#this fic is kind of chaos and kind of sweet and kind of sharp and idk i really love it

[mortallydeepestobservation]

Glitter, glue, I love you

Summary: You and Namjoon have been married for quite some time, your relationship having only grown since you first met as bright-eyed students back in the day. Now, you're a passionate primary school teacher, and Namjoon is an inspiring college professor, both deeply invested in shaping young minds. This holiday season, after a long day at work, you find yourselves staying late to decorate your classroom. Namjoon, ever the considerate soul, swings by to pick you up, but of course, you take advantage of the opportunity and put him to work. As you hang twinkling lights and arrange paper snowflakes, the conversation takes a meaningful turn. In the midst of the holiday madness, you talk about your future, and the idea of starting a family emerges… Best Christmas gift ever. Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: Fluff and smut. Married couple Au. Rating: explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings: this is honestly just a fluffy slice of life drabble. Namjoon is clumsy, and whipped. Spandex? drinking. Smut warnings: soft dom Namjoon, big cock Namjoon, oral (m and f receiving) praise, multiple positions, a little overstimulation, just a smidge of breeding kink. Word count: 14k Author’s note: Okay. I know I have an ongoing story, but I do this thing, where I get overwhelmed with life and just blurt out a whole drabble. Usually in those moments the story I’m already working on drives me insane, so I… do this. sorry?😊 thank you sweet sweet @callmenoona25 for accepting my... quirk when i just drop a whole new fic on your lap out of nowhere lol. Thank you @rpwprpwprpwprw For the perfectly aesthetic joonie photos!

(fun fact, i used to know a baby chicken little. He'd always break his glasses down the middle) Merry Christmas everyone!❄️🎄

Your new crafting scissors glided against the construction paper with ease. A flurry of cut-off bits, small pieces of colourful paper, glitter, pompoms, and anything else that merely resembled a Christmas theme littered your classroom floor.

A delightful chaos surrounded you—scraps of red, green, and gold paper mingled with stray stickers, twisted up pipe cleaners, and the occasional orphaned googly eye. It was a mess, the kind only a classroom holiday crafting session could conjure, and yet here you were, adding more to it.

The new scissors, sharp and precise, were a joy to wield, effortlessly turning construction paper into stars, trees, and snowflakes. You got so absorbed in your work that the mountain of scrap paper piling up next to your desk barely registered anymore.

The room was silent now. The kiddos had left hours ago, followed by a parent-teacher conference and a staff meeting to finalize plans for the upcoming Christmas holiday party. By the time you returned to your classroom, the exhaustion was bone-deep, and the sight of the disaster awaiting you made you groan.

But as you approached your desk and spotted a few abandoned crafts—a lopsided tree, a glue-smeared snowman—a spark of creativity flickered to life. The supplies were already out, and with autumn decorations still clinging to the walls, you figured you might as well get a head start on transforming the room into a winter wonderland before the weekend.

You lost yourself in the rhythm of cutting and crafting, glueing and arranging, the silence of the empty classroom wrapping around you like a warm blanket. It was practically the only moment during the long, exhausting day when you could to sit down and just let your thoughts wonder.

You were so focused that you didn’t notice the sun setting—or the faint creak of your classroom door opening.

“Mrs. Kim, it seems my wife forgot to come home today after class.”

You froze mid-snip, the scissors poised in your hand, a half-finished snowflake dangling from your grip. The familiar voice carried a teasing warmth that made your cheeks flush before you spun around in your chair, to catch a glimpse.

Standing in the doorway was you husband, Namjoon, leaning casually against the doorframe with that playful grin you loved (or occasionally cursed for how easily it could fluster you).

His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up, and his coat draped over one arm, a telltale sign that he’d come straight from his own long day at work. Yet his smile was bright, his tired eyes twinkling with delight upon seeing you, like he was about to tell you the best pun he ever heard.

“You know, most people would’ve taken that parent-teacher meeting as their cue to call it a day,” he teased, crossing his arms. His gaze swept over the room, taking in the colourful chaos, before settling on you.

“Well,” you started, trying to sound casual as you placed your scissors on the desk and brushed the glitter from your hands, leaning back against the chair. “After that I also had a staff meeting.”

His grin widened. “Did you cut out the staff out of paper?”

You huffed at his playful remark, picking up a pompom from the desk and tossing it in his direction. The fluffy projectile sailed weakly through the air before plopping to the floor with an overly dramatic bounce, getting lost in the multicoloured mess on the ground. “Very funny, Mr. Kim,” you said, shaking your head as you reached for your scissors to finish the snowflake.

Namjoon laughed, stepping into the room, his footsteps soft against the glitter-dusted floor. “I prefer clever over funny.”

You mused, pretending to consider his suggestion. “I’ll agree when you grab some paper and make something clever yourself.”

Namjoon chuckled, shaking his head. “No way. I’m just here to admire the handiwork—And maybe rescue my wife before she buries herself in glitter.”

“Too late for that.” You laughed, showing him the underside of your hands, covered in an array of colourful plastic bits and flecks of glitter.

He laughed too, his warmth filling the classroom as he settled into a nearby chair. He watched you with quiet amusement as you snipped away the final pieces of the snowflake.

Once done, you brushed the remains off the desk with a casual sweep of your hand, letting the scraps fall to the already messy floor. Reaching for a spool of string, you began tying a loop to hang the snowflakes.

“You know,” you said, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, “I was just thinking I could use a tall, handsome man to help me hang these from the ceiling.”

His dimples deepened slightly as his lips curled into a smirk. “Should I fetch the principal for you?”

“God, no!” you exclaimed, shooting him a mock-horrified look.

Namjoon’s laughter echoed again, and he stood, taking off his coat and draping it over the back of your chair. “Fine. Lucky for you, I happen to know a tall, handsome man who’s free to lend a hand. On one condition.”

“And that is?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you handed him the snowflake.

“I get to take you out for dinner afterwards.”

“You hang up my décor and I don’t have to cook dinner?” you said with a grin, watching as he reached up to hang the snowflake with ease. “You’ve got yourself a deal, my love.”

Namjoon smirked as he hooked the snowflake onto the ceiling, his long fingers adjusting it so it hung perfectly. “Don’t get too excited. You’re paying, and I’m starving,” he added with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you handed him another snowflake. “Starving? You make it sound like you haven’t eaten all day.”

“I haven’t eaten enough,” he corrected, taking the snowflake and hanging it with the same care as the first. “Besides, all this helping is hard work. I’m burning calories just by existing in this glitter cloud.”

“Poor baby,” you teased, before standing up and stretching as much as possible, waiting for that satisfying pop that made your back come to life after sitting at your desk for hours.

While Namjoon made remarkable progress on the snowflakes, you retrieved your broom and vacuum cleaner, trying to salvage the floor and not declare war with the cleaning staff in the process.

Once it finally started looking like a classroom again—crayons arranged, glue sticks all capped and drawings proudly hung up on the walls —you fetched your seasonal décor box from the supply closet, gathering the autumn leaves and acorns as you went.

The sound of Namjoon’s soft humming filled the room as he continued to hang the rest of the snowflakes. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him, so effortlessly blending into your little world. His tall frame moving with ease as he reached up to secure another delicate snowflake.

“You’re really getting into this, aren’t you?” you teased, carefully arranging the autumn décor for storage.

“Just trying to make your life easier,” Namjoon replied, his voice warm. He stepped back to admire his work, hands on his hips like he’d just solved a complex philosophy problem.

You smiled, unrolling the fairy lights on your desk, silently thanking your teacher assistant for her knack for packing them neatly and knot-free.

“Think you can help me with this too?”

When you looked up, you noticed Namjoon standing next to the wall where your classroom photo was hung up. It was a large picture of you surrounded by your students, all laughing and holding colourful balloons.

The parents had given it to you as a gift on the first day of this school year, though it had been taken during the end-of-year celebration when your little first graders graduated.

Around the group photo, you’d carefully arranged individual pictures of each child, their names neatly written underneath and decorated with felt stickers.

Namjoon stood quietly, his eyes scanning the display with a soft smile tugging at his lips. His expression was a mix of pride and warmth, the kind that never failed to make your heart flutter.

“What’s baby Chicken Little up to?” he asked, glancing over at you, the playful nickname making you giggle.

Last year your heart had been stolen by a little boy named Minjun, who made it his yearlong mission to bring you a leaf or a flower every single day of school. His little backpack was almost as big as he was, and he’d always greet you with the brightest, most infectious smile when he walked through the door, before dropping the little plant on your desk and giving you an adorable bow.

You’d told Namjoon all about him at the end of each day, and when you proudly showed him the photo you’d snapped of Minjun on your phone, Namjoon cooed and playfully nicknamed him baby Chicken Little. All because of his “iconic green glasses,” which happened to bear an uncanny resemblance to the ones the animated character wore.

“He’s doing really well. A little genius when it comes to multiplications, although his calligraphy could use some work.”

Namjoon chuckled, his dimples making an appearance as he glanced back at Minjun’s photo. “Multiplications, huh? Guess he’s already ahead of the curve.”

You smiled fondly, scavenging through your storage boxes for the chalk markers. “He’s a sharp one. Always so curious. His mom says he’s been teaching his little sister how to count using her barbie dolls.

Namjoon’s expression softened further. “Sounds like a future teacher in the making.”

You giggle, “Only if he can pass your philosophy 101 class in college.”

“Oh, come on! You know I’m not as mean as you make me out to be.”

You raised an eyebrow, pausing your search for the chalk markers to give him a teasing look. “Not as mean? Should I remind you about that one student—what was his name? Jungkook? —who said your essay prompts were harder than his organic chemistry final?”

Namjoon groaned dramatically, running a hand through his hair. “That was one time! And he clearly didn’t read the syllabus.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, stifling a laugh as you finally found the markers, holding them up triumphantly. “I’m just saying, if Minjun wants to pass your class, he better start practicing his critical thinking skills now.”

Namjoon crossed his arms, feigning offense. “For the record, my students love me. I’m approachable, insightful, and, dare I say... inspiring.”

You watched as Namjoon gave you that challenging look, daring you to tease him further. But deep down, you knew 100% that he was right.

After all, he’d proudly told you about Jungkook— the ‘Muscle Bunny’—who, by the end of the year, would refuse to leave the classroom after lessons, just for a chance to talk with Namjoon about everything from philosophy to general life issues. (And on more than one occasion, you had to swing by the college to collect your husband, because they were both so emersed in the conversation.)

Sure, Jungkook may have started out as a bit of a tough nut, but by the end of the semester, he was one of Namjoon’s biggest fans.

You chuckled softly at the thought. Namjoon had a way of drawing people in, even the most unlikely candidates. It’s what made him such an outstanding teacher. And you couldn’t be happier that you managed to snatch him up before he even graduated with his teacher’s degree.

“I know you are.” You said honestly, watching his posture soften, his eyes almost twinkling with delight at the compliment.

Namjoon’s dimples deepened, and he turned back to look at the photos on the wall. A comforting silence falling over the classroom again as you started drawing with the chalk markers on the windows.

It was just as you were finishing the last details of the snowman that Namjoon spoke again, his voice steady but carrying a weight that immediately caught your attention.

“Do you think we’d make good parents?”

The question hung in the air, quiet and unexpected, causing you to freeze mid-stroke. Your hand suspended, the tip of the marker just inches away from the snowman’s little top hat. You hadn’t expected that. Namjoon had always been thoughtful, but this… this was something entirely different.

You turned slowly, finding him looking at you, his expression unreadable but soft. There was a quiet intensity in his eyes, as if he wasn’t sure why he asked the question, but was waiting for your answer nonetheless.

“Good parents?” you repeated, your voice quieter than usual, the weight of the question settling into your chest. It wasn’t just a casual inquiry—it felt loaded and significant. It felt like he was asking something deeper, something that might change your life in the very near future.

Namjoon seemed to notice the shift in the atmosphere, his gaze flickering to the floor for a moment before meeting your eyes again. His lips parted slightly, as if trying to find the right words, but instead, he stayed silent, letting the question linger.

You cleared your throat, your thoughts racing. Was he asking about parenting techniques? Was this a hypothetical question, or was there something more to it? You couldn’t quite tell. But the thought of it—of you and Namjoon as parents—flashed across your mind, and for a split second, you felt a warmth spread in your chest.

You’d talked about your future many times—even while you were still just dating—and you both agreed you wanted kids. But there was never a set timeline or a specific goal you wanted to reach before starting a family.

You took a slow breath, trying to gather your thoughts as the weight of the question settled in your mind. The idea of having a baby—it was something you’d talked about casually, even dreamt about in passing. But now, with his eyes on you, the conversation suddenly felt real, more tangible than it ever had before.

You finally put the chalk marker down on the desk, turning fully to face him. “You’ve asked me before about the future,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the rapid beating of your heart. “But this... this feels different. Are you asking because you’re actually thinking about it?”

Namjoon looked at you, his eyes soft but filled with a quiet intensity that made your cheeks heat up. “I mean-” he said after a beat, his voice almost uncertain. “I guess I’ve been thinking about it more lately, especially with everything we’ve built together. I don’t think we can get any more financially stable. And we’ve got a good thing, right? We work well as a team. I just... I wonder what it would be like to take that next step, with you.”

Your heart nearly exploded, a big grin spreading across your face that would certainly make your cheeks hurt if you kept it up. He had a way of making everything feel possible, of making you believe in the future even when you didn’t have all the answers. The thought of raising kids with him, of teaching them the way you both wanted to, filled you with an overwhelming sense of warmth and certainty.

“I think we’d be great,” you said, your voice full of honest affection. “We’d make an amazing team. I know we’ve got the love, the patience, and the understanding to do it.”

Namjoon’s eyes softened, and for a moment, he just looked at you, as if taking in your words, before a soft smile crept onto his face.

You knew you weren’t about to get a confirmation from him, not now at least. Namjoon needed to steep in his thoughts a bit more before he would finally and ultimately tell you he wants a baby.

Still, his smile lingered, and he slowly nodded, as if to affirm your words without needing to say anything else just yet.

The silence between you both felt comfortable, like a promise for the future—an unspoken understanding that this was a conversation that didn’t need to be rushed.

After a moment, he reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch soft but sure.

“I love you.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and you felt an overwhelming sense of warmth and peace settle in your chest. Even despite hearing those same exact words come out his mouth millions of times, they still wrapped around you like a protective embrace, making everything else, every worry, every unfinished plan and every glitter-littered snowflake fade into the background.

You leaned into his touch, savouring the moment. “I love you too,” you replied, your voice steady but filled with the same devotion that was in his eyes.

He placed a chaste kiss on your forehead, before glancing around the classroom, “What did you ask me to do?”

“Fairy lights, Joon.”

Namjoon chuckled softly at your reminder, his fingers still lingering on your cheek for a moment before he stepped back. “Right, right,” he said, shaking his head. “I got distracted from the important things.”

You watched him walk toward the desk to finish hanging the fairy lights, a warm smile tugging at your lips as you returned to your drawing. The weight of the earlier conversation still lingered in the air, but it left you with a spark of excitement.

As he carefully draped the lights along the chalkboard, you noticed how effortlessly he moved, how much care he put into making sure everything was perfect. You’d always admired that about him—his attention to detail, his quiet confidence in everything he did. And now, with every little task, you couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of certainty.

“Almost done,” Namjoon called out, glancing over his shoulder. You gave him a thumbs-up, your smile widening as he finished the last strand of lights.

The classroom now looked like a cozy little haven, with the soft glow of the fairy lights casting a gentle warmth over the space. Everything felt perfect.

 You capped your marker once the windows were done, and walked over to your desk to organize a little bit, putting away the potentially dangerous supplies, before closing the drawers and the boxes.

Namjoon stood beside you, his hands in his pockets as he admired the room. “It’s impressive, I’ll give you that. But it’s still missing one thing.”

You frowned, stopping mid-motion, to glance around. “What’s that?”

He reached down, gently tugging you to your feet and closing the last box for you. “Us. Out of here, enjoying a well-deserved dinner.”

You couldn’t help but giggle, grabbing his coat and your bag before stepping away from the desk. Namjoon fetched your coat from the hanger, draping it over your shoulders with a soft smile. He then took your hand, a firm but gentle hold, and started guiding you toward the door, almost certain that if he didn’t, you’d find something else to do.

As you walked together, you paused by to the classroom pet cage, drawn by the soft rustling inside. The little chinchilla scamped out of his enclosure and over to the bars, his nose twitching as he looked up at you with big, hopeful eyes.

“Did I tell you we need to take Professor Fluff this Christmas break?” You asked, grabbing a treat from the nearby jar and tossing it into the cage, watching as the chinchilla eagerly snatched it up and started nibbling on it.

Namjoon, holding the door open for you, tilted his head as you walked back to him.

“Wasn’t it Teacher Assistant Park’s turn?”

“She’s pregnant, Namjoonie. She can’t.”

You slipped your hand into his, smiling as his fingers intertwined with yours, leading you down the dimly lit school halls.

“She should be able to handle a chinchilla if she expects to take care of a baby.”

You giggle, shaking your head. “No, babe, it’s about allergies.”

Namjoon sighed dramatically but couldn’t fully hide his grin. “That settle it. Definitely getting you pregnant. Even if only for the perks —wife comes home on time, and I get to have her all to myself for the holidays.”

You blushed furiously at his comment, a big, droopy smile tugging on your lips.

“Oh, come on. How much time do you think Professor Fluff is going to keep me occupied?” you tease, bumping your shoulder against him as you walk.

Namjoon raised an eyebrow, playful glint in his eyes. “With what I have planned for you, more than I like.” he replied, pulling the door shut behind him as the two of you stepped out into the crisp evening air.

You laugh, your cheeks still warm from the blush he had put there. Namjoon's teasing always had a way of making your heart flutter, but this time, there was something deeper in his words—something that felt like it carried a promise.

“I swear, you really know how to keep me on my toes,” You glanced up at him, feeling the warmth of his touch on your hand as he guided you out into the crisp evening air.

He grinned, pulling you closer to him as you made your way to the car. “That's the idea. Keep you guessing, keep you interested.” He gave you a wink, the playful glint never leaving his eyes, even as he opened the driver’s door for you.

“I don’t think you need to work too hard at it. You're already the most interesting person I know.” You said when he settled into the passengers seat.

Namjoon's smile softened, and for a moment, you could see the sincerity behind his teasing demeanour.

“I like that you think that,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, as he slowly leaned over the console to catch your lips in a sweet kiss.

You melted into him, the soft press of his lips against yours lingering for just a moment longer than usual, making your heart race. It was the type of kiss that had you coming back for more, the kind that melted all your worries away, and made you feel like you two were the only ones in the world.

As he pulled away, he gave you a playful smile, his thumb gently brushing over your cheek. “Now please drive. I’m starving.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his sudden shift in tone, your heart still fluttering from the lingering kiss.

“Always about food with you,” you sigh, starting the engine and pulling out of the parking lot. “I guess I'll just have to accept that food is your first love.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow, his expression turning mischievous. “Well, if food's my first love, you, my dear, are my favourite dessert.”

You felt your cheeks heat up at his words, a mix of amusement and affection swirling inside you, butterflies wreaking havoc in your stomach.

You glanced over at him, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “Is that so?” You said, your voice teasing as you focused on the road.

Namjoon's grin widened; his eyes gleaming. “Absolutely. You’re sweet, irresistible, and I could spend hours between your legs.”

A flush crept up your cheeks as your grip on the steering wheel tightened, the tension between you two shifting. His words hung in the air, teasing but also carrying an edge that made your pulse quicken.

“Keep talking like that and I'm taking you home,” you threatened.

Namjoon’s expression shifted in an instant from playful to mock-serious. “No, no,” he whined, leaning back into the seat with a dramatic sigh. “I promise I'll be good.”

You giggle. “What do you want to eat then?”

He lit up again, his mock seriousness giving way to his usual enthusiasm. “That little BBQ place that opened up down the street from us.”

“The one you haven’t stopped talking about since they put up the ‘coming soon’ sign?”

“That’s the one,” he admitted unabashedly, his grin growing wider “It’s fate. They opened just in time for us to have the perfect date.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you turned the car toward home. “I guess it is. But I’m parking at home and we can walk—that way, I can drink too.”

“Oh, is my baby planning to get wasted tonight?” he teased, his tone light and playful.

“No,” you chuckled, glancing at him with a smirk. “But I know for a fact you’re going to order that fancy whiskey you always get, and I don’t want to be stuck as the designated driver.”

Namjoon laughed, his deep dimpled grin lighting up his face. “Fair point. That whiskey is worth the walk. And hey, I’ll carry you home if you have one too many.”

You rolled your eyes, a fond smile on your lips. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. It hasn’t been such a bad week” you smile at him, “But I won’t say no to being spoiled by you a little.”

“Always,” he replied without missing a beat. “I’ll spoil you every chance I get.”

You couldn't help but grin at his words, the warmth in his voice making your blush reappear. There was something so comforting in the way he always knew how to make you feel special, how he was so genuine in every little thing he did for you.

“So, you’re paying tonight?”

“Nope,” he smiled, popping the p, and earning a heartfelt laughter from you.

As the two of you approached your home, you turned the car into the driveway, the familiar sight of your house welcoming you. Namjoon was already getting out of the car, his excitement for the evening palpable.

“Let me grab my bag, and we’ll head out,” you said, stepping out of the car and locking it. Namjoon waited by the gate, glancing around as the evening air started to cool, a few stray little snowflakes lazily drifting through the air. The stars above twinkled in the dark sky, and the soft hum of the city around you made it feel like the world had slowed down just for the two of you.

“Ready?” he asked as you approached him, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket.

“Let’s go,” you replied with a grin, your arm slipping through his. You walked down the quiet street together, the comfortable rhythm of your steps matching each other effortlessly.

The neighbourhood was peaceful, with only a few cars passing by, and the crisp air reddening the tip of your nose. As you reached the corner of the street, the warm glow of the BBQ restaurant came into view. The scent of grilled meat and spices filled the air, making your stomach rumble in anticipation, and reminding you your last meal was breakfast, many hours ago.

“There it is,” Namjoon said, his voice full of excitement. “I’ve been dreaming of this all week.”

You laughed, the sound easy and full of affection. “It’s definitely been a long time coming, huh?”

“Worth the wait,” he replied, grinning.

As you entered the restaurant, the cozy atmosphere wrapped around you, and the delicious smells only heightened your anticipation. Namjoon gave you a playful glance, watching as you all but jump with excitement, before leading you to a little booth. You, of course, slid in next to him, and cuddled up against his side as you waited for the waiter. Namjoon grinned as you cuddled up against his side, his arm naturally wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer. The booth was small, but cozy, and the warm lighting of the restaurant made it feel like a private little nook just for the two of you.

As you settled in, your gaze drifted to the menu, although, truthfully, you were more focused on the tall and handsome man next to you. His warm presence besides you, the way he always seemed to know exactly how to make you feel safe and cared for. The man who wanted a family with you, who would undoubtedly take perfect, tender care of your little human being, and who would hang out at the museum talk hours on end about his favourite pieces with the kiddo, like they could grasp every single concept. Before, undoubtedly trying to teach your baby the deepest philosophy concepts ever, and five different musical instruments all at once.

The waiter soon approached, and Namjoon, with his usual confidence, ordered for the both of you without missing a beat. He didn’t even need to ask what you wanted—he already knew. A small smile tugged at your lips as you watched him. He always did that, always taking care of things in his own calm, capable way. It was one of the many things you loved about him.

Once the drinks arrived—a neat whiskey bottle that you couldn’t remember the name of—you clinked your glasses together in a soft toast.

“To perfect dates,” Namjoon said with a glint in his eye, his voice warm and filled with affection as he held his glass up to yours.

“To many more to come,” you replied, your voice light but sincere, the sound of it carrying a promise in the air between you.

The glass met with a soft clink, and the warmth of the whiskey settled in your chest as you took your first sip, savouring the smooth, smoky flavour. Namjoon mirrored your actions, the ice in his glass gently clinking as he took a long sip, never breaking his gaze from you.

You smiled at him, the familiar tenderness filling your heart, a slow, easy feeling of contentment settling over you. There was something special about moments like this—about sharing time in each other’s presence, just the two of you, with no outside distractions.

It reminded you of your first few dates, back when you two were both overworked students with a seriously high number of sleepless nights, and a very poor diet consisting mostly of cola and noodles. Back when he was so nervous that he basically talked to himself the whole date, stumbling over his words in a rush to make the ‘conversation flow’, but still managing to make you laugh with his awkward charm. You didn’t tease him about it back then, how could you? When he’d look at you like you could single-handedly change the world with a flutter of your eyelashes.

And when you agreed to a second date, he gave you the biggest, cheesiest smile you ever saw, before accidentally bumping into you as he leaned down to kiss your cheek, somehow managing to smack you in the face with his forehead.

You froze for a second, both of you staring at each other in stunned silence, before he apologized in a flurry and left you alone and confused in front of your dorm room.

Imagine his surprise when you called him for details about the promised second date.

Even so, there was never a moment when Namjoon ever made you feel unsafe, or like he was going out with you just to make up for his awkwardness. No, despite his nervousness, he always made sure you felt valued, cherished, and like you were the most important person in the room. That was one of the things you’d grown to love about him. He was sincere in every gesture, every word, even when he felt uncertain about himself.

That second date he got to kiss you right.

You had both come a long way since then. The clumsy first kiss was just a part of the story now, a little cherished memory that always brought a warm smile to your lips whenever you thought about it. You’d grown together since that day, and with each date, each shared moment, your bond had only deepened.

Now, here you were, sitting next from him, your husband, in this cozy little restaurant, enjoying the warmth of the whiskey and the various dishes that the waiter brought out for you.

Everything felt right. There was no doubt in your mind that this, right here, was exactly where you were meant to be.

Namjoon caught your eye, a small, playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re smiling to yourself.”

“I’m happy,” you replied simply.

Namjoon softened, his eyes filled with warmth as he leaned in slightly, his voice lowering to a more intimate tone. “Me too,” he said, his words wrapping around your heart and making it jump in your chest. You quickly leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, giggling a bit when he let out a soft, surprised puff, his eyes widening slightly at the unexpected gesture. “What was that for?” he asked, his voice light with amusement but still smooth .

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, the devotion in your gaze unwavering. “For making me happy. And for hanging the snowflakes in my classroom.” You paused for a quick second, before smirking. “And for paying for dinner?”

Namjoon chuckled, his dimpled smile lighting up his face. “Nope.”

He laughed at your fake little pout, before holding out his chopsticks to you. “Here, try this.”

You opened your mouth wide, waiting for him to feed you the piece of beef he cooked, only for it to fall from his chopsticks and right on your button-down shirt.

You both froze for a moment, staring at the little piece of beef resting on your chest. Namjoon blinked, his eyes widening in disbelief before he broke into a fit of laughter, his deep voice filling the space between you two.

“Smooth,” you teased, raising an eyebrow as you reached for the beef and popped it into your mouth, before grabbing a napkin to wipe away the mess on your shirt.

“I'm so sorry,” Namjoon said, still laughing, but his voice filled with genuine concern. “I swear I aimed for your mouth.”

You dabbed the spot on your shirt, trying to suppress your own laughter. “That’s what he said.”

At that little comment he gave you a deep belly laugh, a hand covering his mouth, before grabbing another napkin for you.

“I’ll take it to the cleaners tomorrow. I’m sorry.” He still giggled like a little kid watching you try to rub the stain away.

You couldn't help but smile, your heart warm at the small, sweet gesture. “I think it’s fine,” you said, your voice softening as you met his eyes. “It's just a shirt. But it’s the thought that counts.”

Namjoon tilted his head, his dimpled grin returning. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, leaning in slightly, his voice lower and softer. “I swear.”

The temptation to flirt back tugged at you, but the urge to tease him was simply too strong to resist.

“You can start by not burning the rest of the meat on the grill.”

“Shit!”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction as he whipped around to check the grill. The sizzling sound of beef filled the air, and he immediately sprang into action, grabbing the tongs and flipping the steaks with exaggerated haste.

“Shit, shit!” he muttered under his breath, his hands moving quickly but still a little too late to save the edges of the tender cuts from burning.

You couldn’t help but laugh, watching the frantic yet adorable way he tried to salvage the meal. "Maybe next time, don’t get so distracted by my chest," you teased, leaning back in your chair with a sly grin

“I swear I’m a better cook when I’m not trying to impress you.” he confessed with an embarrassed smile that made your heart pick up again.

“Why are you still trying to impress me? You’re already getting in my pants tonight.” You flutter your eyelashes up at him, leaning into his side.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered under his breath, focusing back on the grill with renewed determination.

You let out a laugh, unable to resist bugging him further. “Come on, Namjoonie, you don’t have to work this hard for me. I’m already sold. Burned beef and all.”

He shot you a quick look over his shoulder, his dimple making a reappearance as he smirked. “Oh, I know you’re sold. But I still have to keep my reputation intact. Can’t have you thinking you married a man who can’t even grill properly.”

You shrugged playfully. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly drawn to you for your cooking skills to begin with.”

Namjoon smirked, his eyes briefly flicking to yours with a teasing glint before he said, “Good. Then I guess my other skills will have to do now too.”

The innuendo wasn’t lost on you, and you raised an eyebrow, “Careful, Mr. Kim. You keep that up, and I’m taking you home.”

Namjoon’s laugh was loud and deep, echoing around the room as he handed you the piece of meat. “Eat first,” he said with mock seriousness, his tone firm but the amusement dancing in his eyes betrayed him. “And you’re getting dessert too.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, smirking “You’re just going to eat half of whatever I pick, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” he admitted shamelessly, his grin widening in triumph, dropping some veggies on your plate too.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress your laugh as you reached for the menu. “Fine. Let’s get the profiteroles. They look amazing, and you can’t mess up sharing that.”

Namjoon arched a brow. “Are you implying I messed up sharing earlier?”

You shot him a pointed look, lips twitching with amusement. “There’s beef on my shirt, Namjoon.”

Namjoon paused mid-grin, glancing down at your chest, before letting out a sheepish laugh. “Okay, okay, point taken. No more distractions.” He turned back to the grill, but not without throwing you a cheeky wink first. “Although, just for the record, you’re quite distracting when you wear that skirt.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “I swear, you're impossible.”

Yet there wasn’t even a crumb of conviction in your tone.

The evening carried on naturally, the warmth of the alcohol and the steady rhythm of conversation made everything feel comfortable. The intimate little interludes— the flirting, teasing, the way his eyes never strayed far from you—kept the energy between you two charged. You weren’t sure whether it was the drinks, or Namjoon’s smile, or a mix of both, but you couldn’t deny the way everything felt amplified. You were tipsy, needy, and feeling more than a little flushed.

Namjoon noticed it before you did, that little shift in the air around you. He leaned in, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he casually placed his hand over thigh. “You’re looking a little red,” he remarked softly, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that made a shiver run down your spine.

You tried to laugh it off, shifting slightly in your seat. “I think I might’ve had a bit too much to drink.”

“Mm, I noticed,” he said, his voice smooth, low. He didn’t pull his hand away, but instead gave your leg a gentle squeeze, before moving his hand higher up edging the seam of your skirt, “You look adorable though.”

A soft heat spread through you, making your heart beat in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol. There was something in his gaze—something undeniably intense—that made the air between you feel thick. Like you could just eat him up, and he’d thank you.

“Do I need to carry you home?”

“No.” You swallowed, shifting your eyes away. “But you should stop looking at me like that. You’re making me blush.” You replied, trying to play it off, but your words felt like they were slipping from your lips a little too easily. You could feel his gaze on you, assessing, as if he knew exactly what you were trying to hide.

Namjoon’s gaze softened, and the corner of his mouth quirked up as he leaned in a fraction closer. His thumb gently stroked your skin, the simple touch sending a spark of heat straight to your core. “Am I?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that made your stomach twist in the most wonderful of ways.

You tried to steady your breath, but it felt impossible under the weight of his attention. “Yes.”

“Good,” he smirked.

“Namjoon,” you breathed, not sure whether it was a plea or a warning.

The playful banter felt more like a slow burn now, the kind that lingered in the spaces between your words and between your slowed movements.

 “Mm?”

“Please get the tab, so I can pay and we can go.”

Namjoon’s lips curled, his fingers still moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Impatient, baby?” He murmured, his voice deeper now, like he was savouring the effect he was having on you.

You nodded, the growing need clouding your thoughts. “Yes,” you whispered, barely audible. “I want to go home.”

He leaned in slightly, his face just inches from yours, and for a moment, everything else seemed to blur out of existence. His breath was warm against your skin, and the weight of his gaze made you feel both exposed and electrified. It didn’t even register that you were out in public anymore, or that there were other patrons around. The only thing on your mind was his dark eyes staring at you.

“Alright,” he said, his voice low and steady, his smirk never wavering. “But only because you asked so nicely.”

He slid his hand off your leg, but not without one last lingering touch—soft, deliberate, and devastating—leaving you absolutely wrecked as he leaned back to call the waiter.

(Of course, he didn’t even let you see the tab, snatching it up and paying for your meal without a second thought.)

Every movement of his was slow, measured, like he knew exactly where your limit was and he was drawing it all out with maddening precision. The air between you thickened with unspoken tension, humming in the spaces where his fingers lingered, where his gaze met yours.

And when he brushed your hair to the side to help you slip into your coat, his hand found the back of your neck, resting there for just a second longer than necessary—firm and warm, enough to leave your heart pounding and your mind spinning.

The moment the door of the restaurant swung open, a gust of cold air hit you, the crisp night biting at your skin. The alcohol in your blood dulled slightly, replaced by the clarity of the chill as you instinctively pulled your coat tighter around you. Yet, the thin fabric did little to shield you from the cold, the breeze slipping through the seams.

Namjoon was right beside you, his sharp eyes scanning the darkened street as if the cold didn’t faze him at all. With a glance your way, he stepped closer, shrugging his own coat higher on his shoulders before slipping his arm around you without hesitation. His hand rested lightly on your back, the weight of it both grounding and comforting.

His warmth beside you was enough to make the walk more bearable, and the anticipation bubbling inside you made it all worthwhile.

He turned to you, a slight smile on his lips. “Cold out here, huh?” he said, his breath visible in the night air, quickly leading you towards your home.

You nodded, pulling your scarf up a little higher to shield your face from the cold.

Without a word, Namjoon slid his arm around your shoulders, tucking you closer to his side. His touch was casual yet deliberate, like he didn’t need permission but still silently asked for it. The fabric of his coat was rough against your cheek, but his body heat bled through, chasing away the chill that had started to seep into your skin.

The street was quiet, the glow of streetlights casting long, soft shadows as you walked side by side. Those shy snowflakes from earlier now growing bolder, swirling down in earnest. They clung to your hair and coat, melting into tiny droplets against the warmth of your skin.

Namjoon’s hand shifted after a while, slipping down to find yours. Without hesitation, he slid both into the pocket of his coat, the gesture so natural and intimate that it made your stomach flutter anew. His thumb brushed over your knuckles absently, a small but steady movement that set your heart racing. Each step brought you closer together, your shoulders brushing now and then, as you neared your house.

His presence, the solid warmth of him beside you, was more than enough to keep the chill at bay.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice cutting through the crisp night air as he glanced over at you.

You nodded, your breath forming soft clouds in the cold. “Yeah. This is nice.”

Namjoon chuckled. “Nice? You’re freezing.”

“You’re hot.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, accompanied by a fit of giggles that felt almost too loud in the still night. The alcohol still hummed faintly in your system, loosening your tongue, but it was worth it just to see Namjoon stutter, his eyebrows raising.

And then he laughed, full and rich, the sound reverberating through you. “Wow,” he murmured, shaking his head with an amused smile. His cheeks tinged pink—maybe from the cold, maybe not—as he reached into his other pocket, pulling out his set of keys.

“Smooth,” he teased, glancing sideways at you as he fiddled with them, making quick work of finding the right one. The lock clicked open, and he stepped aside to let you in first, the warmth of the indoors beckoning you like a sanctuary.

As you passed, he caught your arm gently, his fingers brushing along its length. His eyes met yours, a daring glint in them that suddenly made your heart pick up again.

It wouldn’t be the first time Namjoon pins you to the first flat surface as soon as you walked through the door, fucking every single sensible though out of your brain, and that idea sends a tingle of excitement coursing through your body. You smile up at him, leaning further into his touch.

But Namjoon is undeterred.

“Don’t make snow all over the place. I mopped yesterday.”

You tilted your head, a little indignant puff escaping your lips before you smirk, toeing off your snowy boots by the door. “You’re so sexy when you do chores.” You push your luck further, but your lovely husband can’t seem to pick up on it.

 “That’s it. No more drinks for you.”

“Mm, you love it,” you teased, stepping past him into the warmth of the hallway.

The cozy embrace of the house wrapped around you, softening the crisp chill that clung to your skin, inviting that sense of ease that only your home could bring. You made quick work of shedding your coat and boots, setting them neatly by the door before stretching your arms high above your head, a little moan escaping your lips as the tension of the day melted away.

Namjoon glanced over just in time to catch your little display, his eyes flickering with amusement—and something else. “Comfortable already?” he shrugged off his own coat and tossing it over a chair.

“Very,” you replied with a content sigh. Without much thought, you made your way to the living room and plopped down on the couch, curling up against the soft cushions.

Namjoon followed behind, shaking the snow from his hair before taking his seat right next to you. His long body settled into the couch with easy grace, his head leaning back against the cushions, eyes lazily studying you as you sink further into the couch.

The warmth of the room wrapped around you like a cozy blanket, combining perfectly with the comfortable silence that filled the air. You could feel the weight of the night slip away.

The alcohol was still buzzing lightly through your veins, making you feel a little lighter, more complacent.

Namjoon shifted slightly, his arm brushing against yours as his hand found its way to your thigh, his fingers resting there with an easy familiarity. The warmth of his palm seeped through the fabric of your skirt, and when he shifted again, his touch grew bolder, fingers tracing slow circles just above your knee.

The small touch made your heart pickup again, and you looked up at him, catching the softness in his expression as he glanced back at you.

“So tired,” he confessed, almost like it was a secret. The day had been long for both of you, and you had no doubt the holiday season weighed just as heavily on him. Sure, yours was filled with glittering snowflakes and loud kids singing out of tune Christmas carols, while his likely consisted of conference calls, paper grading and presentations, but fatigue didn’t discriminate.

Still, there was something about the evening, the silence between you two, that made it all feel worthwhile. The day was over, but the night had a way of stretching on, leaving just enough space for small moments like this. Because with Namjoon, there was always something that made the world feel quieter, easier. Like he was grounding you, helping you recharge in a way no one else could.

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed in response, your voice a little dreamy as you let your head fall to the side, leaning against his shoulder.

“You look tired too,” he said softly, his voice laced with tenderness, still his hand shifted to the inside of your thigh, fingers massaging your skin softly.

“I am,” you admitted with a small sigh, your body naturally melting into his touch as the knots in your muscles began to dissolve.

Yet, even as your body relaxed, a spark flickered deep in your belly—undeniable and growing—kindled by the deliberate care in his movements, each touch purposeful and impossible to ignore.

“But I’m also horny,” you tack on after a few seconds, your voice a little breathy, your eyes flicking up to meet his, watching for his reaction.

Namjoon’s hand stilled for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. His gaze dropped briefly to where his fingers rested against your leg, then lifted to meet your eyes. His smile turned slow, deliberate, and his voice dropped an octave when he finally responded.

“Is my baby needy?”

You nodded slowly, feeling completely vulnerable under his deliberate admiration “Yeah,” you whispered, the word falling form your lips like a confession. “I want you.”

“You’re sure?” he asked, as if testing the waters, giving you a chance to pull back if you wanted to. But the way his eyes locked onto yours, the way his touch lingered now a little longer, a little rougher, said he wasn’t going anywhere unless you wanted him to.

Instead of answering, you shifted, turning around to straddle his hips, tugging your skirt higher in the process so you could sit comfortably on his lap.

“Always,” you muttered, your voice a breathy promise before closing the gap between you. You pressed your lips to his with fervour, cutting off the teasing words he was no doubt ready to deliver, swallowing them whole.

 Namjoon’s hands quickly went to your ass, pulling you impossibly closer, and you giggled when he squeezed at your flesh, then shifted like he sensed something unusual.

“What are you wearing?” Namjoon murmured against your mouth, his breath warm and pleasant. The low timbre of his voice made you giggle, the vibration of your laughter mingling with the tickle of his breath.

“Spandex,” you replied with a grin. “How do you think my butt looks so good in this skirt?” With a playful movement, you lifted the hem of your skirt just enough to show him. The spandex hugged your curves perfectly, a sly smirk plastered on your face.

Namjoon chuckled softly, his fingers brushing over the edge of the spandex before his hand returned to its frisky grip on your ass. His gaze lingered, warm and unguarded, as if memorizing every curve.

“Sexy,” he concluded. His other hand grabbing the edge of your shorts and letting it slap against your skin; the gesture drawing another burst of giggles from you.

“The sexiest,” you replied, your laughter dissolving into a grin as you shook your head. With an easy motion, you dropped your head onto his shoulder, muffling your laughter against his shirt.

It was ridiculous, you knew that—the whole moment—but there was something about the way he looked at you that made your heart swell. Like he found you beautiful even in the silliness, even in spandex.

You remained like that for a moment, enveloped in the comfort of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with your own. His hands continued their gentle kneading of your flesh, and you shifted your hips, pressing closer, feeling his hardness through your clothes.

Namjoon let out a soft huff, and you lifted your head to meet his eyes, an impish glint in your own. With a wicked smile, you began moving your hips in slow, deliberate circles, grinding against him, enjoying the way he hardens beneath you. His hands tightened, pulling you closer, a soft moan escaping his lips as he let his head fall back against the couch.

“Ah, babe-” His voice was strained, thick with desire, the heat between you intensifying, his hips buckling up slightly.

Your hands wander up his chest, feeling the muscles tense and relax beneath his shirt. You can feel his heart racing, matching your own as you lose yourself in the rhythm you’d set. With a bit of fumbling, you managed to unbutton his shirt, watching as he shivered under the touch of your cold fingers as you chart his toned muscles.

“Fuck. Kiss me please,” he breathed out, his voice rough and needy.

Your mouth hovered just few inches away from his, the warmth of his wrapping around you like a cocoon. Close enough to count the moles and freckles that dotted his skin, to take in the slight stubble along his jaw. His breath mingled with yours, teasing your lips.

 Your gaze flickered down, lingering on his mouth for just a moment longer.

And then, you didn’t hesitate. Leaning in, your lips find his in a fervent kiss. His mouth moved with yours, tongues tangling as you explored him, your hands roaming the expanse of his now exposed chest. The kiss was all-consuming, filled with the passion that had been simmering between you since he stepped into your classroom earlier today.

Namjoon's hands are not idle either. They roam up your thighs, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, making you shiver. You can feel his arousal pressing against your core, and you grind against him, eliciting a low moan from him.

“You feel incredible,” he murmurs against your lips, his hands squeezing your thighs. “I want you so bad.”

His words send another wave of heat through you, and you deepen the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair. You can feel the tension building between you, your own arousal growing with every passing moment.

With a reluctant movement, you pull away to stand up, your skirt falling back down to your thighs as you stare down at him. Namjoon looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire, and you can't help but feel a thrill of excitement as you slowly, deliberately, begin to undress for him.

Pulling your button down over your head, you let it fall at his feet, watching the way his eyes barely flicker to it. Instead, Namjoon watches you, his breath quickening as you reveal more and more of your body to him.

You slip out of your skirt, tossing it aside as you stand before him in nothing but your spandex shorts and a lacy bra. His eyes rake over you, taking in every inch of your body with a hungry gaze.

“God, you're beautiful,” he breathes, his voice thick with longing, watching you kneel between his legs on the floor, your hands quickly moving to his belt to unbuckle it.

You take your time with it, savouring the way his breath hitches as you brush your fingers against his hardness. Once the belt is undone, you unbutton his pants and pull them down, taking his boxers with them. Namjoon lifts his hips to help, his gaze never leaving yours.

Now that he's fully exposed, you can't help but admire him; He's always been handsome, but in this moment, with desire burning in his eyes and his body tense with need, his unbuttoned shirt still clinging to his shoulders, he was downright irresistible.

You reach out, wrapping your hand around his cock, hard and ready, resting against his stomach, and he hisses in a deep breath, melting under your touch.

“Fuck.” His head falls back against the couch pillows, breaking eye contact once you wrap your lips against his him, running your tongue over his leaking tip, swirling it and dipping it into the slit, enjoying the lewd sounds that escaped from his chest without abandon.

Emboldened, you keep taking him deeper in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and finding a steady rhythm that has him unravelling quickly. Your tongue rolling over his head every time you come back up.

Your hand starts working the part you can’t reach mirroring the rhythm you've set with your mouth, unleashing a flood of moans from him.

Namjoon’s hips buck, accidentally bumping the back of your throat, making you gag, and a quick, weak apology falls from his lips, although you feel like he doesn’t truly mean it, because he does it again right after.

 But you barely care, because his taut stomach clenches, showcasing his pretty abs, and the long, low sound he makes sends a new wave of wetness between your legs, urging you on. You were the one making him weak. You were pleasuring him in such a way that made him lose himself.

“Just like that, love.” He reaches out, his fingers tangling in your hair, not tugging at it, but guiding your movements, fucking your mouth. You keep up with him, your lips now redden, tongue rolling on the underside, and your chin covered in spit as you bob faster.

The room is filled with the wet vulgar sounds your mouth makes and his low groans, the air thick with desire and anticipation.

“Fuck. Babe, stop.” He whimpers, tugging at your hair. “I’m close. Don’t want to cum-”

Suddenly, Namjoon pulls you away, holding you just out of reach as his head falls back against the couch, a long miserable “Fuuuuuck,” filling the space between you, as if he’d just received the worst news ever.

You blink up at him, your mind scrambling to understand his sudden outburst. His gaze meets yours again, and the regret swimming in his eyes deepens your confusion.

“Fuck. I knew I forgot something.” He groaned, voice thick with frustration, his fingers releasing their hold on your hair.

Your hand stilled mid-movement, your head tilting slightly as you tried to make sense of his words.

“You… can’t get blowjobs?” you asked cautiously, your knees wobbling as you stood up, bracing yourself against his legs for stability.

“What? No,” he blurted, his brows furrowing in indignation. “I forgot to go to the store. We’re out of condoms.”

Namjoon looked utterly defeated, his hands reaching out instinctively to steady you. Yet, there was something almost comical in the way his lips formed the smallest of pouts.

You bit down hard on the wicked grin threatening to spread across your face. He was adorable—even now, red hard cock pulsing against his chiselled thighs, neck flushed red, chest rising and falling rapidly as his mind raced. Likely scolding himself for forgetting something so crucial.

You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped your lips, and again, you bury your face into his shoulder, leaning into him to press a kiss against his neck, drawing his gaze back to you. His thumbs began rubbing slow circles against your hips, grounding both of you as you whispered softly into his ear, “We could always go without.”

Namjoon froze. The suggestion sent a visible shiver through him, and his eyes widening slightly.

 For a moment, the room was silent save for the soft hum of the heater in the background, the suggestion hanging in the air between you like a loaded secret. His hands, still resting on your hips, tightened slightly as he stared at you, trying to gauge how serious you were—or how far he could let himself go without losing control.

“Are you serious?” his voice came out broken despite his best efforts, and you lean back to look at his face, your hands holding onto his shoulders.

“It would make a nice Christmas gift.” You admit, almost bashful, but maintaining eye contact.

“You’re not just saying that, are you?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. The playful tension had melted away, replaced by something heavier, more profound.

You nodded slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Of course, not” you said softly, your voice trembling just a little. “I want that too. I want a family with you.”

His hand moved to your lower back, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t quite get enough of you.

Namjoon let out a soft, shaky breath, his forehead pressing lightly against yours. For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes closing as if to let your words sink in fully. When he opened them again, his gaze was filled with a depth of emotion that made your heart feel like it might burst.

“I really fucking love you.” He murmured, his hands settling more firmly on your hips, pulling you closer until there was barely any space left between you.

Your lips quirked into a small smile, your hands moving to cradle his face. “You better,” you whispered back. “I’m your wife, after all.”

Without warning, his arms tightened around you, and in one smooth motion, he stood up, lifting you effortlessly into his embrace.

You let out a startled gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders for balance.

“Namjoon!”

But he only laughed at your reaction, the sound of it lighting up his features as he carried you down the hallway with ease. His fingers pressed gently into your skin, steadying you, and even despite your mock annoyance, your heart still fluttered at the way he held you—like you were the most precious thing in the world.

“Don’t think being my wife means you can get away with teasing me like that,” he murmured. His steps were steady, purposeful, the warm glow of the bedroom lights spilling out into the hallway as he nudged the door open with his foot.

You grinned, brushing a soft kiss against his jaw. “Actually, I think it means exactly that.”

He shook his head, his lips curving into a smirk as he laid you down gently on the bed, his hands lingering as if reluctant to let you go, while your legs remained wrapped around his hips, his hard cock pressing against your thigh. His gaze roamed over you, warm and full of affection, but the spark of desire in his eyes was impossible to miss.

“You’re impossible,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he leaned over you, bracing himself with one arm while the other trailed down your side, sending a delicious shiver through you.

“You love it,” you replied, your tone just as playful as you tugged him closer.

Namjoon hummed, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that started sweet but quickly deepened, every touch and movement making you feel lighter, like you were floating.

His soft lips were moving yours and controlling the kiss, and you melted in his arms, letting him do anything he wanted. He pushed your lips open, and you willingly allowed his tongue to explore every inch of your mouth, moaning against him when he hooked it around your lip to softly bite on it.

His movements were slow and deliberate, as if savouring every second of the connection between you two. Your hands dropped down to his shoulders to push away his shirt, letting it fall off somewhere, and in response, Namjoon pressed against you further, pushing you into the mattress.

You can feel the weight of his body on you, every inch of him pressed against your curves, and you revel in the sensation, though it does very little to soothe the burning ache spreading through you. You try to arch your back, try to make your hips meet, desperate to feel more of him, but Namjoon keeps you pinned down. Your heart hammers against your ribcage, and you're lightheaded from the kiss, each one of his lingering touches drawing you deeper.

His hands move with purpose, gliding down your arm and leaving a path of goosebumps in their wake. Each touch feels purposeful, yet it only strokes the fire within you, the tension between you building with every measured caress.

Namjoon shifts, his lips abandoning yours to travel along your jaw and neck. Soft and warm, they graze your skin, leaving a searing path of heat that makes your breath hitch with every press of his mouth.

The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the warmth of his breath on your neck made your head spin, the room narrowing to just the two of you.

 You gasp when he nips at your neck, his lips a welcome contrast to the sting of his teeth. His hips rock against yours, and you moan at the feeling, even if it's just his length pressing against you, but at this point, you’d take anything to ease the lustful haze that clouded your mind.

“Joonie,” you whimper squeezing your thighs around his hips, “Please.”

You fought to keep your breathing steady, but it was a losing battle.

 “You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered against your skin, his voice soft like caramel, dripping with longing, his hands still caressing the sides of your body, stopping over your breasts, teasing your nipples through the lacy fabric of your bra.

You mewl, arching instinctively towards his touch. “Then show me,” you whispered back, your voice hushed, sounding so needy that you barely recognise it as your own.

His eyes shift to your face for a quick second, a big teasing smirk tugging on his lips.

“Mmm, I will.” He replies casually, before pinching your nipples through your bra. A little whimper falls from your lips as a jolt of pleasure shoots through you.

He tugs your bra down, letting your tits spill out, and with an almost primal movement, he takes a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it while his hand continues to tease and pinch the other one. You gasp, throwing your head back, letting out soft moans as your fingers weave themselves into his hair, pulling him closer.

“God, you’re so hot,” he breaths against your chest, goosebumps erupting across your skin, before switching his attention to your other nipple.

You look down at him, your eyes heavy-lidded with desire. His hands slide down your body and you feel his fingers hook around the waistband of your spandex shorts, tugging them down your legs, leaving you completely bare and vulnerable before him.

He lifts his head from your breast, his lips red and slightly swollen, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. You feel a flicker of shyness wash over you, an instinctive reaction under his steady, adoring eyes. It isn’t that Namjoon ever made you feel uncomfortable—far from it. If anything, he had taught you more about how to love yourself than anyone else ever had.

But still, those small insecurities lingered, faint whispers at the back of your mind. The little things only you noticed, the things you thought didn’t measure up. You tried to push them away, focusing instead on the warmth in Namjoon’s gaze, the way his touch seemed to erase every doubt and hesitation.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice soft but brimming with conviction, like he couldn’t hold the words back even if he tried. His eyes traced every curve and detail, lingering as if memorizing you all over again. “Fuck, you’re going to kill me,” he whispered, the words tinged with awe before he leaned down to place slow, deliberate kisses along your ribs.

A shaky moan slipped from your lips, a sound of your clear frustration as his seemingly endless patience began to test your resolve. He chuckled softly against your hip, the vibration of it sending a wave of heat through you.

“Namjoon,” you breathed, your voice teetering on a plea, your fingers threading through his hair to tug gently.

His lips paused their trail, his gaze lifting to meet yours, mischief and adoration mingling in his dark eyes. “What is it, love?”

“Stop teasing,” you demanded, your tone shaky but resolute. “I swear to god-” but before you could finish your threat, Namjoon’s fingers swipe across your pussy, rendering you absolutely speechless.

“Holy fucking shit.” Namjoon breathed, the disbelief in his voice almost comical as his wide eyes flickered from your face to your cunt. “You’re dripping wet.” His fingers parted your lips, pulling them apart so he could see better. “Is the idea of me knocking you up turning you on this much?” His other hand joined in, both of them exploring your wetness, spreading it around. “Fuck.” He muttered, his fingers positioning at your entrance, sliding in and out of you easily.

You couldn't help but moan, your back arching as you pressed yourself into his touch. “Namjoon,” you sob, your voice filled with longing. “Please, just fuck me.”

“I will. I will,” he mumbles, moving lower to settle between your legs, spreading your thighs further apart, “After I get a taste.” He tacks on, quite proud of himself.

You couldn’t help but huff in frustration and desire as you felt his breath against your slick folds, ready to complain. But before you could get the words out, Namjoon quickly shuts you up, his mouth on you.

“Be good.” He warns, his tone firm but gentle, voice muffled against your pussy. As the words left his lips, his tongue darted out, tracing a line from your entrance all the way to your clit and then back down, causing you to shiver in pleasure. His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you open for him as he explored every inch of you, his fingers moving in tandem with his lips.

“Joon,” you whimpered, your fingers tightening in his hair as you tried to control the rhythm, your hips trashing against his face. He chuckled against your skin, the vibrations sending another wave of heat through you, but his patience never wavered, even as your breaths became shorter and your whimpers turned into moans.

He slurped loudly, pressing his face in hard as he moved his lips and tongue expertly. You couldn’t help throwing your head back and moaning, the movement completely involuntary to you. His head moved around as he devoured you like a starving man, moaning to himself as he worked, his tongue lapping at your wetness, before coming back up to your clit and sucking hard, driving you crazy with the way his fingers moved and arched against your sweet spot.

“Namjoon!” Your eyes closed and you bit your lip, trying to muffle your moans, feeling the way his tongue swirled around your opening and licked up your wetness like he was savouring every drop of you.

He was worshipping you, consuming you like he’d been starving for you, growling whenever you pulled his hair too hard or moaned for him in a way he liked. Your back arched and you let yourself close your eyes, unable to stop yourself as your loud moans turned into gibberish, raising in pitch as he brought you right up to the edge.

His name was falling from your lips like a prayer, your hips bucking, thighs trembling and stomach clenched. You felt like you were about to explode, but he didn’t let up, not until you were unravelling against his touch. Your orgasm was so sudden, so violent and unexpected that you didn’t even get a chance to warn him, wave after wave of staggering pleasure washing over you, rendering you an absolute useless mess in his grasp.

 Namjoon didn't miss a beat, continuing his assault on your pussy as you came hard around him. Your muscles quivered and pulsed, and he groaned, the sound reverberating through you and adding to the intense pleasure crashing through your veins. And he didn't stop, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to wring every last ounce of pleasure from your body, his fingers pushing your release in his mouth.

As you slowly came down from your high, Namjoon gently kissed your inner thighs, his lips warm and soft against your sensitive skin. You could feel his proud smile against you, and you couldn't even find the energy to glare at him.

It wasn't until your breaths evened out and your body went limp that you finally managed to push him away, a satisfied smirk playing at his lips when he looked up at you.

“Feeling better, baby?” he asked, his voice twinged with amusement, although a little breathless.

You couldn't be bothered to reply, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm. But you managed a small, satisfied smile, your eyes closed in contentment.

“I told you I would take care of you,” he murmured, his lips brushing softly against your hip. At that you chuckled, the sound light and airless, the remnants of pleasure still humming through your body like an electric current.

Namjoon began a slow ascend, pressing soft kisses against your skin as he went, each one making your breath hitch just a little more. When he finally reached your lips, his gaze was heavy with intent. He kissed you deeply, and the moment you tasted yourself on his tongue, a wave of heat crashed over you.

Your lips parted instinctively, drawing his tongue deeper as you sucked on it, the sensation unravelling something primal in your mind. A soft, desperate moan escaped against his mouth, your hands fisting into his hair as you clung to him, utterly consumed by him, by his mouth, by his hands against your hips. By Namjoon. Your husband.

“Ready for me to fuck you now, my love?” he asked, his voice low, a whisper against your lips, but one that sent a new wave of wetness to your core.

 You were too fucked out to form a coherent sentence, so your let your hand drop to hips and pull him closer, eager for him to take you.

You could feel his hard cock press against your entrance, and you couldn’t resist the temptation to glance down and watch as he positioned himself at your opening. A low moan falling from your lips as you waited for him to thrust inside you.

But instead, Namjoon teases you further, swiping his cock against your wet folds, driving you wild.

“C’mon love, don’t leave me hanging. Say something.” He chuckles, watching your expression carefully as he pushes the head of his cock against your clit, circling it.

That completely makes you snap, a flurry of uncoherent begging and threatening falling from your lips, filling the little space between your heavy breathing and his low chuckles.

“Please, please, please Namjoonie. Fuck me. Get me pregnant. God! Move! You always do this,” your head falls back against the pillow, tears prickling at the inside of your eyes, your fingernails digging in his skin. “Knock me up, please. Just fuck me. I’ll delete your homework gradings if you don’t.”

He bets you have almost no idea what you were spewing, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. Not when his heart swelled with love and desire at your words. He couldn’t resist you any longer. He presses the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing you just for a second longer, before he finally pushes inside, agonizingly slow.

You gasp, your body trembling in his arms, feeling him fill you all the way to the brim. The feeling of him bare inside you, the warmth and the intimacy of it, is almost too much to bear. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein. You feel every movement and every thrust as if it's the first time all over again. The sensation is so intense, so overwhelming, that you can't help but let out a series of weak, trembling moans every time he moves inside you.

“Holy fucking shit, you feel so fucking good.” Namjoon whimpered, his hips slapping against you, pulling almost all the way out before filling you up again, “Fuck, you're so tight. I can feel every inch of you, gripping me, love.”

The sound of your skin slapping fills the bedroom with his steady thrusts, punctuated by the occasional slap of his balls against your ass. You gasp, your orgasm building deep inside you. You can feel it coiling in your belly, ready to explode at any moment.

“Yes, yes, just like that, baby,” you moan, your hips moving in time with his.

“Shit love, look at that.” Namjoon presses a hand hard against your lower stomach, “Can you feel it?” he asked, his voice hoarse with desire. “Can you feel how deep I'm inside you, how close I am to filling you up?”

His words sent another wave of heat crashing over you, and you nodded eagerly, your breath hitching as you felt his hand press against your stomach. His cock, so deep  and snug in you that you can feel the bulge faintly against your abdomen as he moved.

You nodded frantically, your eyes wide as you felt him pulse inside you. The thought of him coming inside you, of him potentially getting you pregnant, only served to heighten your pleasure. You were so close, so unbearably close to the edge, and with each thrust, you felt yourself slipping closer and closer to the brink.

“Yes, yes, I can feel it,” you gasped, your hips bucking up to meet his thrusts. “Please, Namjoon, please fill me up. I want to feel you cum inside me, fill me up, I want to carry your baby.”

Namjoon's thrusts grew more desperate, spurred on by your pleas, more urgent as he chased his release, his grip on your hips tightening as he drove himself deeper and deeper inside you, hitting places you didn’t think possible.

You feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your body trembling with the effort of holding back.

“Don't stop,” you beg, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Don't you dare stop!”

But of course, ever the contrarian, Namjoon pulls out, making you scream in frustration. An elongated, miserable “Nooo,” falling from your lips, your body going limp, “God! Namjoon! I swear-” but he ignores you, flipping you over on your stomach.

You still angle your hips up in invitation, although angrily, your body trembling with anticipation and frustration. You’ve known your husband long enough to know how he liked to play, and how to play his games. You plant your knees on the mattress, lifting your ass higher in the air as your chest falls against the pillows, slowly swaying your hips for him.

 Namjoon takes a moment to appreciate the sight before him. Watching you offer yourself to him so willingly, so eagerly. He can’t resist your lure much longer. He positions himself behind you, his fingers tracing a path down your spine before grasping your hips firmly. You feel the head of his cock against your entrance once more, and you can't help the whimper that escapes your lips, as again, he swipes it against your clit before sinking into you.

This new position allows him to reach deeper somehow, and you can feel him hitting your sweet spot with every movement. Your fingers clench the sheets as he starts to thrust harder, his hips meeting your ass with a satisfying slap, and you push back against him, meeting him stroke for stroke, your pleasure mounting right back up, bringing you closer to the edge.

 Sweat starts to collect at your hairline, your breath hitching with each of his powerful thrusts.

“That's it, love. Take all of me,” Namjoon growls, his lips finding your neck as he continues to fuck into you. His hand snakes around to find your clit, and he starts rubbing slow circles around it, making your knees buckle under your own weight.

Your body trembles as he pushes you closer and closer to ecstasy. You can feel your orgasm building, the pressure coiling deep in your belly, ready to explode at any moment, with any one of his thrusts that hits right against your g-spot.

“Namjoon, I'm so close,” you gasp, your fingers gripping the sheets like a lifeline.

“I know, love. I can feel it. Let go, let me feel you come undone for me,” he whispers in your ear, his voice filled with need, his fingers flicking your clit softly, completely stealing the breath from your lungs. “Let me feel you clench around my cock baby.”

His words are your undoing. You cry out, dissolving into pleasure, everything around you cutting to white noise. Your elbows give way, and you collapse onto the mattress, completely boneless as he coaxes wave after wave of bliss from your trembling body.

His hands fly to your hips, holding you up for him as his thrusts grow more erratic, dragging out your orgasm and making you clench so hard against him that his movements stutters. You felt utterly weightless, as though your body had melted into the sheets, as if you had no strength left to hold yourself together.

“I’m so close,” Namjoon moaned your name, his sounds growing lounder and more uninhibited, as he relentlessly chased his own climax.

“Cum inside me,” you beg, egging him on. “Fill me up with your seed. Make a baby with me.”

His movements falter, his most base instincts taking over, and with one final, powerful thrust, he releases. Filling you up with his hot, sticky cum, you can feel it, coating your insides and leaking out. You clench around him, another orgasm, less intense but just as blissful as the first one washes over you.

The feeling of him coming inside you, the warmth and the intensity of it, is almost too much to bear. You can feel your heart racing, your entire body trembling with the aftershock. You can feel him still inside you, pulsing to the rhythm of his own release, and the sensation of it is just overwhelming.

“Fuck, love,” Namjoon whispers, his lips finding yours in a gentle kiss. “That was...incredible.”

You can only nod in agreement, your breathing still heavy and uneven. You can feel him softening inside you, but you don't want him to pull out. You want to stay like this forever, connected in the most intimate way possible, his full body weight on you.

But eventually, he does pull out, rolling onto his back beside you and you snuggle up against him, your head resting on his chest as you catch your breath. You can feel his heart racing, matching the rhythm of your own.

After a few moments of peaceful silence, broken only by your breathing, a soft, tired chuckle escaped your lips. You rested your chin on his chest, gazing up at him through fluttering eyelashes, a playful glint in your eyes.

“You have a breeding kink.” You state with a sly grin, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Namjoon huffs, his lips quirking into a faint smirk as he mutters, “Maybe.”

“Good,” you reply, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. “Means you’ll enjoy these next few months.”

He groans, running a hand through his hair as his gaze locks onto you, full of equal parts amusement and surrender.

“Fuck. You’ll be the death of me, woman.”

[theesteemedladydebourgh]

well, i started this for the great, wonderful @clare-with-no-i​’s birthday last year (and also as a combination of two prompt’s from @efkgirldetective​‘s summer of jily 2022!) and it is officially almost a year late...

let’s see if i can finish this extremely self-indulgent, illustrator-James, author-Lily who clings to self-control like a barnacle, high-powered best friends, co-worker duo buys a house in the countryside and then slowly implode from repressed feelings and heartbreak over the course of several years (also berry picking! and swimming in the ocean! and a cat named Eclair!) fic over the next week! (w caution set aside for unforeseen calamity ofc, but i’m optimistic)

little snippet below!

Spring

It’s an odd story, how Lily buys a house with her illustrator.

A hand brushes along the back of her head, warm and soft.

She jolts, then glances back. Feels the hand fall away.

James is standing there, chest still a bit sunburned from the beach. His fingers still hover slightly, before settling back at his side.

She stares up at him for a second, a silent question. Her instinct is to tense, to turn to stone, to demand recompense. She wouldn’t let just anyone touch her.

“Your clip was crooked,” he murmurs after a second.

Lily swallows. Sweat presses against the nape of her neck, but somehow not as warm as his touch was. She can still feel the salt and sand clinging to her toes, pressed against the warm stone of the garden path.

“I like it,” he adds, then shrugs. As if he’s guilty of something, but can’t be bothered to apologize for it.

Her eyes fall to his chest, stained pink.

“I don’t,” she remembers to say after far too long has passed. Her fingers curl around the armrest of the hot metal chair.

James tilts his head, then shrugs again. He steps backwards, towards the house. His shirt is untucked, sunburned chest slipping through like a violent sunset. “Then wear your hair down.”

Her laugh is crackly, dry, warm in her throat. The thought flashes through her head, lightning fast: So you can run your fingers through it?

It doesn’t make it past her lips.

[hoshifighting]

WARNINGS: smut, penetrative sex, nasty messy sex so—mentions of body fluids (cum), hair pulling, cock riding, really horny reader, hoshi rolling his hips like a slut, it doesnt have an order, it's just a long drabble of how hoshi fucks.

hoshi's hip (sex) game is the topic of the night, and this a post 100% dedicated to it (and how he fucks basically). i swear, there's not a SINGLE fic of mine that doesnt mention hoshi circling his hips or going balls sack deep. DUH. he’s a dancer—body carved by god or whoever tf is up there crafting perfect models for shit like this.

but looks like all of his dancer journey have gone straight into how he fucks. and yeah, you should’ve said something earlier, should’ve prepared your damn soul for the hip game this man is packing. but nah, you were dumb. reckless. thought it’d just be another roll in the sheets.

it was not.

he’s got you laid out like a fucking masterpiece, your legs trembling before he’s even inside. his hands r steady as hell, holding your hips like they’re choreography. “you good?” he asks trying to sound cute, heartly being careful but with that stupidly hot, cocky grin curling his lips, like he already knows the answer. he does.

and when he slides in, it's game over. it’s not just the stretch (which is already enough to have your back arching like you’re tryna touch the ceiling). it’s the way he moves. hoshi doesn’t thrust. he rolls his hips, and i JUST KNOW! that it goes straight to the sweeet spot. he knows will ruin you. you’re done. wiped out.

“you feel that?” smug motherfucker. and yeah, you do. his tip’s got your g'spot on lockdown, like he mapped that shit out beforehand. every roll has his glutes flexing, you didn’t think you’d ever appreciated someone’s ass mid-fuck until hoshi, the power in them driving him deeper, balls-deep and then some. it’s like he’s tryna rewrite your anatomy.

“fuck me—” it’s the only thing you can manage because every other thought in your brain has been evicted.

“yeah, that’s what i thought.” he punctuates his words with a sharp snap of his hips. he’s got one hand gripping your thigh, the other tangling in your hair. if it’s long, he’s wrapping it around his wrist, pulling your head back just enough to meet his gaze.

“look at me,” he commands, and his hips don’t. fucking. stooooop, grinding into you like he’s on heat. “c’mon, babe. lemme hear you.”

but all you can manage is this strangled suffocated moan because his pulse is fucking otherworldly. he knows it, too. his smirk deepens, his eyes dark with that predatory gleam of someone who knows he’s completely destroying you.

legs, trembling. breath, nonexistent. moans, choked af, caught in your throat because his tip is right there. massaging your cervix, hitting that spot like it owes him rent. hips circling so smoothly it feels like he’s winding you tighter and tighter, like you’re about to snap.

and when you do—because obviously you do—he doesn’t slow down. no, he leans into it, letting you ride that high while his pace stays maddeningly perfect. every roll, every grind, like he’s got this whole thing down to a science.

hoshi knows exactly what he’s doing. and he loves it. loves the way your body reacts to him, the way your thighs tremble and your back arches, the way your moans break apart like you can’t take it anymore. “told you, didn’t i?” he says, grinning as he watches you unravel. “best fuck in the world.”

you knew you were screwed the moment hoshi smiled at you during that dinner. not the polite kind of smile tho—it was the type that tugged at the corner of his mouth, the one that promised chaos (very hoshi of him). you’d spent the whole night thinking, damn, he’s so sweet, so charming, falling for his jokes and the way his laugh made everything else blur. and then, that same mouth was pressed against your neck not even two hours later, and now you’re realizing that “sweet” is the last fucking word you’d ever use for him.

it’s not even just him, it’s the fact that he drags you down with him. one second, you’re gasping like some innocent disney princess; the next, you’ve got your knees digging into the mattress, heels propped up, grinding down on his cock like you’re trying to carve his name into your pussy.

“ohmygodyouresofuckingbig” you gasp, your voice wild, your hand braced against the headboard so you don’t fucking launch into orbit. his hands resting on your hips, loose as hell, like he’s just chilling, letting you take what you want.

he laughs at the sight, his chest glistening from sweat, abs flexing every time you drop down. his head tips back against the pillow, a hand running through his messy hair as he watches you like you’re putting on the show of a lifetime. “weren’t you just the sweetest little thing at dinner? now you’re grinding on me like you think i’m about to leave.”

your reply isn’t even a word. it’s a throaty, drawn-out moan, one that sounds ripped straight from a porno, because hoshi’s cock feels like it was engineered to ruin you. every time your hips roll down, you feel him, thick and impossibly deep, stretching you making your brain short-circuit. “shit, baby,” he groans when you clench around him, his hands tightening ever so slightly. “you’re so—fuck—tight.”

you’re too far gone to even be embarrassed. filthy sounds of your bodies moving together are louder than any shame you could’ve had, and when his tip drags right against your sweet spot, you lose it.

“fuck, hoshi,” you babble, your voice cracking as you try to form coherent thoughts. “so deep, you’re so—god, you’re—you’re ruining me!”

his laugh rumbles beneath you. “ruining you?” he mocks. “baby, you’re doing all the work. look at you. riding me like you’re afraid my cock’s gonna disappear.”

you barely register his words. but when he takes one hand and tangles it in your hair again, pulling just enough to tilt your head back, you’re done for. absolutely done. “oh my god, oh my fucking god,” you cry out, your thighs burning from the effort, but you don’t stop. can’t stop. he’s too deep, too good, his cock hitting your g-spot with every grind, every roll, and it’s got you unraveling at the seams.

“listen to you,” he keeps talking, even though he's more moaning than saying anything. “such a good girl at dinner, saying please and thank you. now you’re on my cock, moaning like you’re getting paid for it.”

“you—fuck—you’re so—fucking big,” you manage to gasp, your hand sliding down his chest, fingers curling into his slick skin as if that’ll keep you steady. “so deep, hosh, i can’t—i’m gonna—oh my god.”

his hips shifting up just a fraction to meet yours. that tiny movement sends stars shooting across your vision, and agian, he fucking knows it. “yeah?” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower. “you gonna cum for me, baby? gonna cream my cock, hm?” his words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do, but your body reacts before your brain can catch up. your thighs tremble, your moans turning into these high-pitched, incoherent whines as you chase that high, grinding down harder, faster.

“that’s it,” he groans, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to make your screams go silent. “fuck, you’re so good. so fucking good. take it, baby. take everything.”

and when you finally snap, your head tipping back, your moans breaking into sharp, breathless cries, he lets you ride it out. doesn’t rush, doesn’t push, just watches with this half-lidded, satisfied grin as you completely lose your dignity on his cock.

AND.

he loves the mess. thrives in it, even.

it starts when he’s got his fingers buried in you, watching the way your slick coats them with every pump. his other hand’s braced against your thigh, holding you open, keeping you spread so he can watch the way you clench and drip around him.

“listen to that,” grin on his face pure sin as his fingers curl. the wet, obscene sounds of your cum fill the air, and he’s eating it up, moaning slutty like it’s his favorite fucking song. “so messy, baby. you like that, huh? making such a pretty little mess on my hand.” he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, until there’s a wet spot on the sheets beneath you, proof of just how far he went.

“fuck, look at that,” he groans, dragging his coated fingers along your inner thigh, leaving wet trails that make you shudder. when he slides into you, it’s like he’s in a trance. slow just enough to feel the way your walls squeeze around him, wet and hot and perfect. but then he pulls out almost entirely, glancing down to watch the way your cum clings to him, coating every inch of his cock in a slick, glistening sheen.

he does it again. until he’s buried deep, then pulls out just to watch. the slick sound of it drives him insane, makes him groan low in his throat as he watches strings of your sluick stretch between you before dripping down onto the sheets. every thrust is accompanied by the wet, obscene sound of your slick, loud enough to echo in the room, loud enough to make him grin (maybe thats why he likes to roll his hips deep inside you, because makes the sound louder??) “every time i move, i can hear you, baby. you hear that? that’s all you.”

but it’s never enough for him, hoshi’s gotta see it. so he slows down, pulls out entirely, and fuck, the sight alone is enough to make him lose it. your arousal glistens on his cock, dripping in thick, shining lines, pooling onto the bed beneath you. he runs a hand along his length, spreading it, smearing it, just so he can watch how messy you’ve made him.

and then he’s back inside, the glide impossibly smooth, wet and filthy, and he’s groaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

[ang3lc]

pleaseeee can i ask for Simon and a cam girl?

i love the idea of the average cam girl getting some special attention and tips from the grumpy solider

of course you can doll !

simon x camgirl!reader (fem), suggestive, my mind kind of went away with this one :/, ps: should I start making headers for fics??

You’d always been careful about keeping the two parts of your life separate. By day, you were a soldier—focused, professional, working alongside men like Simon Riley, men who noticed everything and missed nothing. By night, you were swathed in shadows, pink lace, and satin sheets, faceless yet vibrant in ways you couldn’t allow yourself to be during the day.

It was a delicate balancing act, one you’d perfected over time. But even the best plans can fall apart.

That mission was supposed to be routine—a simple extraction, in and out, no complications. But, as always, distractions have a way of complicating a firefight. And a bullet had come too close.

Simon had been the one to find you once the fighting died down, crouched behind cover and pressing your hand to your bleeding arm.

“Y'hit,” he said, his voice as even as ever, though his eyes scanned you with a sharpness that made your chest tighten.

“Just a graze,” you replied, gritting your teeth as he knelt beside you.

“Hold still f'me.”

He pulled out his kit, his hands steady as he cleaned and stitched the wound. You bit back a wince, the sting sharp but nothing compared to the weight of his gaze.

“Y'lucky,” he said finally, tying off the last stitch. “An inch t'the left, 'n we’d be havin' a different conversation.”

You nodded, mumbling a quiet thanks before he helped you to your feet. The mission went on, the wound forgotten in the chaos, but later, when you stripped off your gear, you traced the neat line of stitches and thought about the way his hands had felt—steady, sure, and too close for comfort.

He didn’t forget.

The way your blood had stained his gloves, the way you’d flinched but didn’t complain. It wasn’t the first time he’d patched up a teammate, but something about it stayed with him.

Two weeks later, he still found himself thinking about it, replaying the moment like it held an answer he hadn’t figured out yet.

He doesn’t remember when it started—the quiet pull toward something he knew wasn’t wise. Nights after long missions blurred into watching her, RosyRail, with her baby doll lingerie, her seemingly always kiss-bitten lips, and hair that always fell just right. The name was a sugary veil, but what kept him coming back was the sharpness beneath her sweetness. The wit that cut through the screen and made his cock twitch.

She never showed her face. Just soft-lit glimpses of her lips, her hands, the curve of her neck, and always the way she moved—purposeful, but never desperate. He shouldn’t have been curious, but he was.

Something had been nagging at him—the way she covered herself so carefully, never letting the camera linger too long on anything that might reveal her identity. It was deliberate, and Simon knew deliberate when he saw it.

The pieces came together all at once.

Simon sat in his quarters, the screen’s glow reflecting in his eyes as he watched her. She shifted, leaning forward slightly to adjust the camera, and the sleeve of her robe slipped down her shoulder.

His breath hitched.

There, on her upper arm, was a scar. Fresh, pink, and impossibly familiar.

It was you.

RosyRail was you.

You settled into your chair, the familiar brush against your skin grounding you as you adjusted the camera and the straps of your lace chemise. The pink robe draped carefully over your shoulders, a soft contrast to the nerves coiling in your chest.

The ritual was the same every time: a deep breath, a flick of the live button, and the mask slipping effortlessly into place.

“Evening, everyone,” you said, your tone warm and inviting, smoothing over the rough edges of your day. “How’s everyone doing tonight?”

The chat lit up instantly, the usual flood of greetings and flattery scrolling past, but your focus zeroed in on one name: Frosty_14

There he was. A smile tugged at your lips. Silent as always, reliable as ever. You leaned closer to the camera, resting your chin in your palm. “Perfect timing, as always, Frost.”

You were lost in the rhythm of your stream for a while, teasing the viewers with even more skin when the price was right, but missing your favorite tipper. He usually tipped the most, making everybody else work a little harder. Aside from that, everything was flowing as it always did.

You didn’t hear it at first, the sound of a knock muffled by the low hum of soft music and the noise of donation alerts, but then, there it was again—louder this time, followed by the unmistakable creak of your barrack door swinging open.

The sight of him made your stomach plummet. You slammed the laptop shut, your heart pounding in panic, but it was already too late. The damage had been done. He’d seen it all—the soft glow of the sunset lamp, the faux-background you’d carefully set up, all leading to you sitting there, legs crossed, perched in a chair with your tits pushed up high, a flimsy thong barely covering your front. You were laid out for him, every inch of you meticulously arranged, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

You couldn’t breathe. Your pulse thundered in your ears as Simon took a slow step into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft thud. He didn’t say a word. His silence was heavier than any accusation, and instead of speaking, his eyes roamed over you—every inch of you, the way you tried, desperately, to pull the robe back over your body. His gaze lingered, unrelenting, a smoldering heat that burned through the fabric, settling on every exposed curve. You could feel the weight of it, impossible to ignore.

He didn’t respond right away. A cold sweat trickled down your spine as he moved toward you with deliberate confidence that made the air thick with tension.

"So," he said, his voice low, dangerous, as though he were savoring the moment. "This wha' y'been hidin', yeah? Like to plaster y'tits on a screen?"

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and your heart skipped a beat. "I..I.." You opened your mouth to speak, to explain, but the words were trapped. There was no easy way out now. The reality of the situation—of him, really seeing you—settled in, and you felt your cheeks flush with heat.

Then, finally, he smirked. The corner of his lips twitched upward, a slow, knowing curve, and even through the black of his mask, you could see it shift, subtle but unmistakable. It sent a jolt through you, making your stomach flip. The tension pressing down on you both like a vice. 

“Y’ve got some explaining to do,” he said, his tone almost teasing.

You sat there, frozen for a moment, trying to regain control of your racing thoughts. But all at once, the weight of it hit you. 

He already knew.

The realization crashed over you, and the instinct to cover yourself or hide evaporated. You couldn’t ignore it. He had known. And there was only one way how.

Without thinking, you stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as you closed the distance between you. You stood toe-to-toe with him, the heat from his body radiating toward you. His towering presence made you feel small, but you squared your shoulders, refusing to back down.

“How?” you demanded, your voice sharp as you closed the distance between you. Your chest was tight with a mix of frustration and panic. “How did you find out?”

Simon’s gaze stayed steady, but there was a flicker behind his eyes—something that told you he hadn’t expected this. His mask hid so much, but his posture—his silence—spoke volumes.

He didn’t answer right away, just stood there, unmoving, his eyes narrowed slightly. The seconds stretched, thick with tension. But then, to your surprise, his shoulders tensed, and he lowered his gaze, as if reconsidering.

“I—" he began, his voice slower than before. "I didn’t know, not at first.”

“I noticed somethin'.” He sighed, like he was working through his own thoughts. "I saw y'.... y'robe slip.” He paused, his gaze drifting briefly to your arm.

The scar.

You stiffened. You hadn’t thought about it, not until now. The scar, the one you had thought you'd kept hidden, had betrayed you.

Simon’s eyes lingered on the now exposed reddish-pink mark for a moment, his gaze suddenly soft, almost apologetic. Without a word, his hand reached out, almost hesitantly. The brush of his fingertips against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, his touch light but undeniable. He ran his hand over your arm, following the curve of the scar as if memorizing it, as if trying to understand.

You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, and in that moment, the weight of everything you’d been hiding seemed to disappear beneath his hand.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost unsure. “Not until I saw this.”

You could feel his thumb tracing the scar, his breath soft against your skin. A silence fell between you, and the space that had been charged with tension shifted into something else—something far more fragile.

His statement hung in the air, unchallenged. Simon’s hand lingered, his touch no longer just a simple gesture, but something more intimate, something you didn’t quite understand.

But you didn’t need to say anything. The truth had already spoken for itself. Your fingers slipped into his, a gentle but insistent pull guiding him further into the room. Simon followed without hesitation, his body attuned to your lead, moving pliantly with you. When your palms pressed against his chest, he let you ease him back until the bed creaked beneath his weight.

A soft grunt rumbled from his chest as you crawled atop his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips, anchoring him beneath you. You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his masked ear, your voice curling around him like smoke, thick and syrupy, dripping with saccharine temptation.

"Let me show you some other services I offer... Frost."

mlist

[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!

[masonmtxo]

Feels like Summer

Words: 3k

Summary: what started out as a holiday fic turned into girlie getting broody

Notes: please leave feedback, it really means the world and is such a motivator 🩷

•••

You'd never felt more relaxed in your life, the sun beating down on your skin as you laid on the lounger beside the pool, the heat making you sleepy, despite the chaos taking place only a few feet away from you.

A stark contrast from your pure state of bliss, Mason could only describe the fun being had in the pool as absolute bedlam. There were excitable screams from children in all directions, a niece (though he wasn't sure which one) was clinging to his back as she squealed, before her grip loosened and a little pink swimming costume clad body dove onto the unicorn float beside him. Poppy's little face spun to meet him, a huge grin on her face as he playfully grabbed hold of the float she was now sat upon, dragging it through the water behind him as his heart soared at her gleeful screams.

Don't get him wrong, he loved playing football, but the extended period of time he got to spend with his family under the sun during his summer break was his definition of perfection. Nothing could beat the feeling of spending his days being the fun uncle, acting like a big kid with his nieces and nephew, competing with his brother to be their favourite. He was in his element, splashing around the pool and playing games until they were all exhausted, heading inside for a snack and a nap. And in Mason's case, a cuddle and some loving with you. Sometimes you'd get involved in the chaos, his nieces adored you and would beg and beg until you'd jump in with them, sometimes telling Mason it was "girls time" and he wasn't allowed to join in. But for the most part you stayed in the dry, letting Mason and Lewis act as kids entertainers and tire themselves out trying to compete with each other.

You watched from your place beside the pool, eyes covered by sunglasses, exchanging words with Debbie every now and then as she sat on the sun lounger beside you.

You're not sure why you chose to blurt it out so abruptly, but you couldn't help yourself, heart soaring as you watched him interacting with his niece, "he's going to be the best dad."

Debbie took a sharp intake of breath, whipping her head round to look at you and peering over the top of her sunglasses, "are you...?"

Her words drifted off as you quickly stopped her,

"oh no, no, no," you hurried out, not missing the disappointment that washed over her face, "I just can't help but get broody when I see him with kids."

You and Debbie had always been close, she had treated you like her own from the minute you had met and over the years you had formed a close bond. There was something about the way her kind eyes bored into you that always had you opening up to her, something that her son had inherited too.

"He's in his element when he's with them, isn't he?" She smiled softly, her heart clenching as she watched you watching him, overcome with gratitude that her baby had found someone who loved him as much as you did. "He's always been good with kids, even when he was young all the littlens seemed to be drawn to him."

You nodded, taking a sip of your drink before turning to face her, breaking your eyes away from Mason as he began tossing Summer up in the air, "He keeps dropping hints about having a baby. I caught him looking at baby United kits on his phone the other day so I know he's ready."

"So what's stopping you?"

"I dunno, I guess with the move up North and having to re-jig my whole life, I felt quite unsettled for a while and there was no way a baby in the equation would have been practical," you shrugged, unable to avert your gaze from him, not wanting to a miss a second of the sweet display.

Debbie hummed in agreement, sensing you still had more to say.

Sighing, you carried on, "part of me is selfishly happy he didn't play much this season, as bad as it sounds," you were embarrassed to admit it, feeling guilty about the way you felt, but it was the truth, "It meant I had him around a bit more when I was feeling down. Don't get me wrong I'd move anywhere with him if he needed me to, but I don't think I fully comprehended how big of a change it would be for me. I've only just started making friends that aren't other partners of the players, wnd even with them it took me an age before I didnt feel like the new girl."

"Oh sweetheart," she reached across the beds to take hold of your hand, squeezing it in hers, "you know you could have always called, I would have been there in a heartbeat to come and keep you company."

"Mase did keep saying in the beginning that you would be happy to come up and stay for a bit, but I just didn't want to be an inconvenience you know" you paused, taking comfort from her warm hand in yours as you finally opened up about a years worth of turmoil, "he was the one who was getting hammered publically, he was the one who had to start off again at a whole new club. I just wanted him to worry about himself for once, not me."

"He always worries about you, he called me a lot in the first few months as he had a feeling you weren't settled but you were refusing to admit it," Debbie's voice was soft, motherly in a way that made you feel comfortable enough to divulge all your inner thoughts and fears.

"Bless him," you smiled as you turned back to look at him, now teaching the girls how to do star floats on their backs, "I remember one time l'd had a really bad day, a group of the girls who l'd been getting friendly with had met up without me and I was so sensitive, cried about it when I saw them all together on instagram," you laughed, "and he was so sweet, kept asking if I wanted to move back home and he would see if he could commute from London because he could tell I was unhappy."

Debbie laughed, shaking her head with a smile as it was something he had also mentioned to her in one of his panics. She had shut him down instantly, telling him to not be so dramatic and it was just a big adjustment.

"I think he was worried I would break up with him," you spoke softly, admitting something that you hadn't actually vocalised before.

Remembering the way he was on egg shells with you for weeks, doing everything he could to try and make you feel like Manchester was home.

Debbie didn't respond, just gave your hand another squeeze in acknowledgment. She knew it was something he had agonised over, sometimes breaking down into tears as he poured his heart out to his mum over the phone, worried he was making you unhappy by forcing you to leave your life behind for him. Debbie had reassured him repeatedly it wouldn't happen, and she had been right. It was just a bump in the road, and with his recurring injuries and subsequent time off the tearful calls had become less frequent, the extra time you had been allowed to spend together helping you settle into a new normal.

By the time he had gone back to training full time, you'd found your rhythm, making friends through Anouska who had kindly taken you under her wing and introduced you to all the best coffee places and parks to walk Ace in, the puppy Mason had bought to make you feel safer and less lonely when he was away. It had taken time, but you finally saw Manchester as home, loving the city more than you thought you would.

You settled into a comfortable silence for a while before Debbie spoke up again, still holding your hand in hers, "You know when you two were house hunting after moving up there he asked Lewis to find options that were listed as family homes," she smirked, eyebrows raised suggestively as you turned to look at her.

"I knew you'd want to go back to the grandkids topic," you giggled, shaking your head at her lack of subtlety, another trait Mason had taken from her.

"Can you blame me? I'll never say no to more babies in the family," her smile was infectious, making you return her grin.

"We did discuss a bit when we were house hunting. I didn't want to buy something so big to be honest, purely because the amount of cleaning it would need," you groaned, being reminded that you worry had come to fruition, "but he made a good point and said it's going to be the house we have kids in, so may as well buy one that's ready for that step."

"And are you ready for that step?"

"Yeah," you nodded, feeling sure of yourself, "he's been ready for the past few years, it's been me that's always had my foot on the break. But for the last few months the feeling just hasn't gone away, I keep going over to Anouska's just to get my baby fix with Lumie," you laughed, "and every time Stacey hands Honey over for a cuddle I struggle to give her back."

"You better hurry up and tell Mason then," she teased.

"Tell me what?" You both turned to see the man of the hour pulling himself up out of the pool having caught onto the last few words of your conversation.

Releasing her grip on your hand, Debbie shuffled up from her seat, "I'll leave you two to talk."

Watching her go, you would help but roll your eyes affectionately at the little spring in her step as she rushed over to the other side of the pool where Tony was sitting with a beer, clearly excited to fill him in on the prospect that they may soon be getting another grandchild.

Mason was watching you, taking the opportunity to drink in your bikini clad body while you were focused elsewhere, admiring the curves of your body and the glow from the sun on your skin.

"Go on then," he broke the silence, "what have you got to tell me?" His head cocked in question.

"Come here?" You asked, opening your arms to invite him to lay with you, figuring there was no time like the present and if you didn't tell him he would spend the day pestering you until you inevitability broke down to pressure.

"I've just got out of the pool," he warned, glancing down to his wet torso when he noticed you were transfixed on his body, a slight pink dusting over your already flushed cheeks.

"Don't care, want a cuddle," you murmured, smiling as he carefully plopped on top of you, head resting on your chest as his left hand trailed up and down the side of your body. His wet body cooled you instantly from the layer of heat the sun had given you, goosebumps covering your skin from the combined sensations of the cold and his gentle touch.

You sat in silence for a while, gathering your thoughts while enjoying the feeling of having each other close, the last time you had an opportunity to spend time with him had been in bed that morning. You had awoken to day light flooding into the room having forgotten to close them the night before in your desperation to get each other into bed. Your neediness hadn't passed, knowing you had to make the most of your time together before spending the day surrounded by his family. He had fucked into you slowly from behind, whispering how much he loved you into your ear until you were both spent, followed by another quick fumble in the shower before getting ready to meet the others for breakfast.

The kids had stolen him after that, so you made sure to enjoy the moments you had with him during the day, even if they were few and far between sometimes.

“So, you gonna tell me what mum was talking about?” He broke the silence after a while, fingers tracing over your stomach and you couldn't help but smile at the irony.

"I want a baby.”

His head shot up from your chest instantly, wild eyes searching your expression, "Are you serious!?"

"Yeah,” you nodded slowly, “I've been thinking about it for a while, every time I see you with kids I feel like I’m going to explode. But that's only if you're ready too.”

He laughed, the grin on his face probably the biggest you'd ever seen, happiness radiating through his brown eyes, “You know I've always been ready to have kids with you.”

“I know,” you face was apologetic, reaching out to cup his cheek and trace a gentle path across his flushed cheek, “and i'm sorry for making you wait so long, I just felt like bringing a baby into the world when I was feeling a bit all over the place wasn't the best idea.”

“No I get that, it wasn't the right time last year,” he agreed solomley, though a smile was threatening to burst through, “I know we spoke about kids and how we wanted them soon when we moved into the house but I was always happy to wait until you were ready too.”

“I felt ready all along in terms of our relationship, like if it happened accidentally last year I never would've had doubts or felt rushed. I just didn't feel ready to start actively trying you know? Felt like we had a lot going on and the pressure would've got to me I think."

"We don't have to put any pressure on it, even if it takes time," he reassured, "the baby making is the fun bit anyway." His cheeky grin made you giggle, loving the way he always knew exactly what to say to relax you and make you laugh. "And if you have second thoughts and want to wait for a bit before we remove contraception that's fine. We can do everything at your pace.”

You shook your head softly, he was so unbelievably caring you felt your stomach clench with love, "no I don't need anymore time to think," eyes flitting away from him to admire a bird circling the sky above you,

"It's something i've been thinking about for months now. I thought I’d wait and see, to see if the feeling went away once summer started and you were home all the time and I wasn't so lonely. But if anything it has got worse, I've never been so broody in my life.”

"Yeah?" His voice was soft, his eyes a little bit watery as he struggled to contain the love he felt for you in that moment.

"Yeah," you confirmed, mirroring his expression.

He rested his head back on your chest, trying to steady his breathing as his heart hammered in his chest. You were finally saying everything he had been waiting to hear for the past year, excitement pulsing through his entire body at the prospect of getting to become a parent with you.

"I want two, maybe 3 kids I think,” you murmured.

"Oh at least 3 for sure, the more you let me have the better," he grinned teasingly, his chin resting on the valley between your chest so he could look up at you adoringly.

"You're gonna be the best daddy in the world," you hummed, stroking the back of his head through his wet locks.

"And you’ll be the best mum,” he whispered, pressing a series of kisses to your chest, trailing his lips up until he reached your neck, “wanna go practice making a baby?"

"Mason, I just spoke to your mum about wanting a child, I'm not disappearing off with you, she will know exactly what we're doing," you groaned, gently grasping his face and pushing him out from the crook of your neck in an attempt to stop him getting carried away.

Mason barked out a laugh, "Babe, mum knows if she wants another grandchild we're gonna have to be having lots of sex, probably even more than usual," he wiggled his eyebrows at you suggestively, trying to charm you into letting him have his way with you but you were holding firm.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean hiding away to have a shag while on a family holiday, when all your nieces and nephews are here as well."

"You let me fuck you last night," he grumbled, "and this morning."

"Yes, while everyone was in bed Mason," you chastised.

"Baby they aren't stupid, they know we don't go in our room at night and play scrabble til we fall asleep," his voice was teasing, letting you know he was only playing around with you.

"That's beside the point, Mase. If we disappear now you may as well stand up and make an announcement across the villa we're going for a quick fuck."

"I mean I wouldn't be opposed to doing that," he shrugged, playfully biting at the palm of your hand that was still cupped around his face, "at least we wouldn't be disturbed."

"You're an idiot," you couldn't help but laugh at him, flicking him on the shoulder in jest.

"But you love me and you wanna make loads of babies with me," his smirk was full of teasing, dipping his head to bite gently down on the swell of your breast knowing it would wind you up further.

"Mason, do you remember you said I could decide otherwise at any point?" You asked pointedly.

He nodded, his smile not dropping.

"Don't test me," you countered.

With another sharp laugh, he pulled you in for a kiss, cupping your face in his large hand, his lips sweet and soft against yours before pulling away, "fine, I'll wait until tonight then."

🩷✨☁️

Thank you for reading! Please leave some feedback if you can, it means a lot and motivates me to keep posting!

[dolcettamagica]

𐙚˙⋆.˚ 𝐒𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐥' 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫

miami rick x reader

✧ request: Could you please do a fic where Miami Rick is kissing Y/N’s cervix and when she tries to push him away he says “move your fucking hand” ? @lavender-bong-water hope you like it, pookie! ✧ tags: vaginal fingering, dirty talk, pet names, degradation, cervix kissing, choking, raw, cream pie, miami loves your thighs, f!reader, ofc again not beta read lol, miami being a cutie at the end, daddy kink ✧ wc: 3.1k

Miami Rick was not only a devilish troublemaker, he was a businessman. He owned multiple bars, clubs and hotels all around the galaxies, universes and realities. Even the citadel allowed him to open a club on its ground. What made it really special however was none other than you.

Back in his original universe he got to know you on miami beach, working at a bar and mixing drinks. Of course Miami was not only captivated by your figure in that snug tight bikini, the way your tits almost bounced out everytime you bent over the counter, you mixed some pretty good drinks as well. It didn’t take long for him to pursue you to work for him instead – he promised you a high pay and fun, something you would never encounter in your recent job. Curiosity bagged the cat and Miami took you to his club at the citadel.

Granted it was hard to get you some kind of working visa but thankfully the other Ricks were just as mesmerized by your body and the sweet alcoholics you ended up serving. Working there was, indeed, fun. You were a hit, Ricks loved seeing a pretty woman serve them and Miami loved making money.

And now, one year later, Miami sat at the bar of the club, toothpick between his teeth, as he stared at his pretty little barkeeper.

In the heart of the citadel's nightlife scene lies the most renowned club, pulsating with energy and allure. Amidst the thumping beats and swirling lights, there's a focal point of magnetism, embodied in the form of the barkeeper, a woman whose allure transcends mere beauty.

You moved behind the bar with an effortless grace, your every motion a symphony of confidence and allure. Your attire, a tantalizing blend of sophistication and allure, hugged your curves in all the right places, leaving just enough to the imagination to fuel the fantasies of the patrons who flock around you.

Ricks of all sorts of versions gravitate towards you like moths to a flame, their eyes fixated on her every move. Some attempt casual conversation, hoping to capture even a moment of your attention, while others simply gaze from afar, spellbound by your presence. But you navigated the attention with a practiced ease, acknowledging each admirer with a captivating smile that hints at untold secrets.

Behind your intoxicating facade lies a woman of depth and intelligence, your sharp wit matching your physical allure. You listened to the stories and desires of those who seek your company, offering a fleeting glimpse into your world with every exchange.

Yet, amidst the chaos of the club, you remained an enigma, your allure unattainable yet irresistible. For those who dare to dream, you embodied the epitome of desire, a siren luring them into a world of hedonistic pleasures.

Amidst the swirling haze of cigarette smoke and pulsating music, Miami lurked in the shadows, his eyes fixated on you with an intensity that borders on obsession. With a toothpick clutched between his teeth, he watched your every move, his mind consumed by a primal desire that refuses to be quelled.

As you moved behind the bar, effortlessly enchanting those around you with your beguiling charm, Miami imagined himself in your presence, his fantasies running wild with the prospect of possessing you at least for a night. In his mind's eye, Miami envisions you succumbing to his every whim, your skin pressed against his, your breath hot against his neck as he pounds into you.

You shared a moment that ignited a fire within you both, once, a few days ago. It was a hot, steamy kiss that seared your souls, leaving Miami breathless and wanting more.

Your lips met in a fervent embrace, a collision of passion and desire that sent shockwaves through your bodies. In that stolen moment, time stood still as you lost yourselves in the heat of your longing, your hands exploring each other with an urgency born of pent-up desire.

For him, that kiss was a revelation, awakening a primal hunger that consumed him from within. From that moment on, his fantasies grew darker and more intense, his thoughts consumed by the need to fuck you.

Miami yearned for rough, dirty sex, craving the taste of your skin, the sound of your moans filling the air like a symphony of desire. He wanted to take you with a raw, primal intensity.

As he continued to stare at you from across the room, his gaze burning with unbridled lust, Miami knew that he would do whatever it took to make his fantasies a reality.

With a self-assured stride, he approached the bar, his movements purposeful and confident. Closing the distance between you, Miami positioned himself right behind you, his chest pressing against your back in a deliberate display of closeness.

Leaning in, Miami offered his assistance with a playful grin, his voice dripping with charm.

"Looks like you could use a hand, sweetheart," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. His words carry a teasing undertone, an invitation for you to engage in a seductive dance.

As he reached past you to help with the tasks at hand, his touch was lingering and deliberate, sending a rush of sensation through you. Each brush of his fingers against yours ignites a spark of electricity, heightening the tension between you two.

He's acutely aware of the risks of giving in to temptation, but in this moment, the allure of you is too potent to resist. And so, Miami continued to flirt and tease, toeing the line between professionalism and desire, his every move a testament to the primal hunger that thrums beneath the surface. But does professionalism really mean anything to Miami? Fuck no.

As the music pulsed in the background, Miami pressed himself further against you, wrapping his arm around your waist with a possessive yet tantalizing grip. Drawing you closer, he felt the heat radiating.

With a low, seductive murmur, he leaned in, his lips brushing against your earlobe as he whispered sweet nothings that sent shivers down your spine.

“Come on, baby, let’s–let’s go to the other room.”

“You remember that kiss, right? Wanna k–kiss something else now.”

“Let daddy fuck you.”

His kisses and playful nibbles on your earlobe caused you to melt into his embrace, feeling his hard-on pressing against your ass.

Around you, the patrons of the club took notice of your intimate display. Some watched with interest, captivated by the raw sensuality that radiated from the pair. Others, feeling the urge to dance and seek their own adventures, left the bar to join the pulsating rhythm of the dance floor.

But for you, the world outside of your embrace faded into obscurity as you lost yourselves in each other.

“Promise to fuck me real good?”, what a teasing way you agreed.

Miami felt a rush of adrenaline curse through his veins. He knew you would say yes, he knew you were playing hard to get ever since he met you for the first time at the beach. Only a snicker fell from his lips as he grabbed you by your wrist and pulled you into a small room at the back of the bar. The other Ricks had to wait.

“Fucking finally”, he growled with a primal hunger in his eyes, he closed the distance between you, his footsteps purposeful and deliberate.

Before you could react, he had you pinned against the door, his body pressed firmly against yours once again, trapping you between him and the hard surface. Startled, you gasped, but Miami silenced you with a look that spoke volumes, a silent command for your obedience.

With a swift and commanding motion, he lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. There was a wildness in his eyes, a raw desire that sent a thrill coursing through you, mingled with a hint of danger that only served to heighten your senses.

“I’ve been thinking–thinking about this ever since we kissed, sweetheart.”

Without a word, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a possessive kiss that left you breathless and wanting more. Miami’s hands roamed over your body with a primal urgency, igniting a fire within you that blazed hotter with each passing moment. Suddenly he pushed his leg between yours, pressing against your most intimate part.

You could feel the strength in his touch, the controlled power of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn't afraid to take it. Every caress, every brush of his lips against your skin, sent shivers of pleasure racing through you, driving you to the brink of madness.

And as you finally pulled apart, breathless and spent, Miami stared at your face with a smug grin gracing his lips. You looked so cute, he wanted to eat you. Blushed face, out of breath, eyes half closed, looking up to him oh so seductively. Did you even understand, had the slightest idea, how much you drive him crazy?

“Why are you so fucking cute and sexy at the same time?”

One hand reached down, his thumb tracing your lips before he slowly pushed it between your lips into your mouth. Slowly you wrapped your lips around his finger and let your tongue lick around it. Both of you gazed into each other's eyes, losing yourselves in each other. You could feel yourself getting wet while Miami’s cock was already hard, begging to be pulled out of his pants.

“Such a good, good girl for me, huh? What do you want, baby?”, he asked as he pulled his thumb out with a loud ‘pop’.

“P-please…please touch me.”

You didn’t need to say it twice. Instantly Miami reached down, thankful that you decided to wear a skirt to work – not only did he love the look, it made everything easier. This was going to be the best quickie of both of your lives and he was going to make sure of that. Did he bother to take your skirt off? No. It was surprising that he even had the patience to prep you instead of fucking you right there and then. 

“My lil’ barkeeper”, he cooed into your ear as he slid not one, but two fingers into your wet cunt. You whimpered and moaned, feeling his long fingers moving and curling inside you. Miami kissed you again, hot and messy, still towering over you and as soon as his lips left yours, he left kisses all over your neck, collarbone, cleavage. His free hand pulled your top up, exposing your tits which he quickly pulled out of your bra one after another.Miami continued to fuck his fingers inside you, squeezing your sensitive breast as he start to swirl his tongue against your nipple. 

"A-ah... R-Rick, daddy..."

The pet name made him suck harder, his body responding in ways you honestly always imagined about, although you never knew this would actually happen. You bite your lip, feeling your pussy tighten around his fingers. 

“You make me go fucking–fucking feral, baby.”

You whimper, feeling a pressure build up in you as he thrusted his fingers, continuing to suck your nipples and bite them ever so softly, moving his attention from tit to tit. He looked at you, fucking you with his fingers, stretching you out perfectly as you moan, your walls clenching around the intrusive fingers inside you.

"You're so cute like this, sweetheart. Moaning like a lil’ slut."

Without a warning his fingers left your leaking cunt and he took a step back. Your knees were weak, trembling even.

“Got on top of the table, baby, d-daddy’s gonna fuck you real good now.”

His wish (and also yours) was your command. You sat on the table in the middle of the room, anxiously waiting for Miami Rick, who followed you promptly. While you were getting ontop of the table, Miami unbuckled his pants and swiftly pulled his cock out. There was no time for all that taking clothes off. He needed you badly and he needed you now.

With purposeful strides, Miami crossed the room, his posture exuding confidence and authority. As he approached the table where you sat, his presence commanded attention, you couldn’t decide between staring at his face or his enormous cock. He took his place exactly between your legs.

“Good girl”, he grabbed his cock, slapping it against your still covered pussy. Miami couldn’t help snicker as he saw the wet spot on your thong, “Guess you liked it a lot. You’ll like this even more.”

His other hand pushed your thong to the side so that his tip could press against your entrance. Was he teasing you or himself?

“Fuck me already, please!”

“Needy lil’ whore.”

And with that he rammed himself into your soaking pussy, your walls tightening around him as he stretched you out. It hurt yet felt so fucking good. You screamed his name the same time he entered you and you felt yourself falling back against the table. Not a second passed before Miami started to thrust into you like a wild animal, succumbing to the intense hunger he felt the whole time.

“You like that? My cock buried deep inside your–your guts, huh? Fuck, you’re so…so fucking tight, baby.”

You were already a moaning mess even though you knew this was just the beginning.

“You think I didn’t see your short skirt and all the Ricks fucking staring at your de–delicious thighs, I wanted to destroy your pulsing cunt in the middle of that fucking bar right then and there.”

He pounded you even deeper and harder, hitting your g-spot every thrust. You felt your cunt clench on his cock.

“Wow it’s been five fucking minutes you fucking whore, already gone dumb on–on my cock now, such a slutty sight”, he growled as he continued to pound into you at an almost inhumane pace. His gold chain dangled in your face as bend over you to hit you even deeper and fuck, he really managed it. His cock was kissing your cervix, over and over again. It was too much, too good.

Whimpering you reached out, trying to push him away. If he didn’t stop you would cum too so–

“Move your fucking hand.”

His voice was just as rough as his thrusts. Your action riled him up even more. He wanted to ruin you, ruin that pretty cunt of yours, make you crazy over his cock. His hand wrapped around your throat, choking you out as his other hand pushed two fingers into your mouth.

“Fuck! You’re fucking squeezing me. You want me to treat you like this, don’t you? I can feel–feel your pussy vibrate around me.”

He was right. You loved it. You loved him fucking you as if you were his personal cocksleeve. Him choking you, calling you a slut, his balls slapping against you as he kisses your cervix – that’s why you denied him sex for so long, to make him lose his senses when he finally gets to. Now you were the one losing it though.

“Yes! Ah, yes! I-I love it, daddy!”

Every thrust of his hips drove his cock deep into your pussy, the spot inside of you that makes you shake and tremble deliciously grinded into. 

Your orgasm hit you, it’s sudden and so fucking good that you’re reduced to nothing but a whiny litany of Daddy Daddy Daddy and please please please.

Miami feels himself getting close, too. He gets sloppier but not less rough or deep as he continued to ram inside you. 

Rick’s hand that had previously been gripping her throat moved to on top of the table to steady himself while the other snaked around your front to rub harsh and fast circles over your already sensitive clit. His fingers were in perfect time with his strokes, your head falling to the side and your eyes rolling back at the stimulation.

“My slutty lil’ barkeeper”, Miami groaned while snapping his hips upwards, the tip of his cock never stopped kissing your sensitive cervix.

“You like being fucked like a whore, princess?” he asked, you were only able to give him an enthusiastic nod since words seemed to be completely out of the question at this point.

“Yeah, I know you do. You’re practically sucking–sucking me in…Fuck”

“D-daddy! I’m gonna cum—” your words were cut off by the moan tearing from your throat and Miami’s fingers moving faster on your clit. “Please, can I? Please, need it so bad!”

“Do it,” he ordered, dipping his head down to bite the junction of your neck and shoulder. “Fucking soak me, princess. Do it.”

The slight pain of his bite and the blinding pleasure of him fucking into you made you lose what little control you still had, and before you knew it, you were cumming violently around Miami. Your cunt squeezed and clenched around him. You felt a rush of fluid gush between your legs as Miami kept going, so close to his release that you could feel him shaking. One, two, three, four thrusts was all it took before he was following you into orgasmic ecstasy. 

He threw his head back, eyes clenched shut as the muscles of his torso tensed and slackened rapidly. You could feel his warm release fill you up and run down your leg as he thrusted a few more times on the comedown. You were still in a daze as he pulled out but a tiny whimper still left you at the sudden empty feeling. As if every nerve ending in your body was on fire, your mind focused on the sticky feeling of your mixed fluids between your thighs while Rick let you calm down on the table. Rick tugged his pants up and tucked his now soft cock away.

“That was amazing, baby”, he was still slightly out of breath yet he walked to where your head was lying and bent down, planting a soft kiss on your temple, “Take all the time you need to–to recover from that. Not too long though. Customers are waiting.”

“…are you going to leave me here alone?”

“I may be a Rick but I’m not that much of an asshole, baby.”

Your eyes followed him as grabbed a nearby chair and sat down. He knew his way around women and he knew how important aftercare was. Another kiss was left on your skin, this time your cheek.

“Don’t worry, princess, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well, can you clean me up then please?”

“Nuh uh, baby, I want you working behind that bar with my cum running down your sexy thighs.”

[pricklepearbloom]

Hey I've love love loved your acotar fics and was wondering if you could do like a jealousy fic with az like he's being completely irrational about the amount of time your spending with one of his brothers but you only love him and he goes to elain for comfort but it ends in fluff after a big argument because as we know he struggles to regulate/show his emotions thanksss

-🥒

a/n: hey loveee I hope this is something along the lines of what you wanted! I've never done an ask before (omg first!!) If anyone else has any request, don't be afraid to slide into my inbox bb.

All I Want

Pairing: Azriel x OC (Ruby)

Warnings: just some good old-fashioned angst, not beta read

Word count: 3.5K

As the morning sunlight gently filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room, Ruby found herself in a cocoon of comfort, wrapped in the tender embrace of the love of her life, her sweet mate Azriel. The soft rhythm of his breathing and his heart synchronized with hers in a sweet lullaby. In the mornings, it felt like the world outside the haven of their bedroom seemed to pause before the chaos of the day began. Gods she loved weekends, nothing to do but relax and stay cozy Ruby mused as she cuddled in further into her mate’s strong chest.

He pulled her closer as he began to wake placing a soft kiss on her head, practically shoving his nose into her hair to drown in the scent of her shampoo. “Mmm what time is it?” Ruby lightly rasped out, voice rough from disuse. “Who cares, I intend to stay right here all day.” Azriel replied as he gave her a small squeeze, running a thumb lightly along the small of her back. Ruby smiled softly letting her brain imagine spending all day in bed.

Shoot. She couldn’t spend all day in bed. Ruby’s eyes shot open and she sat up at breakneck speed. Azriel scrunched his brows and followed her up to a sitting position. “Is everything alright? Hey, wait where are you going?” He calls as Ruby jumps out of bed throwing on her dressing robe running into the bathroom.

“I’m sorry! I totally forgot I promised Cassian that I would meet with him today.” Ruby said her voice muddled from speaking with her toothbrush in her mouth. Azriel felt his stomach drop a bit, he had been looking forward to spending time with her today. Rhys had been piling more and more work on his plate and he promised he wouldn’t intervene today. “But wai-“ he tried to get out “I’m sorry I’m running terribly late I can’t believe I forgot, he’s going to kill me.”

Azriel took a deep breath as he watched her run around their bedroom putting on undergarments then picking up and smelling and pair of pants, making a face and putting it back down before repeating the process until she had found one that suited whatever clearly questionable requirements she had for clean laundry.

“I’ll be back later okay?” Ruby glanced up from pulling her shoes on her feet and saw the slightly lost look on Azriel’s face as he was still sitting upright in bed, mouth slightly ajar. She felt a kernel of guilt tighten in her stomach. “I can cancel if you want. I’m sorry I forgot to mention it, Cassian asked me to help him pick out an anniversary present for Nesta and you know him, he’s useless at that kind of stuff.”

Her eyes softened and she crawled back on the bed placing a soft kiss on Azriel’s sharp jawline that seemed clenched before immediately relaxing after feeling her soft lips on his face. “But if you want, I can absolutely cancel, and we can stay in bed and spend the day together?” He shook his head lightly, “no, it’s fine. You should go. Someone needs to stop him from buying her an engraved horse saddle.” He sighed “I’ll just miss you; will you be back later? Maybe we can make hot cocoa and read together?”

A fond smile came to Ruby’s lips at the idea. “That sounds lovely darling. I think I should be back just after lunch; I’ll see if we can stop by the bakery to get some of those pastries that you love.” She scooted off of the bed before leaning back in for one last kiss. Azriel wanted to make it count, his hand gently caressed her jaw and neck, thumb swiping back and forth along her cheek as he firmly planted a deep kiss that sent Ruby reeling. Azriel’s kisses were always filled with passion and love, they were like a drug to her, she could never get enough. Azriel was the first to pull away, a small smirk on his face seeing her eyes still shut spinning from his kiss. Still got it, he thought to himself smugly. “I love you.” She said softly before practically prancing out of the room, taking Azriel’s heart with her.

That was only the beginning, it seemed. Azriel noticed that Ruby seemed to be spending a lot of time with Cassian. Rationally he knew that nothing would ever happen between them, but his feelings didn’t seem to care much for rationality when Ruby was concerned. His anxiety rose higher and higher as the weeks passed on, holding it all in until one day, after coming home from a long and hard mission, he came to his breaking point.

Muscles aching from a mission, Azriel landed on the balcony of the Townhouse to see Rhys. Meetings with Rhys could take either five minutes or an hour and he had a feeling that this particular meeting was going to be on the longer side. He mentally groaned, his entire body was practically screaming at him to return to his home and wrap his arms around his warm, soft, loving mate. Ignoring the buzz that’s ever present when he thinks about Ruby, he steps off of the balcony and opens the glass door and is met with a rush of warm air and the comforting scent of his home and- is… is that his mate?

His pupils immediately dilated, and his pace picked up tenfold. He swiftly moved through the house following her unmistakable scent, his ears perking up at the sound of her laughter. His ears picked up a low rumble that distinctly did not sound like his mate. His hackles immediately rose as he rounded the corner to see Ruby and Cassian sitting side by side on the couch. He was operating on fumes and all his mind saw at that moment was the love of his life with a man that was not him and all. he. saw. was. red.

“What is this.” His voice cut through the warm atmosphere like his truth teller on a mission. Ruby’s eyes snapped up to meet his and lit up with excitement “Az!” Jumping up off of the couch to greet him. She took in his tight expression and lowered her arms that were barely raised to embrace him.

“What’s wrong?” She said cautiously taking a step toward him “Oh, not much. Just came here to debrief before going home after a very long day to see my faithful, loving mate. Only come to find her here with my brother.” Ruby’s eyebrows scrunched shocked while Cassian’s rose to his forehead “Azriel. You’re out of line.” Cassian said slowly rising from his seat on the couch with a confused expression on his face.

Cassian’s defense only served to anger Azriel even more. Obviously if he was being defensive that meant that something was going on. Ruby had been spending an obscene amount of time with Cassian, something more had to be going on. “Am I? Please, Cassian, tell me why you’re spending your night with my mate when you have your own to attend to? Or is she not enough for you anymore that you had to take what was mine as well.” Azriel practically spat out, his shadows lashing out from his body reacting to his heightened emotions.

Cassian’s eyes darkened at the slight against Nesta. “Don’t speak a word about my mate. She is and will always be enough for me. What is going on with you? This isn’t like you at all.” And he was right, the emotions that were roiling through Azriel didn’t feel like him at all. Usually, he would be ecstatic to see his mate and his brother getting along so well. When they first met, Ruby had some issues with feeling welcome into the inner circle. They were a tight nit group, and she was easily overwhelmed by the depth that each of them knew each other, it often felt like she would never find her place beyond being Azriel’s mate.

“Cass do you mind giving us the room for a minute?” Ruby said gently, not letting her eyes leave Azriel’s. Once the war general gave a tense nod and slipped through the doorway to give the couple some privacy, Ruby took another step toward Azriel. “Az,” Ruby said hesitantly “I promise nothing was going on, Cassian and I were just catching up. Why don’t you take a seat, and we can talk about whatever’s going through your head?” A wave of embarrassment flooded through Azriel, but he shrugged it off, choosing to shut down instead. “Unfortunately, I need to meet with Rhys to debrief. I’ll meet you at home.” Ruby’s eyes sharpened at his harsh tone. “Fine. But don’t come back until you figured out what the hell is going on with you and you’re ready to talk.” Azriel didn’t bother to acknowledge her as he strode out of the room headed for Rhys’ office.

Following the fight, Ruby went home and sat and waited for Azriel to come back. She reflected on their little spat and agonized over every word. What could she had said differently? It pained her that her mate was hurting and that he wouldn’t let her help. When he comes home, she thought, we’ll sit here and talk about whatever is going on with him and then we’ll move forward from there. That’s all we can do.

But minutes turned to hours and Ruby still sat on the couch. A debrief had never gone on this long before and Ruby was sure that he was probably just taking some time to cool off. She didn’t move from her spot on the couch as the day turned to night and somewhere in the late hours of the night, she fell asleep on the couch, still waiting.

A door shutting woke Ruby from her slumber, her neck aching with the pain of being held in the wrong position for too long. Ruby reached up, trying to rub the ache away her eyes locking onto the dark figure standing in the archway that leads to their living area. “Hi.” Azriel said hoarsely “What time is it?” Ruby said her gaze peering out of the window seeing the light peek through the linen curtains they had picked out together “Did you just get home?” Azriel nodded unable to meet her eyes. “W-Where have you been? Why didn’t you come home last night? I waited up all night for you.” Ruby said standing from her place on the couch, leaving the imprint of her body on the couch from hours of use.

“I stayed with Elain for the night.” Ruby’s heart sunk through the floor. It was no secret that there was bad blood between the two. Azriel and Elain had an attachment of sorts until Ruby came into the picture and Elain made it very clear that she was not a fan of Ruby. She was constantly spouting vitriol about Ruby while she was still new to the inner circle, never in ear shot of Azriel of course. Eventually, Ruby made her discomfort known to Azriel and he had put distance between himself and Elain. His interest in her had been waning for some time and when Ruby came into his life, he didn’t give the Archeron sister another thought. His heart and mind set on the kind and strong female that the cauldron had blessed him with.

“Why?” Ruby’s rasped through a tight throat, thick with emotion. “Did you- Azriel did you cheat on me?” Her eyes welled up with tears as she stared at him incredulously, a sharp pain shot through her chest at the idea.

“No, no. I would never do that to you Ruby. I just...” he paused dropping his gaze to the floor. “I wanted you to feel how it felt when I saw you with Cassian.” Now that the words had left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. He wished he could shove them into a box and never let them see the light of day again because the look on Ruby’s face, it was enough to make him want to take truth teller and shove it into his gut until he bled out at her feet.

“You- you went to Elain’s to get back at me?” she said hoping that her ears had been lying to her and she didn’t hear that her mate had done something so… so spiteful. She had been trying to hold them back but once the first tear came it was like opening the floodgates. Azriel took a step forward reaching out to brush them away and to comfort her but she matched his step, taking one backward, flinching away from his hand. “I think I need some space.” She stepped past the couch that she had been sitting at all night waiting for him to come home so they could make up, but he was with her.

Azriel lightly grabbed her wrist as she passed him intending to head quickly toward the stairs that led to their bedroom. “Ruby, please. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Ruby jerked her arm out of his grasp spinning around on him. “Really? You weren’t thinking for the entire night? I find that incredibly hard to believe Azriel. Leave me alone.” She practically ran up the stairs and slammed the door shut, locking it swiftly. She practically collapses into sobs on their bed, her tears staining the pillows still made and fluffed from yesterday morning.

Azriel’s heart shattered into pieces as he tried the door handle, finding himself locked out of his bedroom, unable to console and comfort his mate who he betrayed. He felt like beyond an idiot. What was he thinking? Going to Elain of all people? After his meeting with Rhys, he felt his emotions pulling himself in a million directions. He ran into her in the kitchen, fully intending on going home to sort things out with his mate, she saw the look in his eyes and offered an ear and some tea. A dark part in Azriel thought well if his mate was going to talk to another male then he could talk to another female. A large part of his heart ached to be with Ruby, but mess of his feelings kept him seated. They sat there all night talking and the next thing he knew it was light outside marking the next day.

If he could turn back time, he would slit his own throat before sitting to tea with Elain. It would probably hurt less than he felt now, hearing his mate’s sobs through the locked door knowing there was nothing he could do to help. “Please, Ruby.” He croaked out after hours of sitting outside of the door. “I’m sorry. I… I was jealous and stupid, and I wanted to make you hurt like I was hurting. It’s felt like you’ve picked Cassian over me for weeks and I didn’t know how to talk to you about it. I’m so sorry my love, you deserve a better mate.” Her cries had softened to a sniffle and he heard a click of the door. It surprised Azriel who had been sitting on the ground, head hung low.

He shot up, the door opening to reveal Ruby with a red nose and puffy eyes, irritated from hours of crying. He didn’t think his heart could break any further, but he found himself wrong once again.

“I don’t deserve a better mate. I have the perfect mate, Azriel.” She said softly, his heart daring to lift an inch off of the ground of the pit that it found itself in at her words. “I deserved to be treated better though, yes.” He hung his head nodding solemnly. Ruby walked back to bed and crawled beneath the sheets. Azriel hesitated to get close to her, his eyes shone with tears unshed. The desperation to be close to her was palpable and Ruby granted him mercy lightly tapping on the bedspread next to her. He wasn’t going to question her as he kicked off his boots practically racing for the bed before she changed her mind. They lay side by side turned so they could see each other. Whenever they were in bed, they were always wrapped in each other’s arms so not being able to touch her was agony for Azriel.

“What happened Az? Why didn’t you talk to me about how you were feeling with me seeing Cassian?” She whispered, wrapping her arms around herself as a way to comfort herself from the conversation they were having. Azriel reached out to tuck a piece of hair that had fallen into her face before thinking better of it halfway and pulling it back away. Ruby gently grabbed his hand and led it back to her cheek. As upset as she was, she craved the comfort that only he could provide. He caressed the side of her face, his thumb gently stroking back and forth. She closed her eyes feeling the familiar sensation, relishing in the warmth and care he provided.

“I was embarrassed, I think. I know you would never cheat on me but whenever you left to see him it felt like you were choosing him over me. And then it felt like you were spending all of your time with him and I felt like I wasn’t enough for you. Like you had to seek happiness elsewhere with someone more worthy.” He whispered back the insecurities that had flooded his brain as of late. Ruby shook her head vehemently, “I’m sorry you were feeling like that Az, I had no idea. Why do you keep saying that you aren’t worthy? You are.” She pressed not breaking eye contact with him as if to hammer home her reassurance. He didn’t deserve his kind mate. He should be reassuring her and here he was blubbering about his insecurities. “I don’t know. You are this ball of light and bring so much warmth into my life and what do I bring you? Baggage and pain.” He held his breath as he dared to whisper his deepest thoughts. As if, if he spoke them too loudly, she would realize his words to be truth and would up and leave. But she didn’t. She just shook her head sadly.

“I wish you saw yourself the way I saw you. You are strong, you’re a loyal friend,” he flinched, he wasn’t being very loyal when he went to Elain, Ruby gave him a knowing look. “We’ll get there. You are the best person I know Az. I wish you gave yourself the benefit of the doubt.” Ruby gave a moment of pause watching Azriel shake his head in disagreement “Do you think that I am a good person?” He nodded, “of course. The absolute best.” “Then why would my mate be someone terrible? Wouldn’t it make sense for the one that my soul is bound to by the cauldron to be just as good?” Azriel pondered, he had never thought about it that way before.

Ruby nodded to herself before taking a deep breath “So. Tell me about Elain.” Azriel shut his eyes. “Gods I’m such an idiot. I’m so sorry my love. I promise that nothing happened, I was fired up after the meeting and she and I just talked. I acted despicably and if I could do it all over again, I would come straight home. Words-“ His voice cracked and he cleared his throat “words cannot express how awful I feel about it. If you want me to never speak to her again I will, just say the word. Please don’t leave me. Please. I’ll do anything.” He had never begged before, but he wasn’t above getting down on his knees for this female that ruled his world.

Ruby shook her head lightly “I’m not leaving you.” A weight lifted off of Azriel’s shoulders at her words and he began softly crying tears of relief. The rare sight of Azriel crying was too much for Ruby’s heart to handle and she wrapped her arms around her mate holding him tight. “What you did wasn’t okay. You lashed out to hurt me and I won’t just stand by and be your punching bag when you don’t know how to express your emotions.” Azriel nodded pressing his nose further into her hair taking a deep breath centering himself in her scent. She was here, she wasn’t leaving. “I’ll do better, I promise. I’ll communicate more when I’m feeling upset and we can work through it together.” Ruby nuzzled into his chest humming her approval. “And I’ll be more sensitive to making quality time with you a priority.” They stayed like that for an hour before Ruby broke the silence. “What if we took a little time off from the world? Spent some time just cooped up here, getting back into our groove and patching everything up?” Azriel let out a deep sigh a small fond smile finally taking to his face. “Yes, my love. That sounds wonderful.” They spent the rest of the day there, holding on to each other basking in the other’s warmth.

[poetryvampire]

Can I request headcanons for (poly but none of them are dating yet) Zevlor and Rolan reacting to gn human Tav confessing to both of them but they explained they would understand if they're rejected since they're the same kind who has discriminated them so much? With a happy ending please?

Sweet beautiful Anon! Again I thank you deeply for your patience and am sorry it took so long. I absolutely loved the idea though and turned it into a little fic. It is going to be two chapters and here is part one (second one should be ready later this week lol) Please enjoy the angst and yearning (✿◡‿◡) 💜💜💜

Falling into Place

Pt 1 (pt 2 is Here !🥰)

Reader x Rolan x Zevlor

Light suggestive imagery (the nsfw lives in pt two)

You hadn’t intended on being so bold when you planned to visit Ramazith’s tower, but something in the way the corners of Rolan’s mouth curled as he brushed off your words sent a rush of boldness through you. Even as you sat on the corner of his desk, obscuring part of the map that ran past the edge practically hitting the floor, the wizard kept a playful look in his eye that made your heart pound. 

“You know, if I wanted a horrid little creature to disturb my work and make a mess of my things I could have picked up an alley cat by now.”  He mused, still pretending to read the papers in his hands. 

 “You should! You’ve got the room now.” You smiled as Rolan rolled his eyes.“Will you at least consider it?” 

“Consider roaming around the countryside- for gods knows how long- looking for a troop of goblins?” He leaned back in his chair throwing the papers to the side. “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t sound terribly appealing.”

“Oh come on, won’t it be a nice change from locking yourself in here night and day?” You gesture around you at the chaos of books and scrolls that was his office.  

“ Well, hero,” Rolan scoffed. “I am perfectly comfortable in my tower and don’t require saving at the moment. You’ll be the first to know should that change.” He turned his attention back to the map in front of him. 

“Please.” You whine. “It’ll be fun! And they’ll just be a few of us. Wyll, Karlach, Zevlor-”  

“In that case I must go.” The tiefling wrinkles his nose, cutting you off. For a moment you second guessed how real his annoyance might be. “With all the praise you showered on him after your last little adventure I would have thought him capable of taking down the goblins all by himself.” 

 “My word, is the great master of Ramazith’s Tower jealous of a paladin?” you tease. 

“No.” Rolan snapped quickly. He stood, reaching across the sprawling paper to scribble some notes towards the top. “And could you get off my desk now?”  

 You didn’t move, rather regarded the wizard and the knit in his brow. It was no secret that he wasn’t the warmest man you’ve known and the signals of his true feelings were sometimes hard to read. Suddenly missing the mild affection he gave you from time to time, you leaned your head against his shoulder causing him to freeze completely. 

 “Obviously you don’t have to go.” You sighed. “But, I just thought it would be nice. I do like having you around. For some reason.” 

He snorted out a small laugh and you could have sworn he shifted closed to you. Even the slight contact brought a smile to your lips.

“Good. The feeling is… mutual.” He paused, his eyes darted about not knowing where to look.“ And I suppose that wizard of yours is still busy boring his students to death?”

 “He’s not my wizard. I haven’t got one, unless you’ve suddenly had a change of heart in the last two seconds.” You glance up at him coyly and could have sworn he took a sharp intake of breath.  

 “Well, it still sounds like a horrible time and I have no real interest in it. However, it would be irresponsible of me to let you lot go on your little adventure without the skills of a wizard. So- to save myself from losing sleep- yes I will-” 

 You let out a squeal and flung your arms around him causing his words to catch in his throat. Thanking him profusely and you let out a flood of words assuring him his worries were unfounded. Rolan kept still, hardly even breathing, in your embrace. Cautiously,  he slid his arms around you and lightly ran his hand up and down your back. 

 “Now, now, there’s no need for such thanks.” he let out a nervous laugh. “ Not yet anyway. I’m sure I’ll end up pulling you out of some mess before too long.” 

 The spring in your step as you walked home that evening quickly turned back into worry. It was true that Rolan tagging along would be helpful and- of course- you desperately wanted him around. As the tiefling had advanced in his magical mastery you had seen less and less of him. It made you question if he’d lost some of the little affection he may have held for you. Not that it mattered in the end. You very much doubted you’d have the chance to come clean about your feelings. 

 You had always taken your time with love affairs, trying to gauge the situation before laying your heart bare. You had a heart overflowing with a care that was more than happy to give to however many people you loved. Of course taking multiple partners wasn’t for everyone and as careful as you were to be honest with potential lovers you had been burned horribly in the past. Rejection was a fear you carried with you now more than ever. 

 There was no point in lying to yourself anymore. You had never been so in love with two people than you were at the moment. Perhaps serendipity, perhaps a curse, both Rolan and Zevlor had taken your heart utterly. The cleanup and rebuilding of the city would have been impossible without them. They had both spent countless hours at your side ready to aid you in any way you needed. As time pressed on your bonds had deepened and the idea of not having your favourite wizard and paladin in your life  broke your heart. 

 How could you tell either of them the truth when it may mean losing one of your closest friends? Would you have to choose one of them? And if your greatest hope was true and they shared your affection you couldn’t bring yourself to break one of their hearts.  

 Neither of them had ever indicated how they might feel about having partners. It had never come up in conversation and every time you considered breaching the subject you backed out at the last minute, too afraid of what they may say. As much as you had learned of tiefling culture, you hadn't found anything that may give you a hint. For now the only decision was to try and stay sane while your desire ate you alive.  

*** 

 At a glance the journey was off to an excellent start; the weather had been fair and after only a week of travel you had stumbled across a strong lead. The comfortable routine of traveling with your companions was a welcomed change. Rolan seemed in good spirits despite his playful jabs and endless complaints. It was mid way through the second week when everything went south. 

 The path chosen turned out to be far longer and harder to traverse than you hoped. One with twisting slopes and leaden with brambles and jagged, uneven rocks. After taking a deeply embarrassing tumble, Zevlor had taken to staying at side, ready to offer his hand or an arm to cling to for balance. More than once, perhaps subconsciously, you allowed the contact to pass the need for stability. For a moment you could revel in the dream of having such a kind and gentle man on your arm. Again, you hadn’t meant to over step. The two of you never shied away from physical contact- you’d had plenty of sparring sessions with the man- but there was still an unspoken tension no matter how comfortable you had become. Unlike with Rolan, it was easy to slip over the line- the one you had given yourself- with Zevlor and not even realize it had happened. In the end it always made you feel just as foolish as the night you had invited Rolan. .            

   To make matters worse the late summer weather had turned uncharacteristically cool and wet. Ending days chilled and soaked to the bone did nothing for morale. As much as you tried to stay optimistic after a few days of truely unpleasant conditions, something in Rolan’s demeanor shifted. His witty remarks turned to a cold silence. He did his duties thoroughly and without complaint all the while seeming a million yards away. You had become certain he was actively avoiding you. Time and again he would distance himself from you however possible. Even when you attempted to assist him he was determined to work alone. 

 While huddled around a fire for supper with your companions, you found yourself across from Rolan and couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes fell everywhere but forward. As if you weren’t even there. To your surprise Wyll, ever the charismatic one, was able to jump back into a conservation the two had started earlier. The wizard sounded weary but friendly nonetheless. Your gut might as well have sunken into the abyss as you mulled over the past few days. Rolan had become quiet but you had yet to seem in distance himself from Wyll or Karlach. Not as he had done with you and Zevlor. A cold fear ran through your bones at the thought of it being more than bad weather to sour his mood. 

 The prospects left you dizzy. You couldn’t completely mask the distress in your voice as you made an excuse to retire to your tent. Zevlor followed you, checking if you required any help or healing he could provide. As you reassured him your eyes drifted to the glint of gold shining past his shoulder. You have caught Rolan’s eyes fixed on the two of you before turning back to Wyll.  

         Most of the night was spent tossing and turning in your bedroll as you tried to quell the endless scenarios in your brain. Tried to swallow down all the tears you’d been holding back for far too long. It felt practically indulgent to imagine Rolan was actually jealous of Zevlor or that he did in fact harbor feelings for you. They both felt out of character for him, or was he just better at hiding it than you had been? Whatever the case, you had awoken early ready to throw yourself into anything that wasn’t thinking about what a fool you’ve been. 

 Zevlor, as usual, was the only one awake at such an hour. Not wanting to waste the time you had together you decided on a sparring session and settled in a clearing not too far from camp. As skilled a fighter as you were you didn't come close to his mastery of the sword and still had much to learn. As if sensing your need for a distraction Zevlor kept you on your toes, moving with all the grace and ferocity he displayed in a real battle. You were unsure if the stress of your worries had shaken your hand or if Zevlor had finally stopped going easy on you, either way he was subduing you with ease. Frustrations hot in your chest you were becoming more clumsy and frantic with every swing. In a misguided attempt to break the deadlock your shaking arms could barely hold, you tried hooking your foot around Zevlor’s ankle to throw off his balance. However it worked a bit too well, sending the two of you down hard, the tiefling crashing directly on top of you.

 You laughed with what little air wasn’t knocked out of your lungs. At the stupid idea, at the befuddled look on Zevlor’s face. You were certain he was about to scold you, but no sound passed his lips. Still breathing hard against you, he studied your face as if trying to solve a riddle. Helpless, you could only gaze up at him. He was a vision, with his hair loose and clinging to his sweat laden brow. A smile bloomed wide across your face. How long had you dreamed of feeling his weight on you? Of looking up into those flaming eyes? Instinctively your hands rose to his shoulders keeping him there. You could feel his breath on your face, the hammering of your heart flooding every vein. Your mind screamed to stop before you only made things worse but you both lingered like this for too long not to act.

 Zevlor's whole body tensed as you pressed your lips to his with an aggression he had not been prepared for. Soon he matched your passion and welcomed your curious tongue into his mouth. He moaned your name and you had to fight the urge to wrap your legs around him along with your arms. The worry and uncertainty fell to the back of your mind as your hands found their way across his chest. Dressed down in a tonic, you were able to delight in the pattern of ridges he bore. Your hands roamed everywhere as the paladin’s lips sought to devour you. He moved from mouth to jaw, to neck and back again, kissing and sucking every inch of skin he could find. Drunk on the taste of him, your fingers dipped past his shirt to caress the warm tight muscle of his stomach. Also lost in the sensation he rolled his hips against you causing you both to groan into each other's mouth. 

“Stop!” Zevlor tore himself away from you as if burned. Sitting up on his knees he bowed head, red faced and clearly frustrated. “Stop. Please, I don’t want to-to-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” 

“No, don’t worry.” you move to his side. “I should apologize. I was rash and I haven’t slept and I just-” 

“I didn’t want this to happen this way.” His soft eyes meet yours. 

You want to ask what he means yet it seems a better solution to leave and blame your actions on the lack of sleep. But the warmth radiating from his weathered face held you like a spell. 

 “I- the time never felt quite right. And you deserve nothing less than a proper courting, to be adorned with lovely things and beautiful words. However, you know-you must know-” the former commander cups your face with a shocking amount of gentleness for such rough hands. “That I adore you.” 

Zevlor’s searched your face. As hard as you tried to steal yourself you couldn’t push down the rush of joy; the pleading in your eyes that invited him into another kiss.

 This time his mouth moved slowly, tenderly; it held a sort of honesty that made you shiver. You tried not to get ahead of yourself but you swear you can feel his longing in every movement, as if he had been holding back just as you had. You could feel the  grin on those perfectly full lips when he pulled away. Everything you’re about to say leaves your mind as Zevlor's eyes darted suddenly to something behind you. A chill runs down your spine as you whip around to see Rolan standing in the tree line. His look of genuine shock melted into a disdainful grimace. 

“There’s breakfast ready. If you’re so inclined.” Rolan spat out before turning on his heel to hastily march back to camp. 

Panicked, you jumped to your feet. Calling after the wizard repeatedly only made him move quicker leaving you standing there face hot, pushing down the lump in your throat. You were rooted to the spot, breathing hard. Zevlor’s eyes were on you- you were sure of it- but you didn’t dare look at him. 

 “I don’t mean to pry,” the tiefling spoke softly. “Have I, perhaps, misjudged the situation?” 

 “No, Zevlor. I- Gods I'm mad for you. It’s just- I just-it’s hard to-” you fought to keep your voice steady.

 “It’s complicated.” His lips held a smile that could not mask the disappointment in his eyes. “I understand. I’ve had my fair share of complications when it comes to romance. And Rolan is a quite accomplished young man.”  

“I don’t know what I'm doing. I’m sorry.” you breathed. 

“You’ve done nothing wrong. I have heard it said that the course of true love never did run smooth. Should you need to talk or anything really, don’t hesitate to find me.” He affirmed and kissed your hand. 

 As the two of you made your way back, Zevlor chuckled to himself. 

 “I must say I am relieved to know that all my worries of you not having an interest in tieflings were unfounded.” He grinned.

 Despite your tempest of emotions you couldn’t help but laugh.        

[ms-nesbit]

Vienna (a jason todd x reader fic)

rating: 18+

warnings: SMUT, fluff, praise kink, slight hair pulling, a super sweet Jason Todd

summary: Y/n meets a stressed Jason Todd on a subway. Chaos ensues.

Read on ao3

notes: yall asked, and i delivered. you're welcome, nasties.

 

“Why him?”

The words left the stranger’s mouth as if they were a spirit leaving his body. Feet firm on the ground, and brows furrowed, his grip on the phone remained; the torrential rain bounced from his body, and he seemed almost unbothered by it all; instead, he was too lasered on the other end of the call, hanging on by every second of silence. “I’ll say it again: why him?”

The last word was sharp as it was thrown from his tongue, his voice dipping another octave. Y/n listened as closely as the subway allowed, its screeching brakes and busy-bodied occupants a poor distraction from the conversation a few feet from her. As y/n eavesdropped, she clutched onto the metal bar for balance, shifting her attention to her right to near herself toward the stranger’s phone. I shouldn’t do this. Ma told me not to be in people’s business like this. y/n thought to herself as she waited with the stranger for a response.

“I dunno, Red, he just told me he chose the flying Grayson, and didn’t give me any other info.” the other end stammered in a thick Brooklyn accent. Red? Flying Grayson?

“Shit.” the stranger spat before abruptly ending the call, shoving the crimson phone into a vacant pocket of his suit pants. He then looked behind him, locking eyes with a y/n, whose eyes balled into orbs at the sudden confrontation. “You lost?”

Y/n’s head shook profusely. “No, no, sorry. Just thought you looked familiar. And bold for, uh, wearing an entire suit on the Brown…in rush hour.” her head cocked, questioning her judgment.

“Yeah, that’s…” he looked down at his black tie attire. “Reasonable. Valid. And what, you’re here from the Gazette? Vogue?” he scanned y/n’s figure, causing heat to rise to y/n’s cheeks.

“Actually, I’m one of those influencers that hangs out in a crowded public place, pestering people about what they do for a living while ignoring what kind of disturbance I’m causing, so…” she drew her phone from her pocket, pointing it at the stranger. “what do you do for a living, and how much do you make in a year?”

her tone was sarcastic, albeit playful, and the stranger returned it back to her. “I’m an adopted son of a millionaire, and I make him disappointed, thanks.” he flashed a chipper smile, almost proud that he was a self-proclaimed failure. It confused y/n.

“Really? Is that why you’re on the Brown? Daddy wanna teach you a lesson?”

The taller figure rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Why is it that every time people know my dad’s rich, they have to address him as daddy? So chauvinistic.” he cocked a brow. “You really wanna know?” he awaited for y/n’s nod, before proceeding. “Okay, well: first of all, he doesn’t give me his money, and if he did, I would decline, because I’m not a goddamn charity case; two, my bike is in the shop, and I decided to take the humble route.” he lifted his arms as to showcase how ‘regular’ he was. “Anything else…?”

“Y/n.” she replied after a chuckle, amused by his teasing tone. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” her voice was elevated, mocking an air of sophistication.

He flickered his mint eyes at her. “If I tell you, will you be my chaperone to another exhilarating gala betiding us tonight?”

Bursting in laughter, y/n shook her head. “Well, how absolutely splendid! Of course I will accompany you in tonight’s delightful function in my luxurious off-brand loafers and mismatched, day-old pajamas!” Y/n’s hand waved against her body, pointing out her overly casual attire. But her cheshire smile faded after seeing the taller man’s expression unchanged. “Surely you’re joking.”

“I’m not,” the man offered an elbow for y/n to take as the subway stopped and weathered doors opened, “and don’t call me Shirley.”

—

Y/n’s fingers were detached from the rest of her nervous system, as if her unconscious desire overtook her limbs. How she went from taking the sub home all the way to being an underdressed date to the tall arm candy beside her is still a mystery, but one only occurring to a city-dweller.

Her fingertips knowingly brushed the man’s upper arm, examining his impressive muscle tone. The man caught on shortly before he hailed a cab, turning to y/n and muttering, “There’s not much there, if that’s what you’re wondering.” It caused y/n’s fingers to lock a safe clench on his arm, bracing for the incoming inappropriate joke.

But it never arrived. Instead, the tall man opened the rear passenger door for y/n, helping her seat herself in the worn cushion of the cab’s backseat before he slid in himself. “Wayne Manor, please.” he spoke matter-of-factly, eyes shifting to y/n waiting for a snarky response.

It seemed that this evening, they were both a pleasant surprise from the norm. “So your dad is a sponsor for the gala?”

The man sat back, flush against the seat. “If by sponsor you mean host, then yes, yes he is.” he relaxed his neck, resting it against the sturdy headrest, and exposing the skin to y/n.

Eyes refusing to stray from the tempting sight (and the tasteless thoughts that rushed to her), y/n responded, “That means…Wayne. You’re one of Bruce’s kids?” her head cocked to the side mindlessly. The man, whose eyes were on her, grinned at the habit.

“Not sure if he quite finished the paperwork, but yes, that does make me, at least unofficially, ‘Lil Wayne.” The smile that he wore was downright dangerous, and y/n crossed her legs to stifle whatever ache she had. “But yeah, I’m kid number two of three, if I’m right.”

Y/n recounted the headlines she scanned through the years, attempting to pin a name to the handsome man beside her; though, it was rather difficult, with his intense eyes peering at her, and his large hands resting (palms up) on his lap. She couldn’t deduct (not logically, undoubtedly), and admitted defeat by closing her mouth and looking out the smudged, unkept window.

Puzzled (and a bit taken aback) by y/n’s acknowledgement of defeat, the man kept the silence, no matter how unbearable it was to them both.

Until, of course, they arrived at the notorious winding road leading to the manor, when the man turned to y/n and nearly blurted, “It’s Jason, by the way.”

Y/n sighed in relief. “Jason, okay. Didn’t know if you were the acrobat or the weird, stoic, children-of-the-corn one.”

Jason chuckled. “Nope, neither. I’m the one in the hockey mask, remember?” He proceeded to mime a stabbing motion, cutting the remaining tension between the two in their transport. “Oh, sorry, you can let us out here. I doubt they’d let cabbies in.” He pulled out his wallet, sliding a wrinkled $100 to the driver through the plexiglass divider. “Just keep the change.”

He better not be trying to do this to impress me, y/n thought to herself as they left the cab, Jason again offering his elbow for y/n to take. “Are you sure they’re not gonna be, y’know, offended by this?” And by this, as y/n gestured, she meant her opaque mahogany leggings and oversized tee checkered with holes varying in size (but all from excessive wear and abuse over the years).

Jason scoffed and stopped in his tracks, using his thumb to lift y/n’s chin so they could lock eyes. “You look wonderful.” the sincerity in his tone cascaded to y/n’s chest; genuine men were scarce in Gotham, and so far, Jason hadn’t broken the grain of trust y/n placed in him. It was refreshing to say the least. “Besides, they’re too scared of me, so whatever they think in their pompous heads will remain there.” he assured, placing a hand over y/n’s on his arm. The pair locked eyes, this time in a wordless gaze long enough for y/n to identify the hues of stormy gray and downpour blue - they were a telling portrait far more consequential than her initial lame findings, the obvious envious green overtaking the landscape; he’s vindictive, and tired.

Jason knew of her findings, of course. His hair hadn’t been the only change since the Lazarus Pit; his stature shifted, elongating, and his eyes transformed from earthly green to a tropical storm. He allowed y/n to piece it together, if she wanted. And if she wanted, she knew where to find the root of Jason’s demise.

“Now, do you think you’re ready to join me, Dear?” he leaned down to whisper to the distracted y/n, who simply nodded in response. “If you feel uncomfortable, we can leave. You’d be doing me a favor.”

As they entered the manor among the crowd of well-dressed socialites, y/n’s body became overwhelmed with mixed signals: she wanted out, but was intrigued by the foreignness of the formality. Y/n attended school events and funerals throughout her life, but none were black-tie formal, nor was she underdressed in a mansion full of strangers with a handsome man attached to her hip.

Perhaps this was a blessing.

Y/n remained silent as she studied the cliques buzz and charm in a fatuous effort to obtain status. It hadn’t been long, though, as Jason guided her to one of the open spaces of the main congregating gallery. She looked up at him as he rummaged through the sea of deluded hedonists, observing his distaste and overall apathy toward the absolute palpable wealth in one space; his hair, thick and disheveled, was dark, except for the white bit symmetrically parted on his forehead. If it hadn’t been for his skin high in elasticity, and the unfathomable passion he used as a primary motivator (an unspoken symbol of youth), y/n would have believed that Jason was far more senior to her age than now surmised.

“Alfred,” Jason spoke with excitement, snapping y/n’s attention away from Jason’s physique and onto the gathering of bustling caterers, “how are you?”

An elder gentleman emerged from the crowd, wearing a long coat, black dress pants and tie, and a broad smile that accentuated his aged features. “Jason, my boy. How have you been?”

“Splendid.” Jason replied simply. “Is, uh, Bruce still…” he trailed off, nudging Alfred suggestively.

Alfred glared softly at Jason. “Upset? A bit, but you know how he is.” Jason nodded. “And who might this be?” his weary eyes lay on y/n, who grinned shyly.

“What do you-oh, yeah! Yeah, right, this is y/n. Y/n, this is my dad’s lifeline, Alfred.” Jason stumbled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm; the angle of his reach exposed barely enough of his waist, momentarily catching y/n’s attention before she hastily brought it back to Alfred.

“The official position is titled butler and personal assistant.” his eyebrow sharply rose in fierce discernment at Jason. “Pleasure is mine, y/n.” he bowed his head elegantly in respect.

“And it’s wonderful to meet you too, Alfred.” y/n replied, dropping her body into a modest curtsy. She felt Jason’s stare, to which she returned when she returned her original position from the curtsy.

Alfred tittered briefly. “Oh, don’t worry about that. Though that is very kind of you, indeed, Dear.” his assurance sat with y/n like a warm cup of tea, or a cool breeze. Is this why Jason seems a little mature? “Your attire certainly stands out from the crowd, and seems homely. Why not give y/n a tour of the manor, Jason? I’m sure she would enjoy the library like you had.” his words hinted as chaff, a teasing glimpse in his heavy eyes.

Pink peeked at Jason’s cheeks, flustered by the memories. “Used to be, yeah.” He grinned at y/n, face still timid. “You wanna check it out?”

Y/n nodded. “Absolutely.” her clutch on Jason’s suit fabric tightened, slightly pinching the skin of his elbow, as she failed to contain her elation. “I mean, is it okay? If you need help, I’m sure most of the people here think I’m below them anyway.”

Jason chortled before swiping a glass of sparkling wine from a server’s tray and gulping the drink, discreetly replacing it on the tray before the server would take notice. “And now I’m good. Let’s relive some interesting memories!” he balled his hands into fists mockingly.

As y/n and Jason turned to lead to the grand staircase near the foyer, Alfred leaned in and murmured, “She’s nice.”

“I know.” Jason returned, hiding his gleeful expression from y/n.

Y/n heard the comment, but pretended to have been preoccupied with her top, until Jason’s “Ready?”

And the pair successfully evaded the status-hungry socialites.

—

“And that’s where Bruce told me about the birds and the bees.” Jason snickered, pointing toward Bruce’s bedroom.

Y/n stifled her cackle. “No fucking way, are you serious?”

“Deadly. Plus I was 13 at that point, so…” his eyes darted to the other side of the room. “I pretty much knew it all. Didn’t know that girls could have orgasms, though.”

Y/n stopped and doubled over in laughter, startling Jason into catching her before she fell to the ground. “When did you find out?!”

Jason’s expression fell into an unreadable one, one arm reaching around her chest, with the brim of her shoulder blade just in his hand, and his other wrapped neatly around her waist, holding her hip to brace her.

They continued down the hall and stopped before a set of narrow double doors. “Here’s the library. You think you can contain yourself?”

Jason’s hand on y/n’s side caused it to burn under his touch, and her laughter died down to pecks of distant, breathless giggles. She turned up to face him, and was met with a semi-concerned face, his eyes barely curtained behind his salt strands of hair. “Yeah, I think I’ll manage.” she quipped, despite her volitant state.

As Jason pushed open the doors (which emitted a weak creak, expressing their distant dismay), he eyed y/n’s every reaction, grinning sweetly as her mouth parted and eyes widened, lip corners turning into an impish smile. “All this?”

“For six years, this was where I spent most of my free time.” Jason added, half in-awe of the books still neatly propped on the varnished wooden shelves. He wanted to add more, about how he escaped here when he refused to partake as Boy Wonder, or when he was coerced by Bruce into dropping his audition for a play; his grip on the fragile door handle tightened subconsciously, and his jaw flexed, gritting his teeth.

If it hadn’t been for y/n’s marvel visible in her glistening eyes, he would have snapped as he did when he awoke from his coma: a worn Alfred sitting beside him in the hospital room and admonishing Jason that Bruce spared Joker’s life. Rather, Jason lasered his attention on y/n’s wonder as she skimmed through each spine and title, lifting a lucky book from its shelf and holding the meat of the hardcover. She held it gingerly, tenderly, and Jason’s jaw unclenched with a hope that he could be touched that way too.

In a desperate effort to rescue himself, he listened to the voice in his kidney cautioning him away from his motorcycle that evening, and steering him to the Brown line where he encountered y/n. He hadn’t known what she would be to him - at the least, y/n accompanied him for the night; though he realized in the library, with the calling from his side, that he wasn’t the only lost one.

And as Jason leaned against a bookcase, shoulder pressed against the shelving with arms and feet crossed, he answered every question y/n presented, with the intention of relishing the joy sparked from visiting the hidden gem, as was the same joy ignited in Jason in years’ past.

“How did you find a way to leave this?” Y/n dropped, book in hand, as she skipped her way back to the tall man.

Jason shrugged, standing back on his feet and pocketing his hands. “I guess enough bad times followed me here, and one day, it wasn’t really the same.”

Despondency registered in y/n’s eyes, dimming the curious light in them. “Oh, I’m sorry.” she leveled the book in her hands enough for Jason to read the title.

“A Raisin In the Sun?” he read aloud, eyebrow cocked. “Never read that one.”

Y/n stuck out her bottom lip and shrugged, equally intrigued. “Didn’t know it came in hardcover till I saw this.” she opened up the cover, revealing a divet in the pages where a revolver hid. “The hell is Bruce doing with this?”

Jason’s eyes bulged in disbelief, a shit-eating grin splayed across his face. “Anti-gun, huh?” he carefully picked up the gun, holding it away from y/n in his hand. “What a goddamn hypocrite.” Before y/n began backing away from the tall man, Jason held up his free hand. “Alright, I’ll put it back. I get it: scary big guy with a gun. I got it.” his tone was dry yet assuming, and he replaced the revolver in its concealed spot.

Y/n smiled playfully, closing the cover and setting the book in its space on the bookshelf. “I wouldn’t say ‘knowingly’ scary as much as ‘might shoot himself in the foot’ scary.” She strolled back over to Jason, hand on her hip. “Didn’t wanna get any of your blood on my luxurious gown, y’know? It’s satin.” she twiddled her fingers at herself sarcastically. “But anyway, big guy, do you think you could show me where your favorites are?”

Biting his tongue at the lack of intimidation y/n felt by him, Jason nodded affirmatively. “How ‘bout this? If you find at least one of them, I’ll give you something.”

“And what is this ‘something’?” y/n signed airquotes.

“Depends. What would you like?” Jason stepped closer, shortening the space between them.

Y/n shrugged and contemplated for a moment. “What if we both look for a book? If I find one of your favorites first, I get to take you out on another date, and if you find my favorite first…”

“And if I find your favorite first, I can give you a kiss.” Jason beamed down at y/n, satisfied with his answer.

“How dreadful of you! Oh, the suffering.” y/n grandiloquently replied, exaggerating hand movements and a flabbergasted expression.

Jason rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll survive. Ready?”

Y/n closed the gap between them, propping herself up on her tippy toes to meet Jason’s eyes. “More than I’ll ever be.” she spoke fiercely, the intensity in her eyes tempting Jason to lean in and-

In a moment's time, y/n bounced away from Jason, scurrying to find a book she believed was Jason’s favorite. While she scrambled, Jason calmly searched through the bookshelves, occasionally looking back at y/n, who barely balanced herself on the ladder as she reached for a distant book on a high shelf.

During his period at Bruce’s, Jason hadn’t felt so inviting in his sanctuary. He often drifted in these books, growling at whomever attempted to crack open a title. Instead, he wanted y/n to find him within these covers, and almost wished that she could win.

So he found himself disheartened when he swiped a title from the shelf and handed it to an out-of-breath y/n, whose only response was a painful scorn. “You son of a bitch!” she spat. “How did you… what the fuck?”

Jason hadn’t even glanced at the title, only listened to the burning in his side ending his quest. “What, did I get it right?” he twisted his head to read the title. “Uhm…A Farewell To Arms?”

“Yeah.” y/n chewed on her top lip nervously, avoiding eye contact with Jason. “It helped me during some weird times. Cathartic more than anything.” she took the book from Jason, and exchanged it for one she held, before sitting down on a leather armchair with a flat thud. Holding her head in her hands, she shook her head and laughed. “Nobody really suspects that one. Dunno why, it just seems obvious to me.”

Jason found himself grinning at her, following her until he reached the adjacent leather seat, settling himself down in it with his knees on either side of the chair. He absentmindedly rested y/n’s choice of book on his thigh, not even glancing at it. “D’you think it’s obvious because you know yourself?”

Sitting back in the seat, y/n rested her hand on her palm. “I mean, yeah. But…I also liked it for the irony that it was. Hemingway was basically an emo-boy misogynist, y’know? And essentially projected whatever sad, twisted plotlines into his stories. It made me feel a bit better about myself, while also simultaneously making me feel awful.”

“I know that feeling.” Jason acknowledged. “It’s a paradox. So reading this book is like a form of self harm then?”

“Just as much as reading the DaVinci Code.” Jason snorted, caught offguard by the joke. His nose crinkled as he laughed, something that distracted y/n from her self-pity. “Have you looked at my primary contender for your favorite?”

He hadn’t. Reaching for the book, Jason’s fingers slipped into their habitual positions, holding the cover with great familiarity. Without glancing at the title, he knew. “Emma.” he said, maintaining a piercing stare with y/n.

It was a surprise she hadn’t broken the contact, but instead mirrored his stare. “Yep. Thought it was a joke, but…you seem like a feminist. A classic one, at that.”

“Classic one? What’s wrong with a modern one?” Jason took offense to the deduction, no matter the truth behind it.

“Nothing, I consider myself to be a modern feminist.” Y/n replied matter-of-factly, probing the source of Jason’s defensiveness. “Do you think there’s something wrong with classic feminism?”

Exhaling through his nose, Jason thought about his answer. Y/n studied the crease between his brows when he pondered, and the way he absentmindedly dragged his tongue along his bottom lip. If it wasn’t for the serious discussion, y/n would have already had his bottom lip between her teeth, running her hands up and down his chest through his suit.

“It’s racist. And mostly Christian-inspired.” Jason concluded. “To be frank, it-it’s really narrow-minded, and a dated model of how femininity should be defined.”

Dear god in heaven that’s hot. “I agree.” Y/n ignored the heat between her legs and the growing tension between them, attempting to remain composed. “Most of the pioneers of the first wave - white women - left out some of the unvoiced marginalized groups: women of color, trans women, and queer women.” Jason locked his fingers and placed it against his mouth, listening closely. “I heard that Jane Austen was rather avant garde for her time. A good read nonetheless.” When y/n finished her rambling, she noticed her behavior, and quickly apologized.

“It’s okay. You have some solid points I agree with. Can I be real with you for a sec?” he leaned in over the armrest of his chair toward y/n, who nodded silently in return. He looked down and away from y/n, the melancholy rain washing out the hopeful cattail brown in his eyes. “Before Bruce and Alfred, I… my dad wasn’t exactly father of the year. He did a lot wrong, and I was usually the one to help my ma before she died.” he swallowed the memories attempting to break the dam he built to conceal his painful past.

Extending her arm, y/n folded her hand over Jason’s. His skin was cold, coarse in texture, but so enticing - he was lonely. Y/n knew. “It’s okay. What happens in the library stays in the library.” she added, humor softening the sadness he felt.

What followed was a blur - whether it be the reverb of the quartet muffled through the thick flooring, or the fact that they were both as vulnerable as they ever would be. Jason’s lips were on y/n’s, their noses flattening upon contact as their attempts at safe contact were futile; he wanted to act on the envisaging from earlier, as did she.

Ultimately, y/n squeezed Jason’s hand in hers, overwhelmed by the softness of his lips against hers; the kiss was more devotion than concupiscence, which took them both by astonishment. Even when Jason’s tongue dragged heavily along y/n’s bottom lip, asking to deepen the kiss, it was out of impuissance, at the will of their passion’s mercy. Y/n’s other hand found itself in Jason’s hair, combing through it as they breathed in their act. When y/n accidentally tugged, though, Jason exhaled a soft moan into the kiss, and y/n, so frantic in wanting Jason to repeat that sound, tugged again, and trapped his lip between her teeth.

She pulled away to see Jason’s face, and was in awe of the destruction she had already caused: one hand, still in Jason’s hair, ruffled it amuck, and his pupils were blown wide in lust, a hunger undeniable by either of them; his chest rose and fell, catching his breath as he stared at her with intent. He wanted her, no matter the ease of invasion from any gala attendee.

Charm overtook y/n, hand moving from Jason’s hair to his tie. She pulled him by the tie as she stood, Jason close behind, his eyes leering as her hips swayed with each step she took. Then, stopping him before the loveseat, she pushed him down, straddling his lap once he adjusted himself. They gazed at each other, eyes exchanging unspoken notes of admiration before Jason couldn’t resist his urge to pull y/n into another kiss.

It didn’t satisfy y/n’s appetite, and it showed when she began grinding herself down against Jason, causing him to break the kiss and watch her hips move against his clothed erection. “Holy shit.” he breathed, loosening his tie and tossing it behind the loveseat. Y/n bit down on her lip hard enough to break skin, hushing herself from emitting even the tiniest of a noise. She focused herself on unbuttoning Jason’s clean shirt, invested in the skin underneath; when it lay exposed, she sprawled her fingers on it, exploring each inch she stared at earlier.

Jason, on the other hand, rested his hands on the small of y/n’s back, closing his eyes and soaking in the undivided attention. It wasn’t long since his last sexual encounter, but this was an action from yearning, an evening of exchanging flirtatious quips escalating to complete and utter vulnerability. His attention snapped back into reality once he heard a fumbling of his own belt buckle coming undone, and y/n repositioning herself on the ground between Jason’s legs, tugging his dress pants to his ankles.

“This okay?” She asked quietly, concerned at his perplexed reaction.

Jason shook his head feverishly, erection throbbing in his boxers. Y/n ran her hands from his legs up to his torso, softly digging her nails in his skin as she returned to his legs, hands hovering over the growing erection in his crimson boxer briefs. She leaned in and licked at the imprint of it, causing Jason to hiss between clenched teeth.

“May I?” she asked again, more impatient than before.

“God, please do.” Jason nearly begged, resulting in the heat in y/n’s core to grow. She rubbed her legs together as she drew back his boxers, Jason’s cock springing free from the constraint, and wrapped her fingers around his erection, eyes lasered on the man before her. “Oh, fuck.” he let out a long, low moan, feeling himself already near his release from the sight of y/n stroking his cock.

“Princess, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna come.” his confession sounded more like a plea, and as much as it was music to y/n’s ears, something she wanted to hear over and over, she pulled away, shimmying herself out of her top, then her leggings.

It was Jason’s turn to marvel at the beauty in front of him, and he gawked, thanking his sweet instinct for leading him to this moment. He sat up on the loveseat, interlocking his hands behind his head. Sharply inhaling through his nose, his eyes scanned y/n’s eyes, swollen lips, and down to her breasts, and high-waisted underwear, before returning his attention to her face.

“If I had known that a handsome man was going to be escorting me, I’d have donned a matching lingerie set from Fenty.” y/n excused.

Jason unfettered a groan from his throat. “Seriously not a problem with me.” his eyes remained on y/n’s with unwavering assurance, causing a blush to creep up on y/n.

Swiftly, y/n removed her underwear, leaving her bare before the tall man. Jason wrapped his fingers around his cock and began stroking his length in response, hips naturally meeting up in impatience. Y/n couldn’t help but stare at the sight that unfolded before her: Jason, brows furrowed and head slightly tilted back, slacking his jaw to allow the unholy noises to free themselves from his throat as he continued massaging his thick dick. Y/n noticed Jason’s eyes tunneled on her body, and began running a hand up and down her silhouette, taunting him as he barely contained himself.

“Fuck I want you, please.” Jason implored, desperation rich in his baritone.

Oppositely, y/n refused to oblige, instead egging him on by falling to her knees, opening her legs, and kneading her breasts vexingly. “Come for me, Babe.” she exhorted. “Unless you want to be inside me.”

The temptation in Jason soared, and something in him broke when y/n spoke tauntingly about being inside her. In seconds, y/n was lifted from the ground, safely placed on the loveseat, legs up. “Say it again and I’ll make it happen.” Jason grumbled with conviction, reaching over and removing a condom from the pocket from his pants lying on the ground.

Y/n braced herself on her elbows. “I want you deep inside me.” she smirked.

Jason lined himself up with y/n’s entrance, slowly sinking inside until he bottomed out. Y/n pursed her lips, focusing on adjusting to the size. She felt a fluttered kiss on her temple, then her forehead. When she turned, she noticed Jason’s head resting on her shoulder, his hair tickling her nose. She laughed, kissing his temple in return. “Are you okay?” he whispered, already out of breath.

“Think so.” y/n replied, rocking her hips to meet with his. Jason moved a hand to hold a fistful of y/n’s thigh, and placed another above her on the armrest of the loveseat, beginning at a painfully leisurely pace to allow y/n to accommodate. He bowed his head to trail kisses down to her chest, softly sucking on her sienna buds; y/n moaned and tugged Jason’s hair. “Please.” 

Nimbly, Jason picked up his pace, letting his head rest on y/n’s chest as he continued. He removed a hand from overhead to pop a thumb into his mouth, spitting on it, before slipping it between them, rubbing y/n’s aching clit. “Fuck, Jason.” she gasped, bucking her hips.

He continued this way, cock angled toward her cervix and thumb circling rhythmically on her clit, burying his face in y/n’s chest. “You feel so good, holy shit, y/n.” he strained. Jason clamped his teeth down on y/n’s shoulder, causing her to yelp and whimper in a mix of pain and pleasure. “You’re taking me so well, Princess, fuck.”

“Shit, I’m gonna come.” Y/n whined as her hips rose from the loveseat, only to be held down by Jason’s hand as he deliberately rubbed her clit. 

Jason picked up his pace, the sound of skin on skin slapping filling the empty library. He reclined his head, pressing his forehead against y/n’s as he locked eyes with her, swallowing their filth in a sloppy kiss. It was when Jason pulled away to let out a strangled, “Please come, y/n,” along with a thrust of his hips into her cervix, and the pressure of his thumb on her clit, that y/n was set over the edge, screwing her eyes shut as she sought ecstacy with a sob.

Jason followed shortly after, keeping his eyes peeled as he watched y/n come down from her high while chasing his own, thrusts sharp and deep. He sat up and tightened his grip on y/n’s thigh, bucking his hips once, twice, before crying out, “Fuck, y/n.” his mouth shaping into an ‘o’ and cock stilling inside her.

As he settled from his orgasm, he emitted faint whines, cursing under his breath as he struggled to remove his condom. “Shit, I forgot we’re in a library.” he muttered in realization, causing y/n to giggle. “Stay right here and I’ll clean you up.” he excused himself while he sprung out of the library, returning in a minute with a towel in hand. “Here, stay still. Are you okay?” Jason apprehensively questioned while blotting up y/n’s mess, peppering kisses along her thighs and stomach.

Y/n combed his hair while he did this, grinning and nodding shyly. “You do this for all your girls?”

Jason shot y/n an admonishing look. “I don’t do this much, Hun.” he finished cleaning up, adding quietly, “Not that I’d want to do this with anyone else, of course,” before he stood on his feet and dressed himself.

“Really? A good looking man like yourself doesn’t do this?” Y/n gave Jason a suspicious look.

Jason sighed. “No, I don’t. I don’t believe in doing that unless…”

“Unless…?” y/n poked.

“Unless I connect with the person.” Jason admitted, half-ashamed of himself. “And I think I can trust you.” Y/n sat up and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him on top of her in an embrace. She ran her fingers through his hair, breathing deeply in anticipation to comfort him.

And she did, even for a moment. Jason’s wall fell that evening, and it sparked a newfound love for the library in Wayne Manor.

[zablife]

A Walk in the Garden with Heaven Shelby

Requested by @raincoffeeandfandoms for my 2K celebration An Evening at Arrow House. Warning: This is a dark fic 💀

Author's Note: Read Part 1 with Arthur here. Heaven Shelby (Arthur's wife) is an OC belonging to @call-sign-shark.

As Arthur raised the axe high above his head, Mrs. Shelby closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable, the scream she wished to release caught in her throat. She could feel the warmth of his hatred and body heat radiating over her in equal measure when the sharp click of high heels could be heard approaching, halting his movements.

"Cheri, where are you?” a gentle voice floated through the darkness of the cellar. The soft lilt sounded like an angel's song to her ears. As though a trance had been broken, Arthur too heard the call of this heavenly voice and turned to see his wife running toward him. When she was upon him, her small hands clasped his face as she demanded, "What are you doing?”

"I...I'm not meself, Heaven. I need ya to save me," he begged. The tiny woman at his side nodded in understanding, prying the axe from his trembling hands and helped him to lower it. Mrs. Shelby slumped to the floor, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she watched the couple tenderly embracing before her.

"Thank you, thank you," she repeated to the woman who had saved her.

"Your hands have blood," Heaven noted, turning Arthur's palms over and studying them with concern, barely noticing her sister-in-law.

"My hands?" Arthur asked, looking down at them as though he didn't recognize them.

"Go and wash, then join your family," Heaven instructed and Arthur obeyed like a child who badly needed guidance, shuffling away in silence.

When he was out of sight, Mrs. Shelby looked to the silver haired woman with a mixture of awe and fear as she asked, "What made him do that?"

"Don't you know?" Heaven asked, tilting her head.

"No," she replied, unable to think of a reason why someone should wish her harm when she'd only wanted to gain their approval.

Heaven extended a hand to Mrs. Shelby, her face softening as she begged forgiveness. "He's a war veteran. He has flashbacks. Please don't judge too harshly."

Nodding vigorously she confided, "Tommy has nightmares…though he doesn't like to discuss it."

"Then you understand," Heaven said sympathetically.

"Yes, but I need a moment before I go back to the party," Mrs. Shelby admitted, running a hand through her hair. “I’m not feeling very well.”

"Let's take a walk in the garden. The fresh air will help your nerves," Heaven suggested, her plump lips curling into a reassuring smile.

—————————-

Soon Mrs. Shelby found herself in the cool evening air, feeling much improved. The full moon above them illuminated the gardens and highlighted the frosty beauty of Heaven's complexion in stunning detail. She could see why Arthur was so taken with his bride and she could only hope Tommy would still be as infatuated with her years into their marriage.

As the beating of her heart resumed a normal pace, she allowed her hand to reach for the velvety softness of the flower petals in the manicured beds, feeling a sense of calm descend after an evening of chaos. "Was it this unbearable when you arrived?" Mrs. Shelby asked quietly.

"Yes, at first...no one was kind to me except John," Heaven mused, as she quietly uncovered the gardener's box, her slim fingers ghosting over the tools. "But then it all changed," she said in a far off voice.

"When?" Tommy's bride asked as she stared out into the garden, desperate for a solution to her troubles.

"When I proved to them I wasn't weak," Heaven replied, an acidic burn to her sweetness as her hand grasped the pruning shears.

"How do I do that?" Mrs. Shelby asked, a hint of a laugh leaving her lips, as sad and broken as she felt in the moment.

Watching with curiosity, Heaven stalked toward the forlorn woman as silent as a creature of the night, concealing the glint of metal behind her back. Her sister-in-law didn't move as she approached, lulled by the warm breeze and an understanding ear. “You want to know how to make them respect you?” Heaven asked on a low breath.

“Please,” her sister-in-law breathed, eyes large and pleading as she turned to look at the only person to show her kindness all evening.

Heaven stood close enough for her lips to brush the other woman’s ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “You fight," she whispered as she plunged the scissors into her abdomen.

Gasping from shock and pain, Mrs. Shelby reeled, looking down to see a trickle of blood escape her body. Her mouth hung open as she stuttered, “Wh-why are you doing this to me?”

“Because you’ll tell Tommy about Arthur and I can’t have that,” Heaven said, twisting the handle sharply.

Mrs. Shelby's hand trembled as she reached out to steady herself, “Am I going to die?"

Heaven’s watchful gaze followed her, placing a delicate kiss to her cheek, the taste of a salty tear on her tongue as she replied sorrowfully, “That is your choice.” Then her eyes flashed with fire as she pulled the handle out with a jerk, poised to strike once more.

Mrs. Shelby staggered backward in agony, understanding the Shelbys perfectly in that moment. Kill or be killed and the thought terrified her, a jolt of adrenaline coursing through her veins despite the terrible pain in her side. She ran as quickly as she could through the maze of the tall hedgerows, praying she could find a way out.

-------------

Tag list:

@peakyswritings

@evita-shelby

@shelbydelrey

@alanadetigy

@wandawiccan60

@severewobblerlightdragon

@lovemissyhoneybee

@theshelbyslimited

@kittycatcait219

@callsign-fangirl

@christinasyellowflowers

@notyour-valentine

@theshelbyclan

@areyenotfondofmelobster

@polishcrazyone

@elenavampire21

@little-diable

@lyarr24

@jomarch-wannabe

@the-fangirl-diaries

@kmc1989

@helen06dreamer

@dearshelby

@raincoffeeandfandoms

@runnning-outof-time

@pacifymebby

@babayaga67

@brummiereader

@peakyltd

@call-sign-shark

@the-makingsofgreatness

@shjjpm

@thomashelbyswife

[blackbloodteeth]

13th Sentence Game

@bcbdrums linked me this post (about sharing the 13th sentence from any WIP), and then ended up spurring me into sharing them from all my WIPs. I hope this chaos is what you wanted.

While this is mostly everything, I've skipped some WIPs for reasons such as maybe ending up as potential Resbangs™, but otherwise enjoy this absurdly long list I've put together over the course of like three hours.

You can play along and try to guess what each one's about, if you want hahaha

1, "2021 July 15"* You're sitting up, sweating like crazy, all you can focus on is taking in air.

*Technically my first fic, but it was scrapped. Never really posted it because it's too confusing and now outdated.

2. "2021 Sep 24"* As the previously stated unpredictable behaviour has led to only a small number of assessments on combat, the full extent of his abilities remain undocumented.

*Was originally for an event, but I've considering expanding upon it.

3. "(WIP) TBN" It was like the world here at DWMA was some kind of grand show, and he was just some background character.

4. Inner Strings They all called him the Soul Eater.

5. "be crime do gay" Just. Not like that.

6. Scythes don't make for practical weapons He had no idea if he was going to be able to make friends at all, let alone find a meister, someone willing to accept him for himself and actually be able to use him effectively.

7. "(simple au)" He had an odd combo of red eyes with white hair and tan skin, sharp teeth pulled into a defiant scowl, and a black jacket hunched over a frame that didn't look to understand posture for shit.

8. When Death City snows over "Come on, I doubt it'll actually snow; that shit never happens here."

9. I ain't Feline fine She gets him to stand in the center of the spell zone while instructing Maka to keep behind her, eagerly fixing her hat with her paws before starting.

10. Teeth So he'd take to his now familiar hideaway, a piano tucked away in a sparsely used room.

11. Happy Birthday, Soul Not even Maka.

12. "cursed hall" Given they've gotten to know each other to some degree before now, he was already pretty adjusted to seeing the two other members of this makeshift team: Soul and, well, Soul.

13. It's been a long night for my entire life There was always work to be done and he couldn't wait to get started.

14. One Word* Seeing all those intertwined neighbors, how easily they all sent signals together, that part of him craving to connect and belong made him feel hollow, made him wish he could have that just like everybody else.

*Let it be known that this is the notorious development hell WIP.

15. It was a dark and stormy night Of course with her literary weapon and the sudden jolt of her appearance, the figure seems to have been startled enough to give an auditory following to their jumping back, dull gleaming red blinking wildly back at her tense confusion while- Wait, Soul??

16. Ride by night only [6:19 PM] Kinda with him actually, why are you in a hurry then lol

17. The Very Hungry Soul “Well if the very hungry caterpillar would like to make sure we’re not late, he should hurry up and get dressed before I eat his breakfast for him before it gets cold.”

18. See you on the other side "Soul?"

19. The Dragon and The Moth He’s stopped entirely in his tracks when she abruptly goes in for a hug, snout nuzzling against his chest with a much softened sweetness.

20. Draconic Upon further noting its smooth surface he soon realized it wasn’t a star but in fact some sort of rock, blandly opaque like that of salt despite its odd moonlit shimmers, which even stranger still became steadily see-through in the absorbed heat of his fingertips.

21. "(wings made of arms)" Could it... really be......?

22. The Unknown Caller Caller unknown. But for him that was a lie.

23. The Exchange [8th] "Drink?"

24. Don't Escape Making his way around the back, his eyes glide along the sides until he reaches the pile of small logs, the ax resting up against them exactly as he’d left it.

25. The 42nd Story (Ch. 2)* The muffled talking of a woman, determined to be coming from a nearby room.

*As stated in The Ramble Room, this entire story was scrapped. While I didn't share the second and only other chapter despite it being finished, the first chapter was still shared.

26. "2023july11" He proceeds with actually cleaning himself up, a faint smile keeping him still awake and upright.

27. "(Aug31)" Her smile fades a little as she looks him over, a different sense of intrigue making her face bunch up funnily.

28. "hand pun" Her horrid fascination grew to the point of needing a new name for it (morbid curiosity, that's a classic) as the guy turns the hand around while it signs to him, eyes impossibly wide when she notices the similar skin tone under his hood and the missing space in his left jacket sleeve and the red of his eyes when he suddenly looks directly at her.

29. "WereWeek prompt 3" There's this girl – new student who moved in this year – who is so bossy.

30. "trees"* So much on his mind that he can't hold at bay and he can't even walk about it.

*Technically a small one-shot collection, but it's all going to be in the same fic.

31. "here and now"* His fingers stretch out from his palms in front of the glass, hurriedly ruffling through his hair, his tongue sticking out and then grinning ear-to-ear at her again with all the sunlight in the world.

*My current WIP! It's been slow-going, but I can't wait to see it through to the end haha

The rest are unsorted WIPs in my "drabble zone (2024)" doc:

32. 'Cause you are more than just a dream There's an odd look he pauses on her with after hopping off that she can really only describe as him expecting her to feel like he just sealed her in with a wild animal.

33. "blacksmith au" While his body shown well the signs of having dedicated much of his life to his craft, there was a strange affliction splitting much of it in twain, diagonally from hip to shoulder as if sliced by the very heavens itself in warning.

34. Devils don't go to Heaven (working title) “...Where is this?”

Anything else is so disorganized or only a small handful of sentences that I'm just gonna go ahead and stop it here haha

Thanks for tuning in, hope this was at least entertaining, or possibly even enlightening to the sheer amount of WIPs I've manged to collect over the past few years. I do want to go back to them eventually, but one step at a time, eh?

[magicshopaholic]

Getting Ahead (Jimin x OC)

Summary: You reflect on your past relationship with Jimin and wonder if history might be repeating itself.

Pairing: Jimin x OC

Genre: Exes; angst potential

Word count: 3.1 K

Rating: 18+

Warnings: none

A/N: A little nervous about this one, not gonna lie. It was supposed to be another "story" story but ended up being a Sooah drabble instead. Features Chaeyoung in detail, and is set approximately four months after Never Have I.

Also, special shout-out to @oddinary4bts who read one fic a day and finished my entire masterlist in record time - plus reviews on each! This is the first fic she will read on release so, yay, Ella! Loved loved loved every single notification I got from you <3

Tagging: @bbl32@ quarter-life-crisis2 @meirkive @dreaming-with-happiness @confessionsofamarshlily @jiminjhang @faearchives @margopinkerton @purpleseoul7

Listen to: “breathe” by anna nalick

jimin masterlist | main masterlist

Sooah had grown up in a blur. Her parents’ passive aggressive marriage, the aunts and uncles who’d moved in and moved out, the friend groups that evolved faster than a virus. Even her job was a blur; each event, scrambling to be put up, pulled off with hard work, and onto the next. 

It was all a blur. Sooah was used to the blur. She was the only thing that stood steady within the blur, unmoving, watching the chaos of teenage angst in a state of borderline dissociation. 

That was until Park Jimin entered her life, however, and suddenly her axis stumbled. He was clearer than anything else ever had been; he was sweet, he was kind, he loved to dance. He was shy and introverted, but he made her world go round.

Sooah watched Jimin pluck up the courage to tell her how he felt for months, and she was enchanted. He was all brains and maths and it was very impressive, but every time their gazes met for more than a second or their fingers accidentally brushed, all that shaky confidence melted into a series of stutters and he’d look away.

Eventually, Sooah asked him out after one of their study sessions. Truth be told, she hadn’t needed his help after the previous semester ended but she’d kept the routine going anyway, enjoying this blushing boy’s company more than expected. His cheeks predictably went pink but he nodded and Sooah, unable to resist smiling, promised to meet him later that week.

She also made the first move and kissed him at the end of their date; it didn’t seem like Jimin was going to risk crossing a line he wasn’t sure of and Sooah personally liked the fact that he cared enough to overthink it. She wasn’t going to handhold him forever, though; she promised herself that the next move would be his, and she waited nearly three months before he asked her officially to be his girlfriend.

Or, he didn’t quite ask. His exact words were So… does this mean I’m your boyfriend? Or are you - are you my girlfriend?

Given that this question was asked while they fooled around by the bushes behind her parents’ house, it took Sooah a little by surprise. She sat up on her elbows, ignoring the grass in her hair, and squinted at him.

Are you asking me to be your girlfriend, Jimin?

No. I’m asking if - okay, yes. Yeah, I am. I guess.

You guess?

I am!

She giggled at his whiny exclamation, his eyes wide and dramatic, and kissed him in response. They progressed for the first time from the bushes to her parents’ couch that evening, feeling like they’d crossed the ultimate threshold,  until he had to leave for dance practice at Big Hit. 

—

It’s no longer a blur. Not the same kind, at least. Now, it’s like a ride at the amusement park, one of those dangerous ones that goes in all directions - except she’s been on it at least five hundred times.

It’s unbecoming of her, a professional with a job, to be peeking at her phone every few minutes while she’s at a client site. She walks alongside her manager, pinstriped trousers and sharp heels, hoping she looks chic enough to blend in with the people at this fashion label that’s hosting a luncheon with a group of buyers next month.

It’s all about faking it till she makes it. Fake the fun, make the friends. Fake the studious nature, make the parents happy. Fake the confidence - make the event a success.

Her manager nudges her subtly then, asking her if she’s taking notes.

Of course she is. This is her job, her priority. Not even an absentee boyfriend can distract her from it. Once she’s done for the day, however, the boyfriend takes centre stage in her mind again. 

Sooah wants to text him again, but at this point, it will come off as clingy. Or paranoid, depending on the wording. The last text she sent him was Can we talk before you go to bed? It’s borderline desperate, not to mention pointless, for she’s sure he doesn’t even have his phone. 

It’s probably with his manager, or his stylist. He won’t get it until after practice, after the stage rehearsal, after the fitting, after the backstage filming. After that, someone will have ordered a disproportionately small amount of food for the group; the boys will inhale it and pass out in the car on the way to their dorm. Alex will most likely not even look at his phone until tomorrow morning.

Unfortunately, she knows these things.

Her fingers itch with the desire to send another text, a passive aggressive one this time. Not because it’s his fault really, but because the niceties aren’t getting his attention.

After a moment, though, she shakes her head and tosses her phone into the laundry bin for good measure, hoping to get rid of any temptation. It’s too early in this relationship to show her true colours, and there’s no telling if Alex will be up for a fight.

Fake the peace, make the relationship.

—

The sun is bright - too bright. Even in the cold of December, it’s too bright.

The sun is too bright, the coffee is too hot, the dude at the next table is too loud, and Sooah is too annoyed. She hangs on to the annoyance, though, somewhat enjoying how it’s making her walk faster, how people seem to be stepping out of her way on the pavements - it’s strangely cathartic, despite how unfair it is.

She keeps it going all the way to Chaeyoung’s apartment, knowing she’s about an hour too early to pick her up for their lunch and movie date. But she doubts Chaeyoung would mind; in the few months that she’s known the younger girl, Sooah has picked up on her slight discomfort with her roommate, Sungmi - and her boyfriend, Ice. 

She also thinks she’s picked up on a mild loneliness of sorts - the same one Sooah remembers she’d felt when she’d finished college and started working in Seoul by herself. Having finished high school in Seoul, she’d already had friends to begin with. Chaeyoung didn’t say it to her in so many words, but her delight in realising she’d made a friend outside of work was both sweet and transparent.

It initially amused Sooah, but being Chaeyoung’s friend has felt like one of the easiest relationships of her life so far, despite the bar being laughably low.

This neighbourhood isn’t the safest one Sooah has been to, but with one hand on her purse and the other clutching her keys, she hurries into the small building and up the flight of stairs. Chaeyoung throws open the door just as Sooah is about to ring the doorbell, and there are two quick shrieks in succession.

“Holy crap,” pants Chaeyoung, opening the door further and stepping aside. “Unnie, I wasn’t expecting you till -” She breaks off and pats the pockets of her pajamas for her phone and checks the time. “- at least another hour.”

“Yeah, I know,” mutters Sooah, trudging inside and sighing, realising only now how pathetic it could seem that she ambushed Chaeyoung in her own house. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t sit in that stupid coffee shop anymore. At first it was just pitying looks and subtle questioning, but then -” She huffs and falls into a chair at the small dining table “- one of the baristas brought me a pity muffin. Just to make it absolutely clear that I’ve been stood up, in case anyone had any doubts.”

“Oh, wow.” Chaeyoung winces. It’s clear she hasn’t even started getting ready yet; her hair is still in a bun and she’s still wearing what she presumably wore to bed. “Alex didn’t make it?”

“No, and I don’t even know why I’m surprised.” She waves a hand. “Sorry, don’t let me keep you. Take your time getting ready. I’ll wait.” 

“Yeah…” Chaeyoung bites her lip slowly. “I was going to text you, unnie…”

“No. No, Chae!” Sooah whines, her shoulders falling. “Not you, too!”

“I’m sorry! I just got the call a little while ago,” she says quickly. “I have to go to the office for a lunch meeting.”

“That is just perfect,” mutters Sooah, putting a hand to her forehead. “Today’s just one of those days, I guess, where everyone seems to be cancelling on me.”

“I’m really sorry,” repeats Chaeyoung, taking a seat next to her. “It’s a client meeting. It was supposed to be on Monday but then they cancelled and said that they were only free today - plus, this is like my first big project ever and I’m supposed to cover the entire history of the brand from inception…”

Chaeyoung is rambling. Sooah instantly feels guilty for lumping her in the same category as her boyfriend, so she nods, waiting for her to finish.

“- not wanting to be fired.” Chaeyoung swallows, eyes wide with guilt.

Sooah nods again. “It’s fine. Really. It’s your work, you don’t have a choice,” she elaborates, giving her a small smile when she sighs in relief.

Chaeyoung is quiet for a minute. "I'm sorry your date sucked," she ventures uncertainly. “Would you like a beer?”

Sooah nods absently, her gaze deliberately fixed on the mismatched salt and pepper shakers on the dining table. "It can't suck if it didn't happen."

“I’m sorry I added to it.”

“Don’t be. At least you have a genuine reason.”

“Alex doesn’t?”

“I don’t know!” Sooah blurts out in frustration. “Because he never actually called me.”

"Maybe he got busy,” suggests Chaeyoung, returning from the kitchen with two bottles and an opener. “Like, putting-out-a-fire-at-work kind of busy. Or his car broke down. Or he got in an accident!" When Sooah looks up at her incredulously, she shrugs self-consciously. "I - it's not ideal, but at least it's viable."

"Forget it," sighs Sooah after a moment, accepting the beer even though it’s seven degrees outside. "This wouldn't be the first time I've been stood up at a coffee shop."

She can sense that Chaeyoung wants to ask but is struggling not to. It warms her heart without meaning to, and she clinks her bottle with hers.

“Am I making you late?”

“Not at all,” replies Chaeyoung at once. “I don’t have to leave for a couple of hours.”

“I just can’t believe I’m back here,” says Sooah in a low voice. “After all these years, I’m right back where I started. I’m - I’m basically dating my ex all over again.”

Chaeyoung frowns. “What - wait, do you mean Jimin?”

Sooah nods, cringing inwardly. It’s not a fun thing to admit. “How do I choose these guys? How do I always end up in one of these relationships where I’m literally the last priority? And it’s my fault,” she adds, without waiting for Chaeyoung to respond, “because I pick these guys.”

“These guys,” repeats Chaeyoung slowly, “like, idols? Do you - do you always date idols?”

“No,” she huffs, “I’ve dated other guys. But after Park Jimin, this is probably my longest relationship to date.” She replays that in her head and shudders. “It’s pathetic, I know.”

“No judgement.” Chaeyoung pauses. “So, wait - is that why you’re with Alex? Is that, like, your type?”

“No,” answers Sooah immediately. “Alex and Jimin are nothing alike. It’s just their jobs that are similar and… I’m not a teenager anymore. I don’t have the time to stay up at night and worry about why my boyfriend hasn’t called me.”

“How long has it -”

“Eleven days.”

Chaeyoung’s eyes widen. “Eleven -”

“Eleven days since we’ve spoken on the phone,” confirms Sooah. “It’s just been one-word texts and missed calls, mostly from me. But, yeah, eleven days since I’ve actually heard his voice. And, no,” she adds, holding up a hand, “hearing his songs at Starbucks doesn’t count.”

Chaeyoung nods thoughtfully. “You know, that may not be the worst thing in the world. I mean, Hoseok has started this new thing where he warns me of a different disaster every day,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He acts like he wants to know how my day is going but then latches onto something stupid and gives me a whole lecture on it. Yesterday, it was about boiling water. He told me the steam could soften the plaster on the ceiling and lead to seepage. The day before that, it was about the dangers of the subway.”

Sooah squints, sensing that Chaeyoung might be losing the plot. “I don’t think this is… quite like that,” she says delicately. “Alex is basically AWOL, and Hoseok is…”

“An interfering arse, I know. You’re right, it’s not the same thing.” Chaeyoung sits back in her chair. “My point is… wait, hang on - do you want me to make a point?”

“What?”

“You know… do you want to actually talk about this or just vent and have me listen? Because I can do both,” she says earnestly.

“Oh.” It’s quite insightful of her, given how young she is, and Sooah is suddenly glad she landed up here an hour early. “Yeah, no, I can talk about it. Not angry enough to vent yet,” she points out.

“Alright. My point was… what does all this have to do with Jimin?”

Literally everything. 

Sooah bites her lip, reliving it for the millionth time. “This is exactly how it started with him. Everything was going well, he was sweet, he had dreams and I - I liked being that person,” she confesses. “I liked being that person he shared his hopes and dreams with, who got to see him grow and become big.” She sighs. “Until he got too big.”

“And is Alex getting too big?”

“No. I mean, not yet. I mean -” Sooah shakes her head. “I’m not trying to sound evil. I want him to be big, I want him to get what he’s been working for because he deserves it, but… where does that leave me?” she asks in a small voice.

“What do you mean? You’re right here.” 

“No, but when those guys started touring and all after debut, everything changed. Jimin changed.” Sooah wrings her hands in her lap. “It was like… like I was his life before, when he was sweet and shy and wore glasses, and now he was in the after, with orange hair and that stupid smirk. And I didn’t fit into that.” And then he dropped me a goddamn text.

“Is Alex changing?”

“No. I don’t know. It’s too soon to tell,” she admits. “But how productive of a person would I be if I ignored the similarities and made the same mistakes all over again? I mean, shouldn’t people be learning from their past relationships? Isn’t that the whole point?”

Chaeyoung opens her mouth as if to say something, but then seems to think the better of it.

“What?”

“What what?”

“You were going to say something.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Chae.” Sooah gives her a look. “Come on, you’re the smart one, wise beyond your years and all. Tell me.”

Chaeyoung half-chuckles, bringing one leg up on the chair and resting her arm on her knee. “I… don’t think you’re going to like what I have to say, unnie.”

“Wh- sure I will. Or I wont, but I can take tough love.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Out with it.”

Chaeyoung licks her lips and observes Sooah for a moment. “I think… you’re being a little unfair to Alex.”

Sooah says nothing, not liking where this is going.

“I think everything you’ve told me so far has been about Jimin and not Alex,” she continues. “And I get it, it can’t be easy not hearing from him for days and getting stood up and stuff, but… would you be this worried if you’d never dated Jimin?”

“I think I’d be more worried. At least now I know it’s not about me. This is all him.”

“But which him?” Chaeyoung asks patiently. “Are you just projecting all of your… I don’t know, baggage with Jimin onto Alex? Because then you’re not even giving him a fair shot.”

Sooah was right; she doesn’t like where this is headed at all. “Would that really be the worst thing? Knowing what I know and using it to make an informed decision?”

Chaeyoung bites her lip and tilts her head, and it takes Sooah a moment to realise she’s solved her own crisis. She hates where this has ended up.

“I hate you.”

“Look, maybe you’re right and Alex doesn’t have the capacity for a relationship right now. In that case, just break it off before it gets ugly. But if you’re wrong and you think Alex can still make it work…” She shrugs again. “You can’t date your boyfriend and your ex-boyfriend at the same time.”

Fake the clarity, make the choice.

Sooah stares at Chaeyoung. “How old are you again?”

“Twenty-two.” She grins. “I know, I sound like I’m… thirty or something.”

Sooah scoffs, taking a large sip of her beer. “You don’t sound thirty, believe me. You sound… like, sixty-five.”

“Sixty-five.”

“Yeah. It’s good. I think I could use more sixty-five year old friends.”

“I’d be the fittest sixty-five year old you will ever know,” promises Chaeyoung, flexing a thin, largely invisible bicep. “Plus, then I’d be retired and wouldn’t have to work on a Saturday.”

“I’ll remind you you said that when you text me every single detail of the meeting like you did last time,” promises Sooah, drinking the last of the beer and standing up. “That’s my cue to leave.”

“You don’t have to,” begins Chaeyoung, but she stands up as well. “If Alex doesn’t get back to you by tonight, do you want to hang out?”

“Oh, if Alex doesn’t get back to me by tonight,” says Sooah, gathering her bag and making her way to the door, “I will have definitely progressed to the venting stage.”

—

It’s still a blur. Experiences, missed calls, tearful fights, passive aggressive texts. They’re all there, swimming around in a sea of deteriorating relationships, while Sooah struggles to pinpoint a time and place to each of them. She can’t, though, not when it’s a blur and the only tangible thing she can feel is the dull throb in her chest that seems to have no distinct cause, only a constancy impossible to ignore.

Sooah stares at her phone, big and black on her bed. She won’t call Chaeyoung tonight, no matter what happens. It’s just not the night. She’s going to have to have a tough conversation with at least one important person in her life, and it all depends on whether her past with Jimin has damaged her to the point of second-guessing every relationship she ever has in her life.

She thinks of the word Chaeyoung used. Baggage. Implying that it’s not Jimin that’s the problem, but whatever she’s still carrying from their time together, including the sweet and shy smile, all the way up to the orange hair and dumbass smirk.

Face the past head-on, make the future a little clearer.

Sighing, she picks up the phone.

—

Thank you for reading. Don't forget to drop a review :)

[generalluxun]

Pack mentality!

Pack Mentality is the next fic in the Felis et Canus AU. Years have passed, and the fic begins as the Tsurugis return to Paris. It seems Tomoé isn't interested in Gabriel's excuses. She wants her wish, and is willing to go to lengths to get it. Among the chaos, the last secret, Cat Noir's identity, finally comes out, and all that that entails for our heroes.

-----------------------------------------------------

The kiss was something rare for them: surprisingly gentle. Marinette’s senses expanded instead of being overwhelmed. Chloé’s perfume was as always a powerful background that framed everything about her. Her kiss was light, very nearly timid. Her lipstick held no flavor, and yet the dull matte of cosmetics was its own spice when laid over Chloé’s lips. Marinette’s heart raced into the gentleness. Her fingers gripped Chloé’s sleeve more tightly. A tilt of her head, their noses grazing.  Marinette’s eyes drifted closed as she renewed the kiss for a second round.

They drifted apart slowly. Marinette’s eyes opened to a gaze that was trying to hide and ask at the same time.  Chloé bit her bottom lip. She’s nervous. Marinette let go and drifted back further, giving Chloé space. “Mmm, going to tell me what’s on your mind? Not that this isn’t nice, but you forget, I know you.”

Marinette leaned back in to whisper against Chloé’s ear.

“Biblically.”

The sharp intake of breath, the lack of a comeback, Chloé really was beside herself over something.  As Marinette watched, those eyes widened, narrowed, then looked away. “It’s her. Not– I’m past calling her names. That was all a long time ago, but she is still…” Chloé swallowed. “I don’t know how to describe it, except, she has my mother’s eyes.”

Marinette slid her touch down from Chloé’s arm to her hand, squeezing. “Kagami can seem austere.” Marinette remembered their own first encounters with a fond smile. “Especially when you’re picking on her friends. She’s sweet though, and kind, and steadfast-”

“-and a Gold Medalist with a saber.” Chloé added.

Marinette couldn’t help but laugh. “And that too. Don’t worry, if anyone, Adrien should be worried. I doubt he’s kept in practice enough to be up to her standards.”

[pixsistixs]

It's been a long time since I've posted regularly to Tumblr, and even longer since I've been brave enough to post my fanfiction here. I posted the link a little while ago but I figured I'd post some snippets of my new chapters as I post them. Right now it's fairly far along so I'll try and post a chapter snippet every day until I catch up, then post when I upload a new chapter. :) Hope you enjoy.

Good and Kind Aren't Always the Same Thing

A Hazbin Hotel Fanfiction

~~~~~~~~

Summary:

Niffty has had her fill of Good Boys, so when she ends up in Hell and meets The Radio Demon she frequently has to remind herself that Good and Kind are not always the same thing.

~~~~

I found myself looking for something of more substance for Niffty as she is my favorite character in the show and couldn't find much so here it is. This will focus heavily on the beginning of her friendship with Alastor and how she becomes who she is. I have no idea where I'm going with this or how long it will be. I'm also fairly new to the Fandom so I may occasionally not get things right but I'm doing my best to do as much research as I can when writing these characters.

~~~~~~~~

TW: This Fic touches on some heavy themes, including DV. It may not always be easy to read and may also be very triggery. I will make sure to post trigger warnings at the beginning of any particularly bad chapters, but consider this a warning for the fic in general.

Chapter 1: The Radio Demon

Rarely is a soul's entrance into Hell a pleasant one. Sinners often meet their ends violently and are still experiencing it when they wake up in their new afterlife. Few embrace the change quickly, only the truly wicked do. Others struggle to cope with their end and their damnation. Many spend their first years in waves of insanity, reliving the trauma over and over again before settling into what would be their eternity. One never knows when or where these new souls will appear. This wasn't Heaven with its pearly gates and Saint Peter to greet them. This was Hell, it was filth and chaos. Most souls were introduced into this realm in a burst of hellfire and screams. It had been that way for Alastor and it had been vivid.

As he'd burst forth into Hell he'd felt the dogs ripping at his flesh, the sharp pain of the bullet through his forehead and the unbelievable agony of burning flesh as his human body morphed and changed into the form he was today. It was… unpleasant to say the least. Once it passed though, if one grounded themselves well, Hell had innumerable possibilities. He'd been fortunate that his arrival had happened in Cannibal Town and that Rosie, his dear sweet friend, had been the one to find him first. He hadn't known her then, but she was the best sort of soul to find a new sinner. Kind, gentle, and the patience of a Saint. She was a special one. Alastor felt a shift in his smile to something a bit more genuine as he pondered over it on his morning walk. He was on his way into a more questionable part of the Pride Circle than the safe haven that was Cannibal Town. He had business to attend to and the thought came to mind as he sidestepped a sinner who was just being birthed into the world. Alastor was not the kind of sinner one would hope to run into on your first day in hell. New souls were an easy meal to him some days and simply a nuisance on others. Fortunately for this fledgling, today was a good day for Alastor and a new soul in his path was simply a reminder of pleasant memories of the past. He hummed to himself some, feeling an added bounce to his step as he listened to the screams fade behind him. What lovely noises screams were, he loved them almost as much as a good Jazz record.

His shadow lingered behind him some, cracking a menacing smile at the new soul, and licking its lips with a grotesquely shaped tongue. He felt flashes of its feelings. Greedy hunger, a lustful want to feel flesh rip apart in its grip.

‘Come now, behave yourself.’ He thought to it, not glancing in its direction, ‘ We just ate, and besides we have bigger game ahead of us my friend.’

The shadow hesitated, looking back at the sinner with want and disappointment. It always had so much more of an appetite than he did, so much more need for violence.

‘I promise, you'll want to leave room for this one.’ He thought cheerfully, rounding a corner and grinning at an imp walking ahead of him. The imp spotted him and immediately crossed the street, eyes wide with terror as it picked up it’s pace considerably to put distance between them. ‘Overlord always is so much more satisfying.’

For the full fic please see the AO3 link. :)

[espilver-week]

Fanfics...

Last month we had 💜🤍Espilver Week 2023🤍💜, and we set up some polls to ask Espilver fans about their favorite everything for this ship ✨

"What tags do you like to see when looking for an Espilver/Silvespio fic?"

Over half of the votes went to fluff 💕 Many people seem to prefer something sweet and comforting for Silver and Espio. Mod as well, loves to read fluff as well! But since we are talking about fanfics, there are a few that I would like to share!

Us (by Midnight Mischief, 2014-2015; Words: 17,753; Rate T)

One of the earliest fics mod has read, and this is a re-imagined story for Rivals 2 with romance subtext. For people first starting to look into the two characters' chemistry, what's better than looking at something similar to the games? There are a bunch of interesting character dynamics between the cast, and events are mainly significant moments in both Silver's and Espio's story. People will need to know the Rivals 2 plotline to recognize certain setting re-use or changes in this fanfic.

No Evidence (by Cubicrot, 2018; Words: 23,519, Rate T)

This is a fic with plenty adventure and a bit of romance, with Espio and Silver first encountering each other in an alternate event which is irrelevant to Rivals 2. Silver was in desperate need of chaos drives, while Espio was on a case investigating a case of missing chaos drives. They ran into each other by chance, and went on their joint journey to achieve what they want. Despite not following the games 100%, it can still be counted as "canon deviation". Being one of the earlier fanfics you can find on the internet, mod absolutely enjoyed reading through it!

Time Together, How Sweet (by mousewritings, 2020; Words: 2,374. Rate G)

A silly story about Espio and Silver going to a store to buy presents for Charmy, but ended up getting kicked out of the store for certain reasons. A purely fluff fic, great for people that wants a quick but pleasant time to read an Espilver fanfic. Genuinely light hearted, this is one of the cute fics mod likes a lot. 💛

New Beginnings (by TrueBlueSonic, 2020-2022; Words: 195,768, Rate T)

Mod believes many people have already read this, in fact, with how there is over 13k hits on AO3, many might have taken a like to Espilver because of this fanfic! Congrats~! 🎉 This story is an aftermath of Rivals 2, "canon deviation" fanfic that involves Silver getting to experience life in the present time, choosing between going back to the future or staying in the present. Many fluffy moments and tear-jerking chapters, those who want a few novel-lengths of fanfic to immerse will have a good time reading this!

Sharp eyes would realize these fanfics here are from years ago! Mod wants to share them for newcomers, so everyone can experience how people perceive Espilver/Silvespio during earlier days when content for this ship were less frequent. Hope you enjoy reading them!

Many fanfics involve not only fluff, but with conflicts and heart-wrenching moments as well. Mod is glad to see people willing to try out all kinds of content despite our main preference!

I noticed many people tend to enjoy stories with Silver feeling conflicted about going back to the future or staying in the past. Indeed, fiddling with timelines are a huge topic that could go on forever, and the decision of staying became very important to Silver. Espio himself then became one of the biggest reasons Silver travels back in time, and even stay in the present forever in some stories.

Letting Silver enjoy life with Espio in the present is also one of the most popular scenarios. Some fanfics with more than a chapter or two would sure to have them hangout in a chill manner, maybe explore their feelings with each other in the meantime.

Besides the main focus on fluff or happy endings, quite a lot of fanfics also go with #slow burn, #friends to lovers, #established relationship, etc. For people that want something other than these settings, now it's the time for you to shine!

There are lots of content for Espilver/Silvespio on the internet, with all kinds of preference and ratings to take note of. Remember to keep an open-minded mentality and enjoy your time within the fandom!