“Of course I love you? I’d be crazy not to,” he takes the bowl of half-melted ice cream from your hands and places it on the small table in front of you.

“I’d be crazy not to love you back,” you tell him, sliding your arms around his torso as he crawls over to hover over you.

“Glad neither of us are crazy then,” he whispers onto your lips as he meets them in a kiss.

The kiss is slow and sweet, both of you taking your time savoring one another. You can taste the caramel ice cream on his lips, enhancing his already intoxicating taste.

You think about how hard you’ve fallen for this man. You think you fell for him on your first ‘date’, really, just too scared to say anything until now.

Unknown to you, Nico is thinking the same thing, kicking himself for not telling you sooner.

You also think about how much you love living life with Nico. How he always seems to know how to cheer you up when you’re upset. How he brings you coffee and bagels every morning on his way home from workouts. How he plans double date nights with Jack and your best friend, knowing that you feel like you neglect her sometimes, being too caught up in your life with him.

He treats you better than you’ve ever been treated, not being used to having someone be so attentive and all in as he is.

Nico was the surprise you didn’t know you needed. And while you can’t wait to see where the two of you end up in the future, you love the moments like this, and everything in-between.

[wandasl0vely]

I can’t loose you.

summary | wanda had just got back from a mission, little did she know, you were falling apart alone. 

warnings | self harm (cutting), attempting suicide

I didn’t expect for the day to end like this, but I carried myself up to the shared bedroom with Wanda and immediately slumped down onto the bed. Looking up to the ceiling, my thoughts soon leave my head, leaving me completely empty. 

One moment, I was zoning out while lying on the bed. And then I feel this dreadful, oh-so-familiar tightening sensation in my chest. A wave of emotions crashes over me. One hand clutches my chest as I bolt to my feet towards the bathroom. I rummaged through the cabinet, pulling out all types of bottles till I found the one I’m looking for. It looked like a regular bottle of pain-killers, except it wasn’t. Twisting the cap open, the glint of light reflecting on the razors made them look heavenly. 

I carefully observed through the pack of razors, trying to find the cleanest one. Satisfied with the one I chose, I tugged up my sleeve, holding the weapon firmly as I pressed it down on my skin. 

At first, there was no blood, but soon enough it was dripping down my arm. One swipe turned into many, it made me want, no, need to do even more. Gritting my teeth, I let out a hiss of pain, yet somehow also enjoyed the sting.

Pain is good. It made me feel alive. Even for a second, it brought me back to reality. 

When the world felt like it was going to crush me, or when my brain aches so much it makes me want to tear it apart from the whirlpool of emotions. 

When everything became just too much. 

It wasn’t long till my head started spinning, sliding down the wall sluggishly. I could feel my eyes opening and closing, followed by my body giving up on me not long after.

Click. 

“Sweetheart, I’m back!” The voice of the ginger echoing through the house. “Where are you?”

Nothing.

“Y/N? Are you there?” The ginger once asked again. 

Pure silence.

Panic flows through Wanda’s veins. She rushed up to the bedroom, a glimpse of light catching the corner of her eye. 

“Y/N?” she said, her voice slightly muffled through the door. Hearing no response made her even more anxious. Wanda twisted the knob, turning out for it to be locked. She maximizes her strength on pushing the door open, attempting to forcely unlock it. 

The lock clicked.

A broken gasp leaves Wanda’s lips once your arms are finally bared in front of her. 

“Sweetheart?” Wanda said. Rushing to your side, shaking your body as each shake became more aggreisve. 

Wake up.

Y/N, wake up.

Please, I’m not joking.

Wake up! 

Tears streaming down her cheeks as she kept shouting your name over and over. 

The last thing you could hear were her muffled cries: Don’t leave me. I can’t loose you. You’re going to be okay. Hold on, please, I still need you.

My eyes fluttered open, catching a quick glance of the bright light above me. I suddenly felt a pair of hands connecting with mines. I tilted my head, instantly greeted by a pair of green orbs. But, the color green seems dull, and there were these black stains under her eyes. She looks exhausted.

I didn’t remember most parts of what happened till I saw big bandages covering up almost my whole arms. No matter how much I try to resist, I can’t help to look at it as the memories flooded back into my mind.

Wanda held my arms gently, as if the slighest bit of pressure would make my body break. 

Still, the feeling of the gauze pads pressing onto my skin made me wince. 

“I’m sorry,” was all I managed to get out, trying to avoid her concerned gaze, moving to stare at the floor instead. 

“Hey, no, it’s okay. It’s not your fault sweets, you’re okay.” the firmness in her voice made you finally look up to her. It wasn’t harsh, she wasn’t judging me or trying to make you feel bad about what you’ve done. She was worried, she was trying to show you that being in pain, isn’t something you should be sorry for. 

Still, it made me feel guilty. How could I put her through this when she seems to still care?

Unable to handle the storm brewing in me, my eyes stinging with tears, which only pissed me off more. As much as it killed me to let Wanda see me break, I couldn’t help it. 

“Oh, honey. I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I promise, I’ll get you all the help you need. ” cooed the ginger. “For now, it’s best for you to rest, kay?”

As much as I want to close my eyes, I hesitate. There is a worry still lingering in the back of my mind, and I really, really need to get it off my chest. 

“Wands? You-- you won’t leave me, right?” 

The arms around me tighten as she let out a soft tone at the question. “Never,” she promises. “I’ll always be here for you, sweetheart. I love you so, so much and I want you to know that.” 

Her words echoes in my mind over and over again as my mind startd dozing off. 

[hlvrai-stuck-together]

He's late.

It's the big day, and he's already fucking it up. Awesome. Leave it to Gordon to continuously make everything harder for everyone around him.

Under stress, panicking, and annoyed to hell and back, he pushed the cart into the beam. As soon as the crystal touched the laser, it sparked, electricity zapping out across the large chamber. Smoke started to rise from the machine, and the creak of radiation filled the air.

Gordon took a few steps back, looking up at it in horror. Shit, they did it too fast, didn't they? They could hear their coworkers screaming behind them, but their attention was locked on the giant machine.

The security guard who'd followed him in suddenly vanished from his peripheral. Gordon looked away for just a moment to try and find him again- there! Standing on top of the platform where the controls were, there was the "non-human" guy who'd been following him all day. The radiation beams were shooting right next to him, ohh fuck he was going to die up there.

"Get off the top of the- you're gonna wanna be on the floor, what if the fuckin' rafters fall?!" they shouted up at him. "You gotta-"

With a flash of light, the test's sample started glowing an intense, neon green color, cutting Gordon off. He threw his hands up over his eyes, catching a glimpse of the chat as he did so. He couldn't make out any of the words, but he could see that people were speaking in all caps now. He yelled a swear at the pain.

He spun around to look at the window, shouting for help, only to watch helplessly as one of the other scientists overseeing the project launched himself down into the chamber. He shouted in fear, running around in panic before seemingly tripping over his own feet and knocking himself out on the floor.

The guard was just fuckin' gone by now. He must have gotten trapped in the beam or something, there was no way to tell and no time to find his body. The crystal started rocking in the cart, and with each shift there came another explosion, with atoms crashing into each other and splitting in ways that should not have been possible with humanity's current tools. Gordon could only look up at it, frozen in fear.

With one final shift of the crystal, it shattered. With it went the whole experiment, lighting the entire room up in harsh green. Gordon threw his hands up in front of him, screaming as his world was changed forever.

Then... nothing.

Gordon blinked a few times, looking around themself at the pitch blackness that had enveloped his world. He couldn't even see himself in it.

...Was he dead?

No, that couldn't have been right. He was still breathing, right? That had to count for something.

He squinted into the dark, trying to see anything. As his eyes adjusted, he swore he could see faint lines of green running lengthwise down his vision. Whether that was caused by the bright light of radiation or if that was actually SOMETHING, he couldn't tell yet.

He opened his mouth to yell, but instead of screaming out into the dark like he'd planned, he let out a simple, friendly greeting.

"Howdy."

No one answered him.

As his eyes continued to adjust, he began to make out what the lines were- numbers. They were lines and lines of numbers, wrapping all around him.

...Where was he?

"Howdy," he continued to call out. "Howdy. Howdy. Howdy. Howdy."

Still, no answer.

The world around him began to flash, green as the radiation from the test gone wrong. Gordon spun around, trying to find the source of it. The numbers lit up under the flashing lights- illuminated by shots of lightning- ones and zeros.

It was the same light from the Resonance Cascade. Aw fuck, was he still in the test chamber? Shit, he had to wake up, he was going to get hit.

He struggled to move, only to realize there was a pull on his arm. Looking towards it, he could see green strings attached, pulling him nowhere and in five different directions at once. It hurt, oh GOD it hurt, but no amount of pulling was freeing him. He pushed against it with his left hand, his free hand, and no avail. Nothing.

Before he could do much else, the strings yanked, and with this tug went his hand. He screamed in pain and surprise, everything going dark again, but only briefly.

He was in the garbage compactor. His hand was gone.

He wanted to stop, but something compelled him forward. He wanted to lay down and go back to sleep, but something wouldn't let him. He wanted to give up. Something in him made him grit his teeth.

He kept going through Black Mesa, lead on by Tommy this time. He wanted to collapse. Something forced his legs forward.

He kept getting kicked back down when he tried to climb out of the water, the clone's heels relentless. He yelled for Tommy, trying in vain to pull himself out. He only could with Tommy's help.

His friend was caught up in the tide of clones, too, and was quickly shoved away from Gordon. The shots from his gun continued to echo through the room, adding to Gordon's massive headache.

"I've unleashed the power of all 300 clones," Dr Coomer's voice boomed from somewhere. It was near impossible to tell if he was far away or close by with all the noise. Gordon's head swiveled quickly, trying to pinpoint where the hell he was.

"There's an entrance in your suit, Gordon, AND I WANT IN."

There! He was shoving his own clones aside, slowly making his way closer. He had the look of a crazed man about him, eyes too wide, grin too large. He was shaking, too, like he was high on adrenaline.

Green lines were starting to creep along the walls, down down down like a watercolor painting. Gordon squeezed their eyes shut, shouting Tommy's name.

He was backed into a corner, swarmed by clones as the real- main?- Coomer crept closer and closer. "I've been outside Black Mesa, Dr Freeman. There's nothing there. But you..." He shoved his way in front of Gordon, grabbing his stub of an arm. "I KNOW there's a world in your dreams, AND I NEED TO GO THERE."

Gordon screamed.

Berdey shot up, startled out of xeir nightmare. Fuck... nightmare. At least it wasn't real.

Just to be sure, they pinched themself. Yep. That hurt.

They flopped back down on the bed with a sigh. Gordon could never escape these, either- of COURSE Berdey would inherit them from him. Couldn't catch a break, in this life or the next.

It was still dark under the door, implying the darkness outside, too. Night. Well, they didn't wanna go back to sleep, not after that.

Looking at xeir left hand, they saw no new messages aside from the "goodnight"s that had been there before they drifted off.

They didn't wanna get up, but they also wanted to check on Coomer, just to make sure he was okay. Gordon had never managed to figure out what the fuck he'd meant by the whole "world in your dreams" thing. His dreams were a nightmare. Literally this time around. Why would Coomer want to go there?

It was anxiety talking. Coomer hadn't brought it up in a long time. Maybe he'd finally gotten over it. Besides, he didn't exactly want to see him right now.

With a sigh, he laid back down. It was gonna be a long night.

[codenamecurtains]

The Weight of Silence

It was late when Hester left the Admiralty to head home. The streets were dimly lit, shadows stretching long under the glow of the street lamps. As she made her way to the bus stop, she passed a young couple locked in an embrace, their whispered laughter mingling with the night air. Outside a pub, she was jostled by a group of young servicemen and their girlfriends, their laughter and chatter filling the street. “Sorry, ma’am,” one said, tipping his cap before rushing off to rejoin his friends.

She watched them disappear into the crowd, a knot tightening in her stomach. How many of them would make it back? 

Back in her small flat, Hester poured herself a gin. She rarely drank, but today she needed something to numb the ache in her chest. By her third glass, a blissful white noise filled her mind, dulling the edges of her pain. Unsteadily, she walked over to her desk and retrieved a small wooden box. She carried it back to the kitchen table, her hands trembling slightly as she opened it.

Inside was the only photograph she had of Tom, taken just before he left for the war, the first war. He was in his uniform, looking straight at the camera, his eyes bright with a confidence she envied now. She traced the outline of his face with her fingertips, her vision blurring. What would life have been like if he had come home?

She imagined them living in the countryside, surrounded by fields and a garden bursting with flowers. They would have had children, and a family to fill the silence. But then, a darker thought intruded—those children would be old enough for war now, sent off to fight just as their father had been. And Tom—Tom would be called back to serve, or maybe he’d be an air raid warden, patrolling the streets, facing danger every night. Her stomach twisted.

Or perhaps he would have come back different, like the boy next door who had returned from the front. His screams echoed through the night, a haunting reminder of what war did to men. Until one day, he took a shotgun, killed his mother, and then himself.

The bile rose in her throat, and she barely made it to the sink before she vomited. Gagging, she clutched the edges of the counter, trembling. When the nausea subsided, she shakily washed everything away, rinsing out the bitter taste in her mouth.

Sleep evaded her that night. She lay awake, thoughts circling like vultures, her body heavy with exhaustion but unable to rest. By the time her alarm finally went off, she’d barely managed an hour of sleep.

At work, her nerves were frayed, and she snapped at the girls in the typing pool. She felt their eyes on her, the whispers as she walked past. The final straw came when Ewen Montagu made one of his usual sarcastic remarks. Without thinking, she shouted at him, her voice echoing in the suddenly silent office. Realising what she had done, she fled, her cheeks burning, back to the safety of her own office.

Once inside, Hester paced like a caged animal, anger, sadness, and frustration boiling inside her. She wanted to scream, to break something, anything to release the pressure building in her chest. Her eyes fell on an abandoned cup of tea on her desk, and in a blind rage, she hurled it at the wall. It shattered, porcelain and cold tea splattering across the floor.

She sank to the ground, sobs wracking her body until she had no tears left. She sat with her back against the desk, staring blankly ahead, feeling hollow and drained.

A tapping at the door brought her back. “Hester. It's…it's me. Charles. Umm…is…is everything alright?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” There was a brief scuffle outside before Monty’s voice cut through. “Hester, it’s Monty. I’m coming in.”

She flinched as the door creaked open. Monty stepped inside, surveying the mess of broken porcelain and spilt tea. He closed the door behind him and sat down next to her on the floor.

“Bit of a mess, eh?” he said gently, his eyes softening.

They sat in silence, side by side, the quiet comforting in its way.

“I’m sorry,” Monty said finally. Hester didn’t respond, staring at the shards of the broken cup. “This bloody war,” he muttered, his voice heavy with weariness. 

Hester let out a small, broken sob and leaned against him.

“Is everyone talking…?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“No, they’re just worried.” He squeezed her hand. “Jean’s going to take you home. Bevan’s arranged a car.”

***

Back at her flat, Hester insisted she was fine. She thanked Jean and told her she just needed some rest. 

Once alone, she poured the remaining gin down the sink, the smell of it making her stomach churn.

She called in sick for the next two days. 

On the first day, she cleaned her flat, each swipe of the cloth against the surfaces a small act of control. The next day, she took the train to Kew Gardens, losing herself among the flowers. She let herself remember Tom—his laugh, his kindness, the way he had made her feel safe. She walked through the paths, letting the memories wash over her like a balm.

***

The morning of her return to work, Hester’s nerves were frayed. She hated being the centre of attention, hated the thought of everyone knowing her business. 

She made it to the typing pool before anyone acknowledged her.

“Glad you’re feeling better, Miss Leggatt,” Bella said softly as she entered. Hester managed a small smile.

“Girls, I want to apologise for my behaviour,” Hester began, her voice wavering. “I… I wasn’t feeling myself.”

Before she could say more, the girls surrounded her, pulling her into a warm, comforting group hug. The unexpected kindness undid her, and for the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe again

[octopiys]

Awake My Soul

Sergeant Gary "Roach" Sanderson's terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, and the time that his Captain, John "Soap" MacTavish makes up for it. Or, how Soap realizes the truth behind Roach's call sign. That bitch can survive anything. (For @forest-of-shrooms )

(Also on ao3)

4.3k, part 1/2

next

(Cw: cursing, violence, blood, wounds)

[Part 2 will be pure fluff I swear]

Rio de Janeiro

Brazil

"We're sorry, all lines are busy at the moment." Said the cool, automatic voice of the unreceiving receiver. "Please hang up your call, and try again later."

"I can't get anyone on the horn..." Lieutenant Ghost Riley was pacing angrily as he ended the call and dialed again.

Captain Soap Mactavish was standing cross armed by the recently crushed vehicle that he and Rojas had taken as a cushion for their fall. Sergeant Roach Sanderson was currently tying the already stunned man to the chain link fence, kicking his red baseball cap to the side.

"The Russians must've copied the ACS module. Got the key to every lock in America." Soap muttered, flashing Roach a look. It seemed like he was their representative American again.

"And they're killin' a thousand Americans for every dead civilian in Moscow. Looks like we're all outta friends...." Ghost chucked his phone, landing with a clang. It was only good for that number, and now it too was gone. The other two glanced at him, and he rolled his eyes, begrudgingly heading to go pick it back up.

The Captain turned to Roach suddenly, and he felt like looking away under the intensity of his gaze. "I know a guy. Let's try an' find a payphone... if those still exist."

Roach scoffed a laugh as the Lieutenant returned, disposable phone in hand.

They didn't get much out of Rojas, despite their... session for information, other than one thing. There's only one person that Makarov hates worse than Americans, and he's locked up in a gulag far, far away from there.

But now, they just needed to get out of Rio.

There were a few shouts and some gunshots, far off, but rapidly approaching their location. Ghost looked around, spotting something before stepping in closer to them. Roach readied his gun.

"Sir, the militia's closin' in. Almost a hundred of 'em, front and back!"

Soap looked between the two of his men with a sharp nod. "We're gonna have ta fight our way to the LZ! Let's go!"

"What about Rojas?" Ghost didn't slow his step in the least concern.

"The streets'll take care of 'im." Soap spat before picking up the pace.

Roach lagged behind, taking a long look at the man, still chained to the fence. He let out a muffled groan, and a thought crossed his mind. If he shot Rojas now, it would be a mercy killing.

He didn't deserve mercy.

"Roach, c'mon!" Soap's thick scottish voice urged him, and he retreated, leaving Rojas alive. "Nikolai! We're at the top of the favela surrounded by militia! Bring the chopper to the market, do you copy? Over!"

They pushed through and off to the side dirt path, cutting through high ferns and short trees. There was a watchtower of some sort at the top of the hill where Ghost and Soap couldn't afford to wait for him, so he moved faster.

"Okay my friend, I am on the way!" Nikolai's voice jumped over their radios.

He caught up in no time, long legs crossing two of the Captain's one stride. A light nudge on his shoulder and Roach tried to hide his sly grin.

A plane flew overhead, it's engine obscenely loud. He could see the airport from the top of the hill, where other vehicles seemed to plan on taking off. He wondered where Nikolai's chopper was.

"Everyone get ready! Lock and load!" Captain Mactavish warned, and suddenly Roach had a feeling in his gut that told him that the mission wouldn't end the way they wanted it to. He pushed it away, and adjusted his weapon nervously. Soap caught his eye and lifted his head slightly in acknowledgement. And encouragement. Roach felt his face heat red, and he was suddenly thankful for the gaiter that covered half his face.

Really, a crush on your higher up, as childish as it seemed, usually meant no good for anyone. He wasn't sure if it was admiration, or puppy love, or just.... He didnt know. It had to be unrequited no matter what, even if it wasn't. It wasn't law, but it wasn't allowed. Mactavish could easily lose his position for insubordination, and everything that Roach had worked for the past five years would be gone quicker than he could confess.

So he chose not to. Wise, that choice was.

"Let's do this!" Ghost's sharp British accent snapped him out of his thoughts that he couldn't afford to lose himself in, and they ran the rest of the way to the top of the favela.

Immediately, they were met with gunfire from the local militia. Both Ghost and Soap were barking out commands over each other, letting him know when and where the enemies were. He tried his best to listen, truly, but it was a little hard between the ringing in his ears, the bullets whizzing past him, and the pure adrenaline of trying not to get killed.

"Head through the gate to get to the market— Roach, move!" Captain MacTavish barked, grabbing him by the back of the vest and wrenching him to the ground just before a sniper's bullet exploded the ground where he had just been standing.

Eyes wide, he looked at the Captain with a silent thank you, and the man pulled him back up. "On yer feet soldier! Ye solid?" He asked, checking him over at an almost frantic pace. A few strands of hair fell loose from his gelled mohawk, already messy in the heat of the South Americas.

Roach nodded quickly. "I'm good, let's move!"

"Captain, we've got more moving in from the south!" Ghost shouted, and the two started running for it. Their gear was hot and heavy, but Roach was glad for the shoes as they slipped on the broken tiles between a few houses.

Someone fired from the roofs above them, and Roach countered that, jumping over the body as it fell into his path. He slid behind a solid guard rail for cover, reloading his weapon. He peeked over the railing to fire at an approaching enemy, and he dropped quicker than a sack of potatoes. He aimed again, quickly searching the square, and shot someone else in the neck, as he crouched behind an old broken down vehicle. Someone approached his six from behind and he whirled around to fire but it was just Soap, covering his back.

Tires squealed as a turretted truck flew into the square.

"Shit! Captain, ten o'clock!" Gary shouted, slinging his main weapon over his shoulder, and lobbing a grenade at the vehicle. He watched as both the man's eyes widened in surprise, his mouth forming the shape of an 'o' and they ran for it. They didn't have the supplies or the armor to properly defend themselves from weaponry like that. The only thing that could take it down was- "Lieutenant! Throw a grenade into the truck, we can't hit it from here!" Roach shouted into his microphone.

"Rog!" Ghost copied, his voice sounding crackly over the radio, like a raging fire roaring from dying embers.

While he was working on that, Roach and Soap worked in a deadly tandem under the cover of bricks and dust and ruin, taking out the hostiles and trying to not disturb the innocents.

A loud explosion rocked the earth beneath their feet, telling them the truck had been taken care of.

"One and done!" They heard the Lieutenant shout before whatever else he said was drowned out by the commercial plane flying overhead.

Roach pushed around for the guardrail and fencing to advance and catch up to Ghost, before he was knocked square on his back from a bullet that made impact dead center of his chest.

"-ch! Roach! Roach, look at me, aye!" MacTavish was shouting over him as he struggled to breath when he came back to. He fired multiple rounds into the chest of his attacker, a look with something darker than pure rage written deep into the lines of his face. "Just got ye in the plate, Roach, breathe, cmon!"

The fear in his Captain's voice was what scared him the most, as he tried to clear the ringing in his head and the struggling wheezes that clawed their way up his throat as he tried to remember how to breathe. The bullet knocked the wind straight out of him, but luckily it only hit his body armor. He shuddered a gasp, as Soap dragged him to a back alley. Ghost's voice was tinny from the earpiece that had fallen to his shoulder and with shaking hands, he tried to put it back in.

"Attaboy, Sergeant, yer alright, yer alright-" MacTavish murmured to him, doing another once over. "He's good, Riley, just got a bitta the wind gone-"

"Christ-" Roach breathed pulling his gun back around his shoulder as Soap gave him a reassuring pat on the back, his hand lingering a second longer than it should have. Oh, he was hopeless. "That's gonna hurt like- a bitch in the mornin'..."

"Cmon, get to the gate! Keep pushin' to the evac point!" Mactavish shouted into his radio for Ghost to hear as he and Roach made their way forward, taking out enemies as they went.

And they ran.

Roach made his way through the gate, sliding down the slick road that bordered the fence, blocking any escape to the rocky seaside hill. Ghost was right. They did seem to have the entire Brazilian militia on their asses, and they weren't gonna go down without a fight. As more hostiles flooded the streets, Roach took cover in an open building that probably used to be a house, but didn't look like much of anything anymore. Soap and Ghost must've taken a different way, because he soon lost track of the Captain's voice, and the Lieutenant's aura of constant frustration. He went out an open window finding his way onto a flat roof that connected to the lower balcony of a separate house and made his way back down, quickly reloading his gun as he went. Just in time too, as he turned the corner, militia flooded the alley, catching him off guard, so he whirled back around and ran down a separate path.

He regrouped with the other two, Ghost being supported by the Captain. His leg was held in an odd way, and Soap filled him in with a single glance. The Lieutenant had been hit in the thigh, making doing much of anything hurt, and his adrenaline hadn't even kicked in yet. Roach was sure he had a stim somewhere, but they didn't have enough time to find it. The red black of blood told him they needed to hurry.

"Twenty on me, cap'n! We gotta move!" He took up Ghost's other shoulder and quickly began helping them along, using his gun to eliminate any threats, and MacTavish got the ones he missed.

They turned a corner and Roach got body checked with a gun, worsening the ringing in his ears as he tried to regain his footing. He watched one of Ghost's many knives bury itself in the attackers throat and he went down in a spray of blood.

"Thanks Lieutenant-" He breathed and Ghost gave him a slightly-less-than sharp nod, face hidden behind his painted skull mask and orange lensed sunglasses.

Bullets struck the dust at their feet as they made their way through the town, finally reaching the markets as another car exploded, radiating waves of heat and shrapnel out their way.

A part of Roach felt bad as he took up both arms to fire through the market. Things from people's lives that supported them toppled to the ground, or were lit aflame, and just like that, it was gone. Ghost sent him forward to scout out the area, and Roach tossed him his pack.

"Should be a stim and some bandages in there, I'll radio you when I get to the other side!" He shouted, leaving once Ghost had been secured behind a sturdy looking wall.

Ghost thanked him with a, "Tangoes coming outta that shack, 11 o'clock!"

And Roach ran.

He passed through a small stall with a large Brazilian flag draped across the back wall, using his automatic to take out his enemies and ignoring the blood staining his boots.

A few bullets dusted the ground by his feet and he whirled around, ducking for cover. His hand flew to his radio, a bullet went through his shoulder. "Sniper! Sniper on the-" He roared before being interrupted by the Captain.

"Roach, that shed's loaded with-!" Came Soap's voice as he turned into another hut, tripping on some wire in the floor, and he heard the hissing of a trigger blow as his feet moved too slow to escape the wrath of the rigged explosion.

He'd always found a sick sense of admiration in fire and explosions, even as a child. During family bonfires, he'd make up stories from what he'd seen in the flames, tall graceful dancers, giant, earth consuming waves, and plenty of other things. He was a great storyteller, and his secret passion is originally what brought him so close to his captain, an expert in demolitions. The man knew what he was doing, in and out of the battlefield.

In between missions, he had been caught handcrafting explosives with an enthusiastic glint in his eye for missions to come. During said missions, he'd spend his time lodging those explosives, and watching each one go out with a bang. MacTavish never got to talk about them, much, but one day Roach asked. He spoke for hours about each little intricate detail, and the younger Sergeant listened.

He'd listen for eternity if given the chance.

Perhaps that was the moment that Roach truly fell in love with Captain John MacTavish.

Sanderson wasn't sure when he opened his eyes again. All he knew was that his day sucked, it wasn't improving much, and his shoulder hurt like a motherfucker.

He was laying on his side behind a mound of sandbags that seemed to have protected him from the worst, and the air smelt of acred smoke and coppery blood. There were a few cages sitting atop the sand bags, the small bodies of dead birds killed in the fight laying limp on the bottom.

It was strangely symbolic.

Caged birds. No way out, struck dead where they once flew.

"-erson! Gary!" Captain MacTavish shouted with such a force that suddenly snapped the world right back up again. "Do ye copy, Sergeant!?"

"Copy-" Hs coughed the dust and blood away from his lungs, thinking that he was bound to have tinnitus after this. "I copy... Shed was rigged to blow- you get that sniper...?"

"Roach, come in mate! What's your status?" He heard Ghost bark, and he lifted his hand to his radio to respond again before his microphone came away in pieces in his hand.

Both he and it was covered in blood, and the sudden burning ache in his shoulder hit him like a wall as he remembered he'd been shot. The bullet must've gone clean through his radio and lodged in his shoulder somewhere, and he didn't have the strength in him to look at the wound, much less dig the bullet out. He had losses his big boy gun somewhere in the explosion, but still had his pistol on him, so he pulled that instead.

As he clambered back to his feet, he saw his higher upside fighting their way through the market under the cover of bloodlust and smoke. The explosion must've leveled a few other stalls it seemed as flames rolled tall into the air.

The loud whup-whupping of a large helicopter overhead drew everyone's eyes to the sky.

"That's Nikolai's Pave Low!" Soap shouted, being the first to snap out of the trance. "Roach, if ye copy, let's go! Regroup at the evac point! Nikolai, ETA twenty seconds! Be ready for immediate dust off!"

"That ma- --- be f-st enough! -- more militia clos--- in on th- market!" Roach's radio was dying, he was sure of it, as he stumbled the rest of the way through the market. His throat was clogged and run ragged from the smoke and dust that mixed dangerously into the air, his torn gaiter doing nothing to help filter the air.

He pushed through a building, momentarily losing sights of his teammates, but they reappeared as he exited on the other side of the open courtyard across from him.

The Captain's face quickly shifted to an expression of pure relief as Nikolai flew in above them. He opened his mouth to speak, but Nikolai spoke for them.

"It's too hot! We will not survive this landing!" The pilot's voice sounded severely strained, and if to prove his point, an rpg sailed overhead and collided with a building behind them.

"Nikolai, wave off, wave off! We'll meet you at the secondary LZ instead! Go!" MacTavish commanded, looking even more stressed from before. Roach quickly found his way back over to them as Nikolai lifted back into the air.

"How... are you holdin' up?" Roach rasped to Ghost, who was starting to look a little green around the gills.

"Talkin' bout yourself, Sergeant? I'll be fine." Ghost grumbled, tying off a tourniquet on his leg before bullets began flying through the square again.

"Let's get you up then, come on!" Roach pulled the man to his feet as Soap was yelling something through his radio. "Mine's busted-" He breathed. "Can hear, can't talk."

Ghost hummed a response, his eyes just barely visible behind his cracked orange lenses.

"Come on! We've gotta get to the rooftops, this way!" MacTavish shouted, shooting down someone who dared to follow them.

He hoisted Ghost up a container, and leapt up, grabbing hold of the Captain's extended hand and pulled himself up. Roach gave him a nod of thanks as Nikolai flew overhead.

"My friend, from up here it looks like the who village is trying to kill you!" Radioed Nikolai, so ever helpful.

"Tell me something I don't know! Just get ready to pick us up!" MacTavish shouted, leading both Ghost and Roach to visibly wince at the sudden loudness in their ears.

They were running as fast as they could make it across tin and aluminum rooftops, parts of it shoddily connected with sizable gaps. He helped run Ghost around a hanging of clothing before the Lieutenant shouts, "We're runnin' outta rooftop!"

Roach's foot caught on an outcropping in the roof and the two stumbled but kept pushing forward. He could see the Christ statue on the mountain ahead of them, arms stretched out like he was protecting them from harm.

Roach knew better.

"We can make it!" The Captain countered back. "Go go go!"

They were rapidly approaching a ten foot drop, a gap in two roofs. Ghost's face was dead set determined. Soap disappeared over the side, and he knew what needed to happen.

The Lieutenant leapt second, putting more strain on his bad leg than he needed to, falling more gracefully than he would've thought over the edge.

Then came Roach's turn. He took a couple steps back, and then a running start. He launched himself into the air, hitting feet first, thinking he got off spot free.

Now of course, not even that could go right either, could it?

He hit the roof hard, the edge collapsing with the very little support underneath it, and he threw himself forward, scrabbling at the side. His glove got the sharp side of the tin roof, his shoulder screaming at the sudden strenuous activity on his wound. He cried out, feet hanging in the empty thirty feet of air.

Then appeared the Captain, oh Captain, his Captain, to save the day and reached out just as the roof fell. A split second too late, and Roach went tumbling down backwards with it.

"ROACH!" MacTavish roared, doubling over the side with his hand outstretched.

Sanderson hit the ground, and everything went black.

Roach really didn't want to die. Sure, some missions were shit, but this one was really taking the cake.

First came Rojas' very little amount of information.

Second, the bullet to his vest.

Third, Ghost's leg.

Fourth, the actual bullet to the shoulder, fifth, the explosion and the probable tinnitus.

Last and finally, this. Was he dead? He wasn't sure. He most certainly didn't want to be, if he had any say in it. Dying hurt a lot, or so he was told.

Someone was calling his name.

Was it God? He didn't believe in God. If it was Him, then he was most certainly fucked.

"Roach, Roach! Wake up!"

His eyes opened, blurrily. The world was spinning, and he was shaking, and he was most certainly not dead. Death hurt, he was told, but not this much.

He felt as he turned his head, his vision swimming horribly like it was trying to catch up with his eyes, and oh, the wretched ringing was back in his ears.

His goggles were gone, he processed somewhere, and his helmet too. Where was he? Why was it so hot?

"Roach!! We can see them from the chopper! They're coming for you, dozens of em!" Ghost shouted loud in his ear, and he noticed a group of shadows along the wall ahead of him, illuminated by the setting sun, and that group marched into view with many scarily long guns in their hands.

He looked around. Another few, far up on the roof with automatics.

Oh, fuck.

"Roach! There's too many o' them! Get the hell outta there, find yer way to the rooftops!" The Captain screamed. "Move!"

The final word shot him into action, filling him with enough adrenaline to get up and keep moving. He ignored the blood on his hands, and somewhere realized that with his goggles and helmet, he'd also lost his gun.

And Roach ran.

He breathed a pained groan, launching himself forward into an open house, a small part of his mind feeling bad for tracking blood into the just cleaned tiles, until the backwash exploded with a spray of bullets.

He came out the other side unscathed- well, no more scathed than he was before. He ran down the stairs of an alley, praying that his bad luck wouldn't decide to strike again, and then up the stairs through another open door.

His shoulder screamed, blood flowing quickly down his vest but he payed it no mind. He wanted to live.

His vision tinged black around the edges, but he pushed himself forward as bullets ricochetted around him. Up other stairs, and leaping off a balcony, Soap was on the roofs.

He hit the ground at a roll, and ignored the sharp pain in his ankle upon impact and kept going, weaving around tables and discarded chairs, along with something that looked very similar to a body, but he had no time to investigate it now. His head and heart was pounding painfully by the time he heard Soap's voice again.

"Roach! I see you! Jump down, meet us south of your position! Go!" The Captain sounded as just as anxious as he felt, straining every word like they might be the last thing Roach could hear. They very well could be.

"Gas is very low! I must leave in thirty seconds!" He heard Nikolai shout and he cursed to himself.

Now he had a time limit.

"Roach! We're runnin' on fumes here, ye've got thirty seconds! Run!" Soap shouted.

"I'm trying!" Roach hissed to himself, gasping as another bullet made impact to the back of his vest.

He saw the white Pave Low just in the distance as he jumped the gap between two houses. But there was a significant drop off where the roofs ended. It seemed impossible-

"Left! Turn left and jumped down!" The Captain shouted, like a fucking guardian angel. He careened left, sliding off the roof to a man made path down down side of two buildings.

A small part of him wondered if MacTavish had taken his eyes off him at all. The rest of him just screamed, run!

He turned another corner, before launching himself into free air, then making contact with a long, slanted roof. There was a window at the bottom, and Roach prayed it was open.

It was not, but he smashed through it, landing hard in the spray of broken shards. His breath was almost stolen from him again, and his chest pained him horribly, but the spray of bullets picked up again, and he knew he couldn't stop now. He was so close.

The Pave Low lifted from the cliff drop-off near the half collapsed brick balcony. The side door was opened, and a rope ladder spilled out. He could see Soap at the door, securing it quickly and watching with a scrutinizing gaze. The unfamiliar feeling of relief filled his chest at the sight.

"Jump for it!" MacTavish shouted, and so he did.

He felt like he free fell forever over the forested river, before his hand came into contact with the ladder and he held onto it for dear life, struggling to catch his breath.

"Nikolai, we got him! Get us outta here!" He heard the Captain shout from above, as his vision blacked out momentarily.

He climbed a rung, two, looking up to see MacTavish reaching a hand down to him. He took it, and allowed himself to be pulled up, just as the rest of his strength gave out.

He felt the solid floor of the chopper as it took off at full speed, and two hands on him, searching around his vest.

"Roach, stay with us!" Someone said, before pressing down quite painfully on his shoulder.

He bit back a scream, snapping his eyes open, trying to struggle away. He hadn't even been aware that he had closed them.

"Stop, stop, please-" He begged, the cry tearing out of his throat as the pressure increased.

Someone smoothed over his hair.

Something was stabbed into his leg, and he found the sharp blue of Soap MacTavish's eyes, and they were scared, that startled him.

The pain increased tenfold right then, and a scream clawed its way out of his throat, and he blacked out.

[texas-writes]

Stars and Oblivion

After years of searching, you finally find her

Cw: teen pregnancy mentioned, postpartum anxiety, child abandonment

The sun beat down through the mouth of the cave, the sweat from your brow running down and burning into your eyes as you focused intently on the carburetor in your greasy hands. There was no fucking way this would be a surface repair. You let out a growl and grab one of your smaller wrenches to begin disassembling the part. You can feel boring holes into your back but you just roll your shoulders in an attempt to shrug off the sensation. The feeling goes and is soon replaced with a presence. You turn, prepared to shout off whichever Warpup had the audacity to bother you, but instead of stark white flesh you’re greeted with a small frame clothed entirely in light leather work gear. It was that boy again. He was still a child, probably no older than twelve, and certainly no Warboy. He never spoke, making you question if his tongue had been cut out.

“What is it?”

He brings his fingers level with his eyes and then turns them towards the carburetor.

“Do you want me to teach you how to do this?”

He nods and leans on the workbench, eyes locked on your hands.

“Okay. I have to rebuild it, probably replace some of the interior parts and clean it. Just try to look busy.”

He nods again, watching as you take the cover off and begin detaching all the inner workings. You send him for small parts of scrap from time to time and make sure he has his goggles on whenever you have to weld or cut the new pieces to fit into the mechanism. Finally you’re finished rebuilding the part and give it to him, telling him to go put it back in the truck it was from. Another nod, and then he’s gone.

You allowed the boy much more grace than any of the other mechanics. He was just a child after all, a foundling most likely, and starkly human compared to the Warboys, a whole life. He’d often come sit with you while you ate, but you never saw his face, he’d just slip his spoon under his dust mask instead of removing it. There were several occasions on colder nights that he would climb into your bunk shivering, and you’d just wrap your arms around him without question, pressing your lips to his forehead and smoothing down his cap.

In moments when your mind was loose, when you were unfocused at work, or too tired to properly hold your eyes open you saw in him glimpses of the child you had left behind. Close in age, and hopefully status of life, you saw her, darting around, almost playful in moments of ease, but reserved nonetheless. You had no real idea what your daughter looked like, you had gone when she was just a baby, leaving her with your sister and running into the wastes, too young then to be a mother or a wanderer, but your fear had driven you further than any car ever could.

You remembered her, blue and screaming when she came into this world, covered in blood and viscera, her tiny hands clenched into tight fists as she was handed to you. You’d barely had enough time to name her before you’d passed out. You were fourteen then, too curious for your own good, drawn in by the charms of a farmer’s son, and you’d ended up ripped in half for your stupidity. The bleeding wouldn’t stop, so the doctor had taken your womb to give you a chance at living, and lived you had.

It was three days before you had woken up, connected to your sister by a tangle of tubing while another woman held out the child for you to hold. You took her and brushed the wisp of hair from her face, smiling when she opened her eyes, looking up at you. You’d stuck around for a couple of months, but by the time you left you felt like you needed to claw your way out of your skin, like even if you never stopped running you’d still have gone nowhere, so you left your daughter with your sister and ran, taking a bike and going as far and as fast as you could.

Years later you had gone back, twenty four then, finally ready to settle back down, your wild urges sated, your body relaxed and your mind solid once again, only to find nothing. The women had told you that your daughter had been taken, and your sister had followed after. You’d lit out in the direction they pointed and rode until you came across the remnants of a camp, a pile of warm ashes and an all too familiar locket buried beneath the cinders. The metal had burned a crescent moon into your palm as you’d gripped it and screamed, but you didn’t care. You just knelt there in the sand sobbing until you had no tears left to cry, pathetically making your way back to your bike and continuing in the direction you’d been heading, despite the absence of tracks, no trace of your sister’s murderers or your little girl. Just riding into oblivion with no real care if you lived or not.

So you cared for the boy, as much as he’d let you, as if he were your own, the guilt deep in your belly driving your actions just as much as your compassion. He grew up under your mechanical guidance, loosening up around the workshop, forgoing his mask, and before long it became glaringly obvious that you had mistaken him. Long hair and bright eyes began to reveal “his” true nature, but it didn’t phase you. There were many reasons for a girl to hide in this world, especially around the company you worked with. She grew brawny as she aged and you gifted her with a knife to keep sheathed in her boot. She’d kept it close, pulling it on more than one occasion to escape the grabbing hands of the Warboys you worked with.

You knew nothing of her but what you’d seen, but you could still say you loved her. All these years, watching over her, protecting her, teaching her. There were times, even now, that she, maybe seventeen now, would crawl shivering into your bed and you’d hold her and kiss her forehead as you always did. She would never object to your affections, just worming her way closer and sighing as her eyes fell shut.

Years later she’d disappeared, and you’d worried for her, fearing the worst, but after a month she returned, staggering, weak, a crudely stitched stump where her left arm once was. You’d tended to her without a word, cleaning her wound and dressing it without question as she sat on your bunk that night. She’d been through hell and you knew she wasn’t one to talk. The girl, no woman, before you was alive and that was all that mattered right now. Before you could think your hand was at the back of her head and your forehead was pressed to hers, with your eyes squeezed shut, fighting the tears of worry that threatened to fall. She’d been strong, wherever she’d been, and it was your turn now, for her sake. She mirrors your actions, pressing her head to yours so hard it almost hurt.

“Stars bless you,” she whispers, her voice shaking with the same tenacity you were exerting.

You pull away from her sharply, shocked not only by her voice but the words it carried. Her eyes are wide and wet, her hand trembles against the back of your head and you know now what your heart had secretly known for years. You look at her in the torch-light of the bunk room and see your own eyes staring back at you, your own hair falls over her shoulders and down her back.

“Furiosa,” you breathe, pressing your forehead back to hers, finally allowing the sob to wrack your body, pulling her tightly into a hug and she reciprocates it. She’d learned to love and trust you, completely unaware of the fact that it was your immaturity that had gotten her here. It was all your fault and she was none the wiser. It was too late now, to be her mother. She was twenty three years old and had mourned for the mother she knew for all those years now. It was not your place to try to claim that place, to fill that void.

“How do you know my name? You’re not from the green place, I’d have known you,” her voice is sharp and demanding despite the low volume.

“I am, I left when you were a baby, and only went back after you’d been taken.”

“Then who are you?”

You silently reach behind your neck and unclasp your necklace bearing two pendants, a sun and a crescent moon, and give them to her.

“She was my sister. I’ve spent years looking for you. I needed to see you again, even if it was just for a moment.”

Your answer was incomplete, but still truthful. It was all she needed to know. Too much would do more harm than good, and she was already fragile. Maybe when you finally got her back home safe you would come clean, but now, just having her here in your arms, knowing she was alive and as safe as someone could be in the wasteland was enough for you.

[teenage-idiot]

In the Blink of an Eye - 12

Avengers Age of Ultron | Quicksilver x Female Reader Fan-fiction.

*WARNING SPOILERS*

Contains strong language, sexual references and mentions of death.

1097 words

CHAPTER 12

We arrived back to the others who were doing a pretty good job of keeping the enemy at bay and from doing any more damage than that which had already been done.

"Need a hand?" Wanda said, to no one in particular.

Thor threw his hammer, taking out several enemies, and then caught it smoothly, as if with no effort at all.

"Some help would be excellent," he said, his voice booming over all the noise going on around us.

"Sure thing," I spoke under my breath, feeling very anxious about the whole 'combat' situation. I mean, sure I had been training for quite a while now and was getting a lot better at using my powers, plus I'd already taken out a couple enemies earlier, however, that didn't stop me from being nervous about my first real battle.

I was soon cut out of my thoughts by an enemy coming straight for me. Before they could do anything, I threw them to the side swiftly. One after another they came, as if never ending. Each one I fought off with ease, but now they seemed to be growing in numbers, and I was beginning to struggle. 

"Y/n, watch your back!" Tony shouted.

Before I could do anything, Pietro shot past me and took out the enemies that were behind me. 

"You didn't see that coming?" he asked, a cocky grin plastered onto his face.

He was gone before I had the chance to come up with a good comeback, so with that I continued to fight. 

The next thing I knew, Wanda was screaming Pietro's name and I was searching frantically for the source of the commotion. I turned to see Wanda slamming an enemy carrying a machine gun into a block of cement. The look on her face was one of pure terror, and then she was hugging Pietro, squeezing him tightly in her arms. I couldn't help but be a little curious as to what got her so worked up about the situation. Of course I understand that they're twins, so she would want to look out for him obviously, but it seemed to be something about that enemy specifically that got her in that state. Plenty of them has guns, so why was this one any different? I brushed it off for the moment and went back to focusing on the task in hand.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, the enemy were defeated, and Boston was safe once again. 

"Everyone okay?" asked Cap.

"Yeah, we're good," Tony answered.

"Okay, well then let's head back to base. I'm sure everyone could do with a good rest, plus there are a few things I want to address about today," Cap said. 

He seemed slightly agitated, but perhaps I was just making that up.

Once we arrived back at the Avengers HQ, everyone filed out of the aircraft at a quick pace, eager to get some down time after everything that happened today. 

"Go and rest now, then we'll all have a quick meeting after dinner," Cap called after us as we walked away.

I got upstairs and was unlocking the door to my room, when I heard Wanda and Pietro talking. 

"I just don't want the same thing to happen again," Wanda said.

"Don't worry, it won't," Pietro said as he brought her into an embrace.

"Okay," she said, and with that, she left.

Before he closed the door, Pietro locked eyes with me, knowing I had heard everything that was just said. I gave him an awkward smile which he returned with a sombre one, and then entered my room.

I frowned, and began to wonder what had happened prior to this that would cause such an upset between these two family members. I knew it wasn't any of my business, but the different possibilities just kept swirling around in my head, my curiosity getting the better of me.

I took time to think in the shower, letting the water run down my back and onto the cool bathroom tiles. I thought about the battle and what had happened. I wondered what Steve wanted to talk to us about, and was he really on edge, or had I just interpreted his mood wrong? What exactly was it that got Wanda in such a state? And why on earth did I feel so empty after everything I'd done today? I must have been a help in some way, but I just felt like I hadn't really done anything compared to the things everyone else had achieved. They were all so heroic, and I just wasn't.

I headed down for dinner soon after getting dressed, and after we had all eaten our evening meal, Steve began to talk about the mission.

"I won't keep you long because I know you must all be tired from today, I just want to let you know that although we won today, they are not going to stop. The enemy is still out there, and believe me, they will rest at nothing until they get exactly what they want." 

He took a deep breath and let out a large sigh.

"You all did good today, but we need to be stronger if we're going to get these guys. I just don't want to see any of you get hurt." 

He looked over at Pietro as he said the last part, who looked down at his hands immediately after this.

Everybody was walking back to their respected rooms, and I entered the lift to do the same. I was eager to get a good night's sleep and rest up before training tomorrow. 

Just as the doors were about to close, Pietro entered the lift.

"Hey," he said nonchalantly, "long time no see."

I just smiled, unsure how to react to his sudden mood change. A minute ago he seemed uncomfortable and uneasy, and now he was back to his usual bubbly and confident self.

The question was burning into my brain, the question I was dying to ask him.

'Whatever you do, don't ask him. It's none of your business,' I thought to myself. Alas, my curiosity and concern was too much for me to bear.

"Pietro, what happened to you today? I mean one minute you were fine and then Wanda was screaming your name and you both seemed pretty shaken up..." I trailed off

He looked at me with a slightly surprised look on his face, and then bowed his head, letting out a deep sigh before turning back to me.

"Do you really want to know?"

[a-captions-blog]

[Image descriptions: Tweets by الكسندرا ميراي @LexiAlex that quote a series of other Tweets about Jewish protests for Palestine. Long descriptions follow.

1. Tweet says, ‘It’s a Jewish group. They blocked the entire freeway.’ The quoted Tweet is by Brian Gordon @SkyOutBriOut and says, ‘Pro-Palestinian protestors are blocking traffic on Highway 147 near Durham.’ Attached are two photos, one showing the protestors blocking the highway with a sign and Palestinian flags, and the other showing lanes of backed-up traffic.

2. Tweet says, ‘This one was this morning in London at St Pancras station.’ The quoted Tweet is by Black-Jewish Alliance [black fist emoji] [Star of David emoji] @BlackJewishA and says, ‘Police are attempting to arrest Jews in prayer. We shout “let us pray” for Palestine. The police have confiscated copies of our speeches . . .’ [Tweet cut off]. Attached is a video with a thumbnail showing the protestors at the station from behind.

3. Tweet says, ‘This one is right now.’ The quoted Tweet is by IfNotNow [flame emoji] @IfNotNowOrg and says, ‘American Jews and allies have taken over Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station with a simple demand: an end to all the violence, and the release of all the hostages. “Everyone for Everyone, Ceasefire Now!” . . .’ [Tweet cut off.] Attached is a photo showing the protestors at the station rallying around large white ‘Ceasefire’ signs.

4. Tweet says, ‘UK.’ The quoted Tweet is by Na’amod @NaamodUK and says, ‘Jews from the UK gathered outside the Foreign Office yesterday under the banner: Ceasefire Now – End the Siege! Release the Hostages!’ Attached is a photo of the protestors on the street with signs and banners.

5. Tweet says, ‘South Africa.’ The quoted Tweet is by Power987News @Power987News [verified] and says, ‘South African Jews for Free Palestine members demonstrate outside city hall. They want the government to expel the Israeli ambassador.’ Attached is a video with a thumbnail showing protestors gathered outside city hall.

6. Tweet says, ‘Australia.’ The quoted Tweet is by Guardian Australia @GuardianAus and says, ‘Anti-Zionist Jewish activists protest at Marles’ office and lock themselves to building – video dlvr.it/SyDMQp.’

7. Tweet says, ‘Toronto.’ The quoted Tweet is by IfNotNow [flame emoji] @IfNotNowOrg and says, ‘[caps] Rigth now [end caps]: over a thousand Jews and allies are gathering with IfNotNow Toronto to mourn Israelis and Palestinians killed, to demand an end to Palestinian oppression, and to demand a #CeasefireNOW.’ Attached is a photo of protestors gathered in semidarkness.

8. Tweet says, ‘Also today, Tucson AZ.’ The quoted Tweet is by Max Granger @_MaxGranger and says, ‘Dozens of Jewish anti-Zionists and others in solidarity with Palestine blocked the entrance to Raytheon’s Tuscon offices, staging a die-in to “send a message that Raytheon cannot continue business as usual while its weapons are used to mass murder civilians in Gaza.” twitter.com/AdamKleppAZ/st [Tweet cut off].’ Attached is a photo of protestors wrapped in white lying on the ground, with a sign that says, ‘Raytheon blood is on your hands.’ The word ‘blood’ is in red and has red hand prints on either side. \End descriptions]

(Nov. 2)

Thread of demonstrations in solidarity with Palestinians, via @LexiAlex: U.S., U.K., U.S., U.K., South Africa, Australia, Canada, U.S.

[brooklynbear32]

Chapter 3: Display

Pairing: Chris Evans/Reader

Rating: Explicit

Read on AO3 or see the tumblr masterlist for full tags

Somewhere, deep in your brain, there’s a voice shouting at you. Telling you that this is ridiculous. That you should leave before something happens that you both regret.

But when Chris stands up and walks to his trailer door, the sound of the lock clicking into place silences the voice in your head. He grabs a beer from the mini fridge, arching his eyebrows to ask if you want one, too. You shake your head and he pops the cap off with a quick move of his hands. God, his hands.

“Follow me,” He says, angling his head further into the trailer. He picks up one of the dining chairs and carries it past the table, past the bathroom, into the small bedroom. There’s barely room for it, but he places the chair beside the bed and sits. Crosses one leg over the other, his beer coming to rest in a hand on top of a thigh, the picture of ease.

Because he’s just going to watch.

“Am I right to assume you’d normally be in your bed?” He asks. You nod, standing at the foot of the bed, strangely unable to move.

“Hmm. And are you normally naked?” His eyes scan up and down your body, clearly imagining what is hidden. You nod again, unable to stop yourself from biting your lip. Normally the idea of taking your clothes off in front of someone new is scary, but you’re so turned on you feel like your body is going to burn through your clothes. You want them off. He clucks his tongue.

“I want you to take off your shoes.”

God, how can such a simple request be so hot? You sit on the edge of the bed, untying the laces of your ergonomic, unsexy running shoes. He sips his beer as you do so, and your shoes fall to the floor. You look up at him, expectant.

"Take your shirt off.”

You grab the hem of your tank top, pulling it over your stomach, your breasts, your head. Your bra isn’t anything fancy, just a t-shirt bra you’ve had for years. It’s not like you’d planned on anyone seeing it today. Chris nods, evaluating you.

“Now your shorts.”

Your shorts are, well, short. You spend so much of your job on your feet, running around, that you tend to want the coolest clothes you can find without being inappropriate for work. You unbutton your shorts, and wiggle them off your hips. Only a bit more skin is visible, your undies a practical cut that covers almost as much skin as your shorts. They are polka-dotted and trimmed in lace, more cute than sexy. Still, Chris’ eyes stay on them for a moment, before roaming up your body to your face.

“Your bra.” He says, not needing any more words. You undo the front clasp, and slowly expose your breasts. You can see that your flush has moved down your chest and your nipples are hard, standing as erect as they can. Chris blows out a breath.

“Panties.” You start to bend forward to pull them down, wishing you’d shaved your upper thighs and trimmed your pubic hair, but then you see him staring at the way your breasts swing as you lean forward. Emboldened, you pull off the last of your clothing and stand before him, naked.

His eyes trail from your belly button down, seeing the soft curls where your legs meet. Silently, he reaches out a hand to you. You pause for a moment, confused, then oh. He wants your panties. You hand them over, breath caught in your throat. To your surprise, he doesn’t smell them, doesn’t even look at them, just sets them on the arm of his chair. He looks at your face, and when he speaks his voice is husky, deeper than usual.

“I want you to get on my bed. Get the pillows under your head, however feels right. I want you to be comfortable. Just like at home.”

You move, almost before the words are out of his mouth, crawling towards the top of the bed. There are two pillows, so you pile them together. You hear a low hum from behind you, almost a groan, and you realize your efforts have put your ass on display. You look over your shoulder, an unintentionally flirty position, and he smiles at you. It’s a smile unlike any you’ve seen from him before, mischievous and predatory. He's got plans for you. And your ass.

You lie down, head and shoulders resting on the pillows so you’re reclining instead of lying down flat. You can see him better this way. He can see you better this way. You put your hands on the bed by your sides, so that you're not touching yourself anywhere. Not yet.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, Sunshine.” He tells you, as casually as if he’s telling you the plans for where you're getting dinner. “I’m going to sit here and drink my beer. You’re going to do whatever you’d do if you were home right now. I want to see how you touch yourself when you think about me.”

It’s all the invitation you need. Holding eye contact, you move a hand down to where you’re throbbing. His eyebrows raise momentarily, and then he lets out a low chuckle.

“Going straight to it, huh? You’re so worked up you can’t help but touch your clit right away.”

It should be embarrassing, humiliating even, but you both know what he’s done to you, that your conversation was all the foreplay you needed and you’re thrumming with anticipation. You shrug one shoulder, and bend your legs, bringing your feet nearer to your ass. Your legs fall open, letting him see where your hand went. Letting him see all of you.

You hold his gaze and slide your fingers down your labia, gathering your wetness, just barely dipping your middle finger into your vagina. You can hear how wet you are, your fingers making slippery noises that you know Chris can hear, too. You move your fingers to your clit, and can’t stop the moan that comes out of you. You’re as turned on now as you’ve ever been before, already as tightly wound as those times you’ve tried and tried to please your body, desperate for a release that just won't come.

Chris isn’t just watching now, he’s staring. His eyes are on your fingers, following the path they take as they surround your clit, the counterclockwise orbit they make around and around. You realize he’s memorizing their speed, their movement, so that he can do it to you later, and the thought of him touching you makes your vagina clench.

You know he can see; he can see every move of every muscle, every tensing of your stomach, every tremble of your thighs. He’s not a casual observer anymore. He’s set down his beer, uncrossed his legs. His legs are spread in the way you find repulsive, arrogant on other men, but intoxicating when he does it. You know he’s uncrossed his legs to free up room for where he’s swelling; you can see the bulge in his pants growing for you. His mouth is slightly open, and he's clearly breathing harder.

You’re shaking all over, your body a live wire of tension, need, and pleasure. You’re right on the edge, looking to him to push you over.

And that’s when he picks up your panties, raising them to his face. He looks you dead in the eye, takes a deep breath in, and groans. You -

You explode. Your fingers race over your clit and your orgasm bursts from you, pulsing outward from your clit to spread throughout your body. The tension peaks. You’re bent in half like you’re doing crunches, and you make a noise that could only be described as a wail. You hang there for a moment, your clit throbbing, your walls clenching on nothing, your legs spasming, and then it breaks and you sag onto the bed, the tension bleeding away.

You don’t realize that you had closed your eyes until you open them again, breathing hard and still shaking slightly. Your eyes focus and you see Chris. Your panties have fallen out of his lax hand, and the other is gripping the arm of his chair so tightly his knuckles are white. He’s breathing almost as hard as you are and his eyes are wide, locked on you.

You smile at him, all embarrassment having drained out of your body. You’ve never felt more desirable, or more desired. You feel powerful, which is why you say:

“Did that answer your questions?”

He chuckles, stands up, and moves towards the bed. Towards you. And says:

“I still have more for you.”

Taglist: @whiskeytangofoxtrot555

[atombonniebaby]

"Yeah… we should get the heck out of here. Now would be good."

[Want another? - Go Here! ]

Note - This one was a fun write...after Fallout, my 2nd favorite thing to ramble about is Edinburgh and its dark history...The Salem Museum of Witchcraft seemed like an ideal place to draw parallels! [Beth is Scottish fyi!] MacBeth One-Shot: Witchcraft, Deathclaws, and Dark Tales, oh my!

“That would be a Deathclaw, which means we should get the hell out of here!”

She must have heard him say ‘Molerat’ because Beth did not heed his warning, pressing forward without a care. That's it; she must still be suffering from the effects of that wild gas from HalluciGen! Who in their right mind wants to willingly explore the eerie, decrepit Museum of Witchcraft–and then decide to stay when it's clear a bloody Deathclaw is lurking about?---Apparently, his boss! MacCready's nerves were wearing thin–were the caps worth it!? 

The air was heavy with the weight of history, damp and musty, sending a shiver down his spine. The room's dark corners seemed to whisper with the echoes of long-forgotten voices, their secrets preserved by the dust of centuries gone. A strong stench of iron hung in the air, fresh kills by the smell of it; his stomach lurched nonetheless—

"You saw that, right?" MacCready gulped. 

"What, the half-chewed Gunner getting hauled up intae the ceiling? Nah, didny see a thing, Mac!" Beth threw him a wink as she waited patiently for him to reach her.

"We're not getting out of this unscathed... That thing is gonna tear us–"

He cut himself off as she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Relax, Sticks." Her voice was soft and gentle, almost motherly–definitely patronizing. "It'll be fine," she added before turning back toward the corridor, still in the direction where the Deathclaw had wandered off above them—why…why is he still humoring her bullshit? This is beyond stupid!

"We're not getting out of here alive!" he shouted at her retreating figure. "What do you think that thing is gonna do!? Invite us in for dinner, Boss!? It could rip us apart without even breaking a sweat!"

Those things are terrifying enough in the Wasteland... But here, in this rickety old building... In a confined space?... Yeah, they were doomed!

She turned around again, a wide grin spreading across her face as he reached her. "Well now, MacCready, ye've got yourself quite the imagination there, don't ya?" she reached up to pat his head, and he swiped her hand away! 

"I'm not imagining anything!” MacCready seethed. "You haven't faced a damn Deathclaw without a suit of power armor and a minigun…it was in pieces by the time you got a proper look at it! These things are smart…They're natural hunters” —MacCready stumbled, standing on his bootlace— "Boss, hold up, my lace is loose!" He would kill her if they made it out of this alive. This is ridiculous. She's ridiculous! She's–Walking away—  

"Hey! Wait a minute! Don't leave me alone in this place!" His shout echoed through the museum halls until it faded into nothingness. He stood rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak as she walked away, leaving only the sound of her fading footsteps... Dogmeat nudged the hand by his side, snapping MacCready out of his stupor! "Can't you talk to her?... She listens to you!" the dog gave a soft whine, tilting his head, "Yeah… You're right, buddy– I was exaggerating a bit... She doesn't listen to anybody!"

Dogmeat grumbled again as the pair followed after wild red locks that disappeared into the darkness "Wait up, damn it..." he began, trying to close the distance, but his words were cut short by the distinct grunt and sniffing of the Deathclaw above his head. MacCready Reached out to grab her arm. She stopped abruptly and spun around. His hand clamped against her mouth--a finger pressed to his lips. "You hear that?—"

Her eyes widened under the low grunts of the Deathclaw above, followed by the stomps of its feet. Dust danced from the floorboards above, "Boss, I really think we need to get out of here!...now would be good!" MacCready uttered in a pitch below a whisper. 

"Oh, come on, Mac! How bad can they be, eh? Ah told yeh how long ave wanted tae see this place...We can take in doon! Gee us some credit!!”

"They're monsters!... They eat people! We should run while we still have our dang legs!"

"Don't be so dramatic!" she huffed as the footsteps faded. Her eyes fixed on him; that sly grin pulling in her mouth told him all he needed to know. She wasn't backing down and was privy to the fact that he wouldn't let her go it alone. 

MacCready sighed frustratedly, rubbing at the growing ache in his temples. "Okay, fine! But you stay close to me, alright? Don't go wandering off... These things are no joke! I’ve seen bullets glance right of a Deathclaw's hide before. Better load up with the heavy stuff. Deathclaw scales are perfect armor… Its belly is its weak spot… Don't forget that!"

"Yeah-yeah whatever—quit stallin' will yah… Shift!"  she nudged against his shoulder with her head, unholstering her shotgun and reloading as she walked; her tongue peeked out as she passed him—his eyes rolled. 

Yep... She might end up being the death of him. 

---

The sounds grew louder and more frequent. The scratching was replaced by a frenzied growl, the stomping a deafening thud that shook the ground beneath them. A loud, guttural snarl filled the air, and finally came the roar. 

MacCready stood fixed, the boss squealed something behind him,  but his attention was far too preoccupied with the hulking monster that stepped into the space they now inhabited. He aimed, hands shaking under the weight of his rifle, eyes widening through his scope, breath held as he searched for that unprotected sweet spot, finger curling the trigger–

"Come at meh, ya big ugly lizard!" Beth lunged forward, dropping to her knee." Ave gote ah wee present fir yeh!" 

His eyes widened as they trailed over the rocket launcher in her grasp. "Where the hell—”

The hiss-clunk of the rocket launcher sounded as Beth fired a shot. The rocket made a b-line towards the Deathclaw's horns, sending its head lurching back, merely grazing as it exploded behind the extremely pissed-off mega-lizard. The Deathclaw roared, rising to full height and shaking the whole room. 

"Oh shit! Get back!" she screamed, diving to the side as the creature charged straight toward them.

Its claws tore through the wooden floorboards like a blade through Mirelurk slime, the impact making the entire structure quake. The beast swung wildly, slamming against the wall, and Beth scurried back as it set after her.

“Oh no, you don't!—Gonna rip those claws off you with my bare hands!” MacCready snarled, lobbing a brick against the back of the Deathclaw’s head, drawing its attention away from Beth. MacCready braced himself as it turned on him, charging and twisting its body. The thing's tail whipped, snapping the air—with a pained grunt, MacCready's body slammed against the wall. 

Dropping to his hands and knees, “Ears... ringing…” he wheezed, gasping for breath, and his vision blurring as he struggled to push himself up. The Deathclaw loomed over him, baring its teeth.. Dogmeat's bark lessened the tension in his jaw as the beast twisted its head and lunged for the dog. His small size compared to the Deathclaw gave the mutt an advantage, easily darting between its legs and pulling it deeper into the room before hurtling back to his favorite human. 

MacCready pushed himself back to sit against the wall just in time to watch in awe as Beth fired another blast from her rocket launcher directly into the creature's gut. It let out a high-pitched wail before falling backward. It landed in a heap, the wall behind it visible through the sizzling, charred hole in its stomach. She rushed to his aid, helping him up onto his feet again, "Are you okay?"

MacCready's eyes were blown wide, his hand wavering over her shoulder, "RELOAD! RELOAD! NOW!!!" he bellowed as a second Deathclaw peered around the destroyed wall ahead of them, "THERE'S ANOTHER ONE!!!" he stammered, spinning her around. It was bigger... Meaner than the first, its muscly scaled body glowing a sickly green as it sniffed the air. Seeming somewhat groggy as if they had awoken it from a nap or something. 

"Here!" Beth tossed him the rocket launcher and turned to face this new threat, "only fair you get to have some fun!" she smirked—"Don't miss!"

He repositioned the weapon, its weight surprising in his arms as he took on a familiar stance, slotting in the rocket, Beth handed him. Aiming at the new enemy as it charged in their direction. Eyes piercing the dark, teeth dripping with saliva, and claws ready to shred.

"I'm gonna send you to hell!!!" he yelled as the rocket launcher blew apart the creature's torso and the underside of its jaw, causing its limbs to go limp as it fell lifeless where it stood.

“Now that's what I call a confirmed kill.” 

"Holy shit!" Beth puffed, "We just took down two big ass dinosaurs! How badass are we, Mac?” she laughed, smacking him against the back before tugging the rocket launcher from his grip.

MacCready grinned, wiping blood from his brow, "That's what happens when you have a gun that goes boom!" He chuckled, slumping back down the wall to catch his breath. Damn, that was intense, but she's still unhinged—not just one—oh no, two! Two ruddy Deathclaws! Hancock is never going to believe this shit! 

---

"Well, that was a pure riot!" Beth broke their moment of tranquillity... "The look oan yer face, Mac… when the second beastie keeked aroond the corner!" There was something wild, downright feral in her eyes as she sat there cradling that massive rocket launcher in her lap, giggling away like a madwoman.

"Yeah, well, nothing turns your shorts brown faster than a Deathclaw charging at you—without being trapped in a confined space with them!" MacCready retorted, his heart still pounding in his chest.

"Good thing ah found this wee rocket launcher then, eh?" She patted the weapon affectionately, her grin widening.

"Boss, you're only going to slow us down if you bring that—"

"Mac, come on noo, gee me some credit, I kin barely lift the damn thing!" His eyes followed her as she pulled herself from the floor, dusting herself off. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, scanning the dimly lit room as she took in the surroundings. “So this is what is left of the Museum of Witchcraft eh? Shame.” Beth mulled as she extended an arm to pull him up. MacCready shuddered as a sudden chill gripped him. "Is it normal for the hairs on the back of my neck to be standing straight up like this?" Gooseflesh prickling along his arms. 

"Probably just the anticipation for what's tae come—You care for ghost stories, Mac?" She tugged his sleeve, pulling his gaze back to her, Beth's eyes fixed on the bare mannequins, one suspended from the ceiling from its neck. 

 "They're alright, I guess. Not really my thing, though." he shrugged. So, she likes spooky stuff, then? Great! Hopefully, she'll stay clear of those Children of Atom types!... He would never admit the last thing he wanted in this creepy place was to hear a ghost story... 

"What about witches? D'ye ken anythin' aboot the witch trials?" she asked.

His eyes darted around, taking in everything he could possibly see within the museum walls, "No, nothin'. Why?"

"Would yeh indulge me in a wee history lesson then, about the times when all folk were superstitious, and the devil walked amongst us, and we feared of our ain shadows?"

"As long as you keep it down… My nerves are still frayed!" MacCready glanced up at the mannequin, watching it sway slightly as if dancing. With a grin as wide as her face, she tugged him across the room to observe the display; it was in tatters. Those Deathclaws must have trampled over every inch of this place. 

"I'm gonna guess this used to be a depiction of a Witch hanging," she shrugged, nodding towards the mannequins, as she continued speaking in a low voice, "Around 200 men and women accused of being witches or sorcerers during the Salem Witch Trials. Nineteen met the fate of 'Hangeth from the neck until dead' fourteen women and five men." She mulled over her words, humming, "A question for yeh Mac, how many do you reckon met a similar fate in Scotland? Ye'd be surprised, there was a whole lot more than ye think..."

"Alright, well---you said 30 were exhausted in Salem, right?"

"Aye."

"Well, it has to be more, so about a hundred?"

"Hmm...an educated guess---try around 1500..." 

Beth patiently waited for his reaction, MacCready blinked under her gaze, "1500?" His brows furrowed, "damn."

"Yup, nearer 4000 for those accused...and the kicker, a huge portion of those numbers happened where I grew up. Edinburgh was renowned for its Witch trials! Although I have a theory that hangings weren't all that common in Scotland… us Scottish folks enjoyed a show, they were a sadistic bunch…found watchin' the sufferin' eh others as a way tae pass the time!" 

Beth's voice was filled with a passionate intensity...her accent deepening. That excitement only seemed to rile up Dogmeat, who had been sniffing around for hidden treasures. Now, the mutt was running circles around her, his tail wagging furiously. She batted him away, "Either you sit nice and listen or yeh go and find me some mare loot!" As if he understood exactly what she said, Dogmeat plopped down and leaned his head against MacCready's leg. He welcomed the comfort of a soft ear to stroke when Beth's gaze intensified. 

He hadn't realised it before, how her face could become so animated when she was excited about something she was talking about. Her grin was almost menacing, he gulped, paying attention— "My guess is they'd be deed before hanging would even be considered. The folks would have had enough hangings fae aww the other ruffians that met the gallows. So, why hang somebuddy who is meant to be literally in cahoots wi the divil 'imsel? So after the dookin–"

"Dookin?"

"Aye, like…eh…dunking…the idea was that when the suspected witch was thrown intae a body of water, if they sunk…then they'd be innocent, but if they floated— the devil is protecting the witch!" 

She thrust her fingers in his face, and he lurched back. "Frick!... Boss!" he panted as she laughed her butt off. Dogmeat's low grumble suggested he wasn't in the mood for her dramatics either. 

"Wait— Wouldn't they just drown if they sunk?"

"Exactly!—Quite the catch-22, if ye ask me. It was brutal,  they normally floated coz eh the air fillin' up in their claise…Especially the women, wi their layers eh skirts. The wans that were smart enough to know what was goan oan would often put rocks and stuff into their loved ones' pockets so they would droon…it was better for them… Dookin was probably the kindest way tae go if ye were accused eh bein a witch…it was better than the alternative—tooooortured & and then burned alive—you'd either die from yer festerin' wounds or you'd end up oan the pyre–"

"So the likelihood of surviving was–"

"Slim!" she nodded, "folks were superstitious back then, they revelled in thinking they were doing God's work by dealing wi the witches. You know, when I wiz wee, for Halloween we used to fill up a big buck wi watur and throw in a bunch eh apples" –she paused, a sigh falling from her mouth– "damn ah miss crunchin doon oan an apple–the closest thing for comparison is probably a mutfruit- Basically the game was inspired from the trials, 'Dookin fur Apples'. Ye'd put yer hands behind yer back and try tae get the apples wi yer teeth as they bobbed aboot… It was a laugh!...but a bit grim nonetheless–" 

"That sounds terrible-I mean there's not much I wouldn't do for a mutfruit… But I draw the line at getting wet!" 

"Christ you'd greet like a wee bairn if you ever made it tae Scotland Mac…if it wasny dreich it wasny Scotland!" Her hearty chuckle faded as quickly as it had arrived, and her eyes darkened again as they fixed on his. 

MacCready took a step back, swallowing back a gulp as a wicked grin played on her lips. "Ye ken Sticks… You like to talk tae yersel… And I have noticed how guid yeh are wi that braw gun eh yours… Almost too guid..like ye made a wee deal wi Lucifer himself—I think you might be a witch!" 

Beth sneered at him, he instinctively took another step back,"aye... I think you'd be a great candidate... Yer a lanky thing–Mmmm you'd make quite the entertaining victim for the crowds. Your limbs and–"

Beth lunged, grabbing MacCready's hand, her eyes gleaming mischievously, his body floundering with the unexpected touch, "oh aye these spindly digits would be a fitting match fir the thumb screws! Those torturous wee darlins were especially gnarly! Ugh...it wid be music tae ma ears. ..they'd snap like a twig!" She purred, pulling his hand towards her face, splaying his fingers before her eyes—sniffing them— 

His eyebrow crooked, snapping back his hand, "Now you're just being--weird..."

"Gimme!" she pouted, "I'm just playing my part… hadn't even talked about what would happen tae aww they fingers!” her hand held out for his, with a reluctant sigh his hand rested in hers. 

"So...all my fingers? … I thought they were thumb screws?"

"The name actually came fae the twisting motion—pay attention," she chided playfully. She straightened out his fingers, the cool air causing his knuckles to stiffen. “Your hands are freezing Mac! —” her voice had softened as she rubbed his hands between hers–

That moment of comfort gone in an instant, Beth peered up at him through her eyebrows."They'd slide these thin wee piggies intae these little clamps and start tightenin'—”

He watched, wide-eyed, as she demonstrated the twisting with one hand, "they'd tighten–and tighten–and tighten, until…" she just kept mimicking the motion, not breaking eye contact with him.

MacCready swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. "Well, that's enough history for one day, don't ye think? Let's…let's just focus on getting out of this place–"

"SNAP!!!" a snapping crunchy noise made with her mouth accompanied the twisting of her wrist and a squeeze of his hand. MacCready snapped his hand back as she chuckled.

"Cut it out! I won't be held responsible if I instinctively smack you!" he groaned.

"I've got to keep it entertaining Mac…Ye understand…The louder the crunchin' eh bone was–the bigger cheers they'd get from the crowd!... It was literally entertainment. If whoever was bein' tortured was a big deal, some folk would even rent out a space at their windaes so people could get a better look!"

"Sounds like a waste of caps to me," he smirked, rubbing his hands together, feeling the lingering pressure from her fingers.

"What, so there is no one ye'd pay tae get a front seat view tae see gettin' their arses kicked," her eyebrow slanted at him.

He shrugged, "Yeah, I'v got my fair share of axes to grind—you make a valid point,"  

Regardless, he couldn't help but revel in the idea of putting those dogs Winlock and Barnes down himself—why pay to watch someone else do it when you can take out the trash yourself, right?

"I mean it though, Mac, the people would have loved ye. It would be a sold out event!" she snickered, earning yet another sigh from him. 

In earnest, MacCready couldn't help but chuckle nervously, a slight shiver running' down his spine at the sentiment. "Thanks, I guess? I'll consider myself lucky that I wasn't around in those days."

Beth's expression turned somber. "Truth be told, I'd likely have been tried as a witch masel'. I'm a redhead, left-handed, and a bit bonkers. I talk to masel' and even used to have full-blown arguments with ma cat…ma neighbors would be more than happy tae see me endure it back then...these folks would watch a hangin' in the afternoon and quite happily go hame fur their dinner—gees me the heebies!" Her words said she was disturbed by the events of the past–the grin growing on her face–

MacCready wasn't sure if he wanted to know what was happening in her mind. He was both fascinated and repulsed by her vivid descriptions. "So you're a history buff, then? I had noticed how quickly you caught on about Hancock," he smirked.

"I've always been drawn tae the darker side eh history. There's somethin' about uncoverin' the secrets and stories hidden in the shadows that gets me all excited, ye ken? I used tae love tellin' scary stories aroond a campfire; ma sister was a shyter…loved scarin' her senseless every chance I got!" A sad look crossed her face, and then it was gone—She has a sister? Did she leave her family behind?

MacCready nodded, understanding the thrill of discovering something new or forbidden. "I can see the appeal. Do you still see your sister, or did she stay in Scotland?"

Beth's eyes flicked away, and her smile faltered. "I dinnae want tae talk about it, if that's awright with ye," she replied, her voice quieter than before.

MacCready nodded, understanding that everyone had their own demons, and it wasn't his place to pry. "Of course, Boss. We all have our secrets."

"Thanks for understanding Mac," she smiled, heading for the exit. 

---

"Oh jeez... Guess this is where the rest eh they Gunners ended up... Ugh." Beth winced, a gulp forming in her throat as she observed the mangled bodies that had seen the toothy end of the Deathclaws lay strewn around the room. He followed her through the carnage, trying not to overthink what had happened in this place. Beth winced as he approached.

"Damn, the cleaning robots would have had a fit if they saw this-hey that one has a holo-tape" he nodded at the orange and white cartridge in the dead Gunners's hand. 

The boss snapped it into her Pip-Pad and then listened to the Gunner, how the metal case they had been tasked with delivering was full of Deathclaw eggs, and the mother Deathclaw had hunted them down for her kids. 

"It's kinda sad," he grumbled, eyes finding the remaining intact egg. 

"Yeah... We should take it back to her..." 

"What!? Oh come on boss... This is a joke right? You can't be serious?"

"Oh, ah'm deadly serious... Like as deadly as a Deathclaw serious!" he would have maintained that she was having him on if she didn't gently bundle the egg into her pack. 

"Great... So i still might die today... Wonderful... Can we get out of here now? Please?" he pleaded, starting towards the door.

Beth nodded, "You know what? You're absolutely right! Let's go!" She grabbed his arm in passing and dragged him outside.

As they left the museum, the heavy air seemed to lift, leaving behind the whispers of the past. The sun was setting, casting a warm golden glow over the landscape.

"Hey, Mac, let's get a photo of us in front of the museum!" She grinned, her eyes shining with excitement.

MacCready smirked. "You got it, Boss. Just tell me where to stand."

"Let's get a photo of us in front of the museum, aye? Dugmeat, come here, boy!" she called, as set up her camera on a nearby rock, adjusting the angle to capture the museum's entrance behind them. 

MacCready chuckled as Dogmeat bounded over, wagging his tail. "You sure you want a photo with this place as a backdrop?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Aye, it's no everyday ye get tae visit a museum like this ane!" Beth replied, grinning. "Now, let's make it a spooky photo. Mac, why don't ye stand like a zombie or something?... Right, get ready… We've only got one shot at this, so make it count!" She fiddled with the timer, then hurried over to MacCready and Dogmeat, who was already wagging his tail in anticipation.

He rolled his eyes, but couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips. Following her lead, MacCready arched his back, his arms flailing and tilted his head to the side, doing his best impression of a shambling ghoul.

As the camera's timer counted down, the trio stood poised, a motley crew with a haunted museum as their backdrop. The flash went off, capturing the moment and sealing it in time.

MacCready's eyes rolled at the absurdity of the situation – mere hours ago, they'd been fighting for their lives against terrifying creatures, and now they were posing for a photo like a group of tourists.

Beth rushed over to check the photo, her laughter filling the air. "Oh, this is bangin!" she exclaimed, showing MacCready the image, Beth grinning ear to ear, her red hair glowing in the sunlight she'd struck a fierce pose, her dual pistols drawn and aimed in opposite directions. Dogmeat, sensing the excitement, stood at attention, his ears perked and his tongue hanging out. The Museum of Witchcraft, with its dark history and lingering ghosts, served as the backdrop to their triumph.

A warmth spread through him, seeing their ridiculous poses immortalized in the photograph, a chuckle emerged. "I've got to admit, Boss, it's definitely a unique souvenir."

"A perfect momento! This one's goin' in the scrapbook for sure. Thanks for humouring me Mac even though wi nearly became Deathclaw dung... I had a lot of fun with you today!" 

Beth threw her arm around MacCready's shoulders, pulling him in close. He shook his head, still amused. "You're one of a kind, Boss, what can I say... I'm fueled by the need to know what you're going to do next–"  

His face flushed when she planted a playful kiss against his cheek before skipping off with Dogmeat. His fingers grazed over their lingering presence.

He was a fool if he thought he could ever predict her next move, and MacCready couldn't decide if that excited or terrified him more.

[swaps55]

Angry yelling about an 8 year old game.

I had to go take a walk before rebooting the game, and my neighbor now thinks I’m insane because she was three feet behind us when I was yelling things like “HOW THE FUCK DID ANDERSON EVEN GET UP THERE,” while holding my Real Life Romance Option’s hand for our Saturday afternoon constitutional complete with Nerd Dog 3000 who kept dive bombing into the grass and rolling over with his paws straight in the air because he thinks walking is a lot dumber than being sprayed in the face with the hose and just decided to quit. 

So, just a few things to get off my chest, for the 69878654 time: 

WHY THE FUCK WOULD ANYONE BUILD A MACGUFFIN DEVICE THAT IS DEPENDENT ON A PIECE OF EQUIPMENT THAT WAS NOT AVAILABLE IN ANY PREVIOUS CYCLE? WE WERE THE FIRST CYCLE TO HOLD THE CITADEL.

On that note, WHY DIDN’T THE REAPERS JUST TAKE THE DAMN CITADEL AS SOON AS THEY ENTERED THE GALAXY? I mean, what were we going to do, STOP THEM? 

How the fuck does TIM CALL THE FUCKING REAPERS TO SPILL THE BEANS? DOES HE HAVE A FUCKING REAPER BATPHONE? 

WHY. THE. FUCK. IS THE CITADEL ON EARTH.

What is the goddamned beam. WHAT EVEN IS IT? WE HAD A PERFECTLY FUNCTIONING CONDUIT ON ILOS. WHY DIDN’T WE JUST GO THERE AND USE THAT INSTEAD OF COMPLETELY UNEXPLAINED TRANSPORTER MAGIC? WTF.

WHY DIDN’T THE REAPERS SHUT DOWN THE RELAYS AS SOON AS THEY GOT THE CITADEL? THAT’S THEIR FIRST MOVE IN EVERY OTHER CYCLE. The fleets never should have been able to get there in the first place.

WHAT HAPPENED TO ISSAC NEWTON IS THE DEADLIEST SON OF A BITCH IN SPACE? YOU SOLD T-SHIRTS, BIOWARE. 

If the reapers saw us heading for the beam, WHY NOT JUST TURN IT OFF? 

WHY THE FUCK DOES HARBINGER JUST SIT ON HIS ASS WHILE THE NORMANDY FWOOPS IN TO EVAC YOUR LI? I mean, it’s because in the original cut there is NO EXPLANATION AT ALL for their survival, and in order to get stranded on random ass jungle planet you need to be ON THE SHIP FIRST, but REALLY? 

Where the fuck was Anderson?

HOW DID HE GET TO THE BEAM. 

Marauder Shields, I still remember how many tries it took me to cap your ass on my insanity run and I know you have my best interests at heart but I HOLD A GRUDGE, SIR.

WHY DO SHEPARD AND ANDERSON SHOW UP IN DIFFERENT PLACES? And saying “huh I don’t think we’re in the same place, weird,” IS NOT A SATISFACTORY ANSWER. 

“This looks like your description of the collector ship?” What? Why the fuck would that be how you describe your surroundings, Anderson? WHY DOES THIS NOT MAKE SENSE.

Corridors move! Walls rearrange! Fuck Mass Effect, the Citadel is now fucking HOGWARTS, because REASONS, I GUESS. Guess what Bioware, I didn’t like Harry Fucking Potter EITHER. 

HOW DO WE NOT SEE ANDERSON ENTER THE RANDOM NEVER BEFORE SEEN BUT SUDDENLY VERY IMPORTANT ROOM WHEN THERE IS ONLY ONE ENTRANCE.

OH RIGHT, THIS IS HOGWARTS.

What even is the Illusive Man. What is happening here. HOW DID HE GET HERE. Why is this happening. FUCK YOU, THAT’S WHY. Fucking reaper phone, seriously, fuck you. YOU DIDN’T KNOW WHAT MARTIN SHEEN’S LINES WERE GOING TO BE IN NOVEMBER WHEN THE GAME SHIPPED IN MARCH. 

Hackett: “It’s not working! It must be on your end!” REALLY? REALLY? YOU STARTED BUILDING AN ALIEN MACGUFFIN DEVICE LAST TUESDAY IT IS NOW THURSDAY, YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS, WHAT IT DOES, HOW IT WORKS, AND YOU THINK THE PROBLEM IS ON MY END?????? HAVE YOU TRIED TURNING IT OFF AND TURNING IT BACK ON AGAIN? 

Ok. I’m going to go boot the game back up and get my motherfucking happy ending. Unless the save file is FUBAR. 

Which brings me to one last thing: 

WHY THE FUCK CAN’T YOU SAVE BEFORE YOU SAY GOODBYE TO EVERYONE?  

[orderforbrian]

silly one-off spiderman au me and leo talked about after watching all the sam raimi movies. entirely hilarious for jon to hate spiders while a web slinging superhero is cruising around London - honestly did it just to draw the spiderman kiss LMAO can you blame me

more details under the cut after the ID

[Start ID: Two images and two comics of a Spiderman Martin AU for the Magnus Archives. Martin is a mixed Polish/Korean man with short, wavy hair, wears glasses, and has a beauty mark under his lip. Jon is a Persian man with short, curly hair, wears glasses, and wears a business suit unless specified.

First image: A series of three drawings. The first drawing is of Spiderman Martin, he is posing with one arm above his head, presumably holding a web, and the other stretched out next to him, both his feet are crossed over each other. He is wearing a superhero suit that hides his identity, and none of his actual body is visible. The suit is has a web pattern except for where he has black elbow length gloves and calf length boots. His fingers are marked by sharp claws. There is a solid pattern around both sides of his waist that somewhat resembles a black widow hourglass. There is a simplified angular spider symbol stamped on his chest. His mask has large eyes with sharp edges as well as a set of eyes where his eyebrows would be, and two sets of eyes underneath his center ones. There are four black spider legs coming off of his back. In the top right corner, Martin is wearing a teddy lined jacket with a dress shirt underneath. He is holding a camera with the lanyard around his neck and has a beard. He appears flustered and is blushing. A simplified version of Jon that is just glasses with pupils says, "You look different...". Martin says, "I - I do?". Jon squints and asks, "Did you grow a beard overnight?". In the bottom right corner, Spiderman Martin has Jon cradled in one arm and is using his other arm to presumably swing a web. Jon is kicking his legs wildly and clutching onto Martin's head for dear life, his suit jacket and tie flying back from the movement. He is screaming and a couple tears are coming off his screwed shut eyes. He yells, "Oh good lord, put me down!!" in all caps. Martin says, "Hey, you're pulling my hair!" with the suit's eyes expressing a grimace.

Second image: A five panel comic. In the first panel, Spiderman Martin is dropping off Jon onto the top of a building, saying "Careful!". Jon takes a couple steps to balance himself. The next panel is a close up of Jon's face and he yells, "Wait!" In the next panel, Spiderman Martin looks back with a question mark next to his head. In between both panels is a web being shot out with the words "fwip" next to it. In the next panel, Jon's hand grabs at Martin's mask and Martin appears shocked and uncomfortable. In the final panel, Martin yells, "Woah! Hey!" and grabs Jon's hand. He uses one of the spider legs to fix his mask back onto his face and says, "Buy a guy dinner before trying to unmask him!" Jon looks up at him with wide eyes.

Third image: A five panel comic. In the first panel, Jon has slicked back hair and is looking angrily at a camera, saying, "You're trying to make it seem like I'm in love with Spiderman!". In the next panel, he is angrily pointing at the camera, a bit closer, and shouting, "Don't you dare put that in!!" with a flustered expression. In the next panel, Helen Richardson is reporting on the story at a news desk. She has shoulder length coiled hair in a side part and is wearing a newscaster suit with lipstick on and squiggle earrings. She says, "Jonathan Sims of the Magnus Tribune had only this to say-". In the next panel, Jon is in the same position he was in the first panel except he only says, "I'm in love with Spiderman!". In the final panel, Jon and Tim are watching a television in the corner of the panel. Tim is taller than Jon and has short hair locks, wears glasses and is wearing a sweater with a dress shirt underneath. Jon has his glasses tucked into his shirt collar and is dragging both hands down his eyelids, looking at the tv with a harrowed expression saying, "Tim, kill me...". Tim is looking at the tv with a grimace, responding with, "Yeesh, boss." In the left corner, a simplified drawing of Martin peeks over at them with a shock line, words next to him stating "Spidey sense tingling."

Fourth image: Spiderman Martin is upside down with half of his mask pulled up to just above his nose. Parts of his hair are sticking out by his neck. Jon has longer hair to his shoulders that appears to be wet. He is standing up and meeting his face to Martin's. He has both his eyes closed and is kissing Martin who is kissing him back. Both of Jon's hands are cradling the sides of Martin's head. The image is cast in a purple monochrome color.

End ID.]

the idea is that jon is a (nosy) investigative reporter for the Magnus Tribune who gets himself into way more trouble than he should because he's dedicated to the #truth. martin works as a photographer for the newspaper, sometimes collaborating with jon to nab evidence for a new article or scoop. at one such investigation, jon interviews a biotech company and martin ends up getting bitten by a mysterious spider - then boom, wakes up the next day and he doesn't need his glasses to see, he can climb walls, shoot webbing from his wrists, increased strength, reflexes, flexibility, the whole works. it's like he got five shots of testosterone right into the bloodstream. he starts solving small crimes as friendly neighborhood spiderman while keeping his secret identity, which props to him because he's the 'office clutz'. anyway shit starts going down with the biotech company (and possible connections to his boss Elias?? who wants to be immortal??), jon gets himself involved, and soon the guy who hates spiders is teaming up with spiderman to solve the mystery, all while harboring a crush on the cute photographer at work.

also just superhero martin is hot :)

[sugarglider-s]

i heard this audio again and just. went into hyperfixation overdrive

[VD: A Ninjago animatic set to a Tiktok audio. Cheerful music plays in the background behind the dialogue. Nya, frowning, says, “You ever been in a car with multiple girls?” Lloyd, slumped and sweating, says, “It’s the most reckless thing ever.“ Nya throws her hands in the air and says, “I don’t know how they think.”

A cut to a car radio with the screen just saying in caps lock “Holy shit it’s loud.” “We got the music on 98-” A shot of Cole, Kai, and Jay all arguing as Nya and Lloyd look shocked and upset. “- Everyone’s screaming-” Jay beaming and doing two peace signs. “- She’s FaceTiming someone-” Cole and Kai talking with smiles before looking annoyed when Jay interjects. “- They’re having a conversation, she’s just butting in, they’re making plans-” Kai snacking while driving. “- She’s eating cashews (laughter) and driving-”

A shot of the car zooming up a hill. Nya and Lloyd still look horrified in the backseat, and someone is screaming loudly. “All the fucking windows down so hair flying fu- (beep)  everywhere-” Nya clutches her head. “Going 90 miles an hour, I can’t fucking think.” Lloyd tiredly smiles and gestures to a Jonas Brothers poster. He says, “I feel like I’m at a Jonas Brothers concert right now.”

Both Nya and Lloyd look very confused as Nya says, “We’re missing turns but somehow get there earlier?” A shot of something knocking from under something. “And then I hear (knocking noise).” Nya and Lloyd both look horrified, with a shared interrobang in a speech bubble, and Nya shouts, “What in the fu- (beep)-?” Kai gestures with a grin at the trunk, where a smiling Zane pops out. “And they’re like, ‘Oh, Becky’s in the trunk.” End VD]

[lavenprinz]

tenderness in the rain (the common trope of romance)

word count of 1.3k angst under the cut written as a response to the ask - "Childe's childhood sweetheart getting insecure with how much time childe is spending time with lumine." art creds

You admit that Liyue is not your familiar Morespok as the clouds heave with gentle droplets and not crystalline hail of your hometown. Would Childe too become accustomed to the landscape of Morax’s creation and no longer yearn for the icy winds of Snezhaya? Perhaps, that’s why he feels distant and more acquainted with Lumine, the saviour of Liyue. Who wouldn’t be drawn to the eye of the storm that surrounds the mystery of the traveller, hailing from the stars that alight the night sky? If the citizens were glowing lanterns, Childe was the waning moon and Lumine the brilliant diamonds accompanying him. Such negative thoughts in the evening made you sigh into your cooling tea, feeling no appetite for the seafood feast of Yue cooking as it only reminded you of the man of your affections, who no doubt at this moment would be pestering the illustrious adventurer for a spar.

At times like these, you miss the chilled bottles of alcohol that you could indulge in the taverns of Morespok. The burn of beverage could no doubt wash away the intoxicating insecurity that had you craving for Childe, desires engraved in your every waking moment. You mused that it was merely wishful thinking, for he had pervaded his way into even the escape of liquor, memories of late nights flooding your mind, reminding you of your youth with Childe. You had spent your rebellious phase with him, taking stinging shots of vodka together as teenagers, yielding to the charm of underage drinking. The subsequent headaches and scolding were shared together, hunting for foxes as repentance though the trudging trips into the snow only etched his captivating form against the pale mountain caps into your mind. You smiled to yourself, longing to be soothed by the visage of his comforting back or be swathed in his warmth, imagining him offering you his coat in the midst of shivering. If only these were drunken daydreams and not your sober self so you could have an excuse for the emotional thunderstorm in your heart.

Having been done with your meal a considerable time ago, you placed Mora on the table to leave for your temporary quarters only to be met with the bursting of the clouds above you. The light rainfall felt like a reflection on your weeping heart as you strolled onwards, how could the rain dampen your already crushed mood? When you rounded the corner past Wangsheng Parlour however, you found that, yes, the rain could cause you to fall even further apart, thunder rumbling through the city as your gaze met Lumine’s.

She had an umbrella held above her head by none other than Childe, sheltering her from the water with a fond expression, locked towards Lumine’s face. She must have noticed the wounded look on your downcast face as you turned around, heart dropping to your stomach hearing her shout of your name. You were grateful for the rain, hoping it could conceal the rivers of tears that fell from your eyes. You had never wanted to admit it, but the scene confirmed to you that your childhood sweetheart has grown up, without you and to other lovers. She’s so perfect for him, I should be happy, not hurt.

Absorbed in the dejected emotions consuming your heavy heart and miserable mind, you didn’t pay attention to your surroundings nor the obvious lack of rain soaking your form as you walked in silence. You flinched when a gloved hand brushed a tear from your cheek, eyes flicking up to see Childe, the stormy expression on his features making your heart sink even further. Ah, I must’ve interrupted their date. You tried to find the words to apologise, only managing out a soft spoken “I’m sorry-”

“For what? Who made you cry?” Huh? Who made me cry? You let out an incredulous scoff to yourself, finding humor in the situation and mumbling a half-hearted excuse, “Nobody, it’s not like it matters. I must’ve bothered you and Lumine, that’s why I said sorry.”

“Of course it matters to me y/n, who would dare to make my beloved upset? You could never bother me, don’t apologise for no reason.” You choked at the sudden mention of “beloved”, taken aback by the conflicting statements of Childe to your heart’s dejected state. Stunned speechless, you could despondently cry as his arms made his way around you, eyes closing shut in a desperate prayer that this wasn’t a delusion. Childe’s heartbeat against yours felt real. It was racing, just like your thoughts and his low murmurs of ‘there, there’ accompanied with his hands running through your hair had you defeated in his embrace. I’m so in love with him. I can’t help feeling sad and happy at the same time, how strange. You could feel yourself calming to the sound of his reassuring tone, heart returning to ease. How a simple motion of being held tightly by Childe could make your world’s axis realign and find the courage to ask, “Who's your beloved?”

“It’s you, of course it’s you. It’s always been you, ever since we were foolish kids and even now as we stand in the rain. You made me happiest when I saw you again in front of me in Liyue, where I was far from home and you. You make me happy now, in my hold and I promise you, I will get revenge on whoever made you cry.”

His comfortingly familiar voice in your ear made you bury your blushing face into his collarbone, too tickled pink to tell him the now embarrassing truth and misunderstandings in your doubtful mind. “If you can’t tell me immediately, that’s fine. Though, sweetheart never turn away from me alright? Tsarita’s mission has been difficult and you have been my light in this harrowing tunnel of change. Soon enough, we will return after this mission is complete and I will have you in Snezhaya, where we belong.”

You felt a smile curve your lips upwards, feeling at peace at last in this turbulent storm of a night. In the distant earshot, you could hear Paimon exclaim to Lumine, “Finally he’s made up with y/n! He’s been so pent up recently, always wanting a fight because he doesn’t want to bother y/n who seemed distant.” Lumine hushed Paimon, “Shhh… I don’t think we’re meant to be here. Let’s not bother the lovebirds, I bet he hasn’t even confessed his feelings for her yet!” Paimon’s cordial exclamation of “What a bad boyfriend!” made you giggle to yourself which made Childe part from you, a worried expression on his handsome face examining yours for any change. Feeling courageous with the turn of events, you leaned forward, placing a fleeting kiss on his lips before pulling away. “I like you, Childe. I always have since our childhood and I felt insecure that you were spending so much time with Lumine. You made me cry but it’s all okay now, just as long as you become my boyfriend!”

Out of breath from the hurried jumble recounting your feelings and thoughts and abrupt proposal of formal relationship after the nervous kiss, you prepared yourself for rejection by closing your eyelids, only for them to open wide at the feeling of Childe’s lips pressed passionately against yours. He seems to steal your breath from your empty lungs even more, leaving you breathless as he pulls away with a beaming smile on his face. “I’m so glad that you like me too. I will never let you cry again because of a reason that is my fault and easily fixed. I’ll be your boyfriend y/n, your husband if you would let me too. I love you.”

© all the original writing belongs to lavenprinz, 2021

A/N: and that’s a wrap <3 i have listened to too many sad songs trying to get in an angsty comfort mood but i’m over it and i hope this is a comforting/ pleasing ending for you all !!! i totally live for the miscommunication idea and that no, childe was not purposely ignoring you, he just felt that you were feeling off and was waiting for you to come to him and tell him! he cares about your feelings very much but respects you ehe (that’s why he waited for you to tell him abt it!!! but u crying made him go :OOOO) . lumine def supports you <333 you just mistook his friendly gaze as ‘tender’ towards her hehe. plz have a good day after reading this and know that you r very important n loved esp by me !!!

note: my blog contains adult/dark content. please do not interact if you are a minor.