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stevebabey · 4 months

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have sum steddie! maybe modern!au, no upside down!au & a meet cute <3

Steve sits in the booth, his foot tapping away mindlessly under the table, with half a mind to abandon the table entirely.

In fact, the only reason he hadn’t yet was because of the $20 he was hanging out for at the end. And the bragging rights, of course.

Robin had set him up on this blind date, plied him with all the promises in the world that he would enjoy it — said she’d spent a decent amount of time hunting for the right first gay date for Steve.

She also conceded that if he, for whatever reason, didn’t enjoy it, she would cough up 20 whole bucks for his wasted time. But he had to actually see the date through for the prize to be claimed.

And the bragging rights were so that Robin — with her uppity, healthy, and happy relationship that Steve was only a little bit envious of — could ease onto the breaks when it came to Steve’s love life.

So it was looking a little bleak at the moment, so what? Every stallion or… lion or whatever had their moments, right? Moments where their mane is a little uncouth and food is low and…. Where was he going with this?

The point was, that Robin got into one relationship and suddenly decided she was fit to become a high and mighty matchmaker. Never mind that Steve had reminded her numerous times that he had dated a lot more than she had.

So, for 20 bucks and the right to stick his tongue out at his best friend when she tried to meddle, Steve could stick one night out.

Besides, she was right about one thing. They weren’t in Hawkins anymore — and San Francisco had a hell of a larger dating pool than his hometown.

Still, that didn’t make people anymore for prompt for dates though, apparently. Steve’s foot taps incessantly under the table, his knee bouncing up and down in his nerves. He runs a hand through his hair and checks his watch again.

7 o’clock, Harvey’s Diner, a cute little Italian place that Steve had begun to frequent since they moved to the city, and a date with a dude called Daniel whom Steve had no idea what he looked like.

This was his Friday night plans.

His watch reads 7:12pm and Steve sighs, his fingers beginning to fiddle with the strap of his watch just for something to do. Great. He had gotten all dressed up for this? To be stood up? How was this any better than his usual Friday night plans that Robin claimed were so pathe—

“Hi.”

Someone sits down in the booth across from Steve, landing with a thump loud enough to give him a fright.

Steve’s head whips up from its focus on fiddling with his watch and— woah. Steve blinks once, twice, and feels his jaw unhinge a little, his lips parting an inch as he gazes at the stranger across from him.

Holy shit, this dude was hot.

He’s got curls for days, dark chocolate ringlets all messy and unkept spilling over his shoulders— long and probably perfect for burying your hands into. Steve flushes a little at the unexpected thought.

He has beautiful brown eyes, widened with a smudge of eyeliner and framed with long lashes. Steve thinks he can spy a smattering of freckles across his forehead. His nose is long and his lips are plush and pink and holy shit, this dude was pretty.

“Oh— hi.” Steve manages to remember his manners. Only after he fully checked this dude out, of course.

God, couldn’t Robin have given him a better warning than just ‘he’s probably your type’? Couldn’t she have warned him that this dude was ‘do-a-double-take-on-the-street type hot?’ What the fuck Robin?

The man across from him grins, wicked and alluring all at once, and shucks off his heavy leather jacket. His eyes do a once-over on Steve, taking his time to check him out— which is great because Steve is stuck on all the glorious tattoos that have just been revealed. So much skin shown in his roughly chopped muscle-tee, swirling ink all down his arms. This dude is hot.

Silently, Steve curses Robin and the 20 dollars that is totally slipping away from him. Why did she have to be right all the time?

“Been waiting long?” The man, Daniel, asks as he makes himself comfortable across the table. He pushes his hair back with both hands, using one hand to gather it into a ponytail, holding it up to air out his neck and Steve now realises he is slightly puffed.

He must’ve run part of the way here, to avoid being later than he was. Steve can’t help but be slightly endeared by that fact.

The man grins again, “Promise I was trying to be on time but, you know how the subway is.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, any annoyance at being kept waiting melting away at his date’s sincerity.

“Not too long,” Steve admits, smiling to ease Daniel’s apparent concern. Across the table, Daniel slumps a little and releases his hair, his curls pooling back around his shoulders. Steve watches, entranced.

“Well, that’s good,” Daniel smiles, eyes bright like he really means it, and his hand darts out to steal the drinks menu from the edge of the table. He looks back over to Steve, a furrow in his brows. “You didn’t order anything?”

“I thought I should wait,” Steve says with a shrug. No point paying for food if your date never shows up.

Daniel looks up from the menu through his lashes and smiles, placing his elbow on the table and dropping his chin in the palm of his hand. “Aw, you’re sweet.”

Steve is a little embarrassed by how easily the compliment makes him blush, feeling his cheeks glow lightly. Across the table, Daniel seems to revel in it, drinking in the way Steve’s face filled with colour with a cheeky smile. His eyes flick back down to the menu.

“You know,” Daniel begins, keeping his eyes on the menu, scanning it with a hum. “Chrissy said you were good looking but I think she seriously undersold you.”

He takes his eyes off the menu to trail up Steve’s body, his gaze heavy. Steve feels a delighted zing go up his spine, feels the way he preens at Daniel’s attraction. Steve opens his mouth to respond, more than ready to return the flirt when—

“Can I get you two started with anything?”

The waitress interrupts. She’s poised with her notepad, standing at the edge of the booth. Daniel perks up and nods.

“Can I get a chocolate milkshake please?” He asks with a polite smile. Steve laughs lightly at his selection and Daniel’s gaze cuts from the waitress to Steve.

“What? Not a milkshake man?”

Steve tries to contain his grin, all too endeared by the man before him. He shakes his head and raises his hand in defense. “Nothing against milkshakes just… for dinner?”

Daniel gasps theatrically and his head snaps back to the waitress. “This man has never had the delight of a Harvey’s milkshake with his dinner. Please bring us two chocolate milkshakes!”

Steve watches as the waitress dutifully writes down the order and turns on her heel, heading for the kitchen. He turns back to his date and gapes, taken aback by the forwardness.

“Did you just order for me?”

“Did you just diss milkshakes?”

Steve scoffs, but even then he can’t stop his lips from curling up into a smile. He can’t believe it but he’s genuinely glad he waited this date out. It's not at all like he was expecting. Even Robin's short description of this dude pales in comparison to the real thing. Steve nudges his foot forward into Daniel’s shin lightly.

“I did not diss milkshakes,” Steve argues, his smile widening at how Daniel’s eyes dart to the table before back up at Steve with a grin.

“Uh huh,” Daniel nods, his voice sarcastic and 100% unbelieving of Steve’s insistence. “Just wait, okay? You’ll be changing your tune soon enough. Harvey’s milkshakes are class. I’ve had a thousand of my best ideas in here, sipping on a chocolate milkshake.”

Steve grins and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. Under the table, he feels Daniel’s boot nudge against his leg gently— and he laughs to himself. This has gotta be the most teenage way of flirting and he’s fucking loving it.

“You know,” Steve begins hesitantly, letting his forearms lean up against the table. “You’re not quite what I expected, Daniel.”

Across the table, Daniel scrunches up his face, his expression one of pure befuddlement. He puts his hands flat on the table and leans forward.

“Wait, you think my name is Daniel?”

Steve splutters for a moment because even though the answer is duh, yes, it’s become increasingly apparent that the man across from him is not who he was expecting. But if he’s not Daniel, who is he?

Suddenly, the door chimes and someone else is entering the diner. It’s a man dressed like Steve — on the preppy side with hair that must’ve taken at least an hour. He scans the booth and spots Steve’s booth, wandering over, his eyes fixed on the man across from Steve.

“Hey, are you Eddie?” He asks confidently, ignoring Steve’s presence on the other side of the booth.

The man — Eddie — freezes as he glances up at the newcomer and then back down to Steve ahead of him. Steve deflates a little inside as he realises abruptly what’s happened— a mix-up of wrong dates that was completely warranted because this dude dresses exactly like Steve. Steve doesn't stare too long to see if he's any hotter.

Instead, he tries to give Eddie the all-clear with his eyes. He smiles polite as he can and gives a little nod to let him know it was alright to abandon him for the date he was supposed to go on. Not to get stuck with Steve.

Eddie clears his throat and smiles, not cheeky like he had with Steve, but stiff and polite. “Ah sorry man, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. My name's Daniel.”

Huh? Steve takes his eyes off the table to steal a glimpse at Eddie (is his name even Eddie?) and something inside him burns hotly when the man glances across at Steve and winks.

The man standing by the booth wavers for a moment, glancing between them in the booth as Steve schools his expression to neutral. After a moment of silence, there's a half-assed apology as the man retreats, heading back out the door he had just come through. The door chimes again on his way out.

Steve straightens up and peers over his shoulder, watching the door slowly swing shut. He turns back to the man across the booth and squints at him. The waitress returns briefly, dropping two large chocolate shakes onto the table, topped with a mountain of cream. She murmurs something about coming back to take their order in a moment.

"Wait, so who are you?" Steve asks, gently sliding his shake closer to him. "Daniel or Eddie?"

His date —well, his new date— has already begun taking a big long sip from his own milkshake, so enamored with it that when he pulls away there's a dot of cream on the end of his nose. He swallows with a satisfied ah and grins across the table at Steve, not noticing the dairy on his face.

"I'm whoever gets me talking with you a little bit longer."

Steve grins, an endeared roll of his eye at the blatant flirting but he can't deny how it makes his chest warm. He grabs one of the napkins and reaches forward, adoring how Eddie goes cross-eyed as he watches Steve smudge away the cream on his nose. He laughs sheepishly, giving his nose a little wipe with his own hand.

"I'm Eddie." He says, finally introducing himself. He doesn't offer his hand, just gives Steve a little nudge under the table and a grin over his milkshake. "And I think you just saved me from a terrible date."

Steve laughs, giving a little shake of his head. He finally goes in for a sip of his own milkshake— and it's just as heavenly as Eddie had promised, glorious chocolate dancing over his taste buds.

Steve groans quietly, eyes bright when he glances at the other man over his glass, entirely amused by how wide-eyed Eddie has become. He releases the straw and sits back, more invested in this date than he has been in... years. Stallion's got its mojo back. Or lion. Whatever.

"I'm Steve," He responds, giving a little nudge back under the table and a grin of his own. "And I think you saved me from being stood up."

#what..... is this????#i haven't really written modern au for them #and i wrote it in about 2 hours so hopefully its like. not terrible #wahoo !#i luv a little meet cute #meet cute #steddie #ruby writes steddie #steve x eddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie blurb #ummmm i haven't posted in literal eons ive forgotten all my tags oh well #enjoy ?

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multifandomfanatic02 · 1 month

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"Stuck in a Trap."

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 : deer!Alastor x human!Reader

𝙎𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨 : reader finds herself wandering the woods alone and falls upon a wounded stag stuck in a bear trap.

𝙏𝙖𝙜𝙨 : deer Alastor, human reader, marked, soulmate trope in a way

𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝘾𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 : 1.3k

It was a cool night in spring. Nice enough to take a walk outside. You had decided to chose a descent into the woods behind your house. It wasn't dangerous or anything, had a nice gravel path. A few miles into it became an attraction to some tourists. Those who were into the whole haunting thing.

The most you heard were some silly ghost stories. What nonsense, you thought. Some believed there was a portal straight to Hell sitting in the thicket somewhere. Some believed there have victims from past murders buried in there. You weren't exactly into paranormal shit, you've lived and roamed these woods for years now.

No, the closest you have seen were the crazy amounts of dead deer lying on the floor. Hunters perhaps? Maybe mountain lions? Nah. The state of the deer made you feel bad, queezy more like. The poaching of the animals was upsetting to say the least. Whenever you went on these walks, you made sure to break whatever traps you could find. More often than not, all being bear traps. It was illegal in this area after all. Nobody really enforces the law around here considering how scared everyone was with this place.

You had been walking for what felt like a few hours. Your cue being the red and pink sky to head home. Oh but it just feels so right to be there. It wasn't until you heard a loud animal like cry that you stopped in your tracks. You bet it was a deer caught in a trap. What were you thinking following a scary sound like this. This kinda thing should only happen in scary movies.

After a few minutes of wandering around for the source of the sound, the creature in question comes in to view. It was a stag. What a divine animal this was. It was a lot larger than most deer, the biggest set of antlers you had seen. And it's color was dazzling. It was as if it reflected the crimson sky above it. There was no way that it was it's natural color.

Inching closer to it, the reason of it's cry came to your attention. A hoof was caught in a bear trap like you originally thought. Blood dripped from it's ankle, in attempt to soothe it, he licked it. Blood staining around it's mouth. Looks like he'd been there for quite some time.

Bending down to the ground, you hold up your hands hoping the creature would realize you were going to try and release it. All he did was bellow in hopes to scare you away. But you just stared in amazement. Your hand just inches away from the trap, the stag notices and understands your actions. Staying still for a few seconds.

His hoof finally free, you put the bloodied old bear trap in your bag. The beautiful creature bows his head slightly, one of his front hooves folding beneath him, obviously showing a little gratitude. You bent down to meet his gaze, returning the unusual human-like gesture. You didn't really think about it too hard.

Your hand reached out to him, in hopes he'll accept your advances. The stags ears laid back against his head as he pressed his forehead into yours. He backed away slightly, giving the entirety of your forearm a well deserved lick before bounding back into the thicket of the woods.

What a strange interaction. Something you surely won't ever forget whether you liked it or not. Upon looking down, you notice a green glow surrounding the area the creature marked. Looked like it was making out a subtle A-like symbol. Well time to proceed home and wash off.

A few years had gone by and the mark still remained on your arm. After many specialist appointments and surgeries, the doctors were just as stumped as you were. It wasn't a tattoo of any kind, no ink was found in the skin. It wasn't skin cancer. And crazy as it is, after several biopsies the mark simply grew over the scar tissue. It was a complete mystery as to what that mark was. And if you told everyone where you truly got it, they would all think you were nuts.

If that wasn't enough, you often felt prying eyes around your secluded house. The paranormal stories were beginning to sound sane after all the experiences you had. There have been many nights where the stereo would turn on by itself or static would just be heard. Or nights when a dark yet comforting shadow would loom over you as you slept. You eventually became accustomed to these intrusions. Most would have moved out by now.

Whatever was here was like a dark guardian angel. You weren't thinking about the holy ones whom would just, look after you, wish you the best of luck and bring you to heaven when you died. No. This one was different. The type to personally interfere with human affairs to keep you safe. The idea wasn't too off-putting considering you had done been in two severe car accidents and a tornado; somehow leaving all situations unscathed.

More often than not, you would have dreams about the stag you had found in the woods all those years ago. Talking about how you belonged to him. How you live under his protection. He had a name too but you couldn't quite put your finger on it. His voice was really unique and drew you in like a magnet. The dreams you've received were so surreal. Like you've known him all your life.

If this was paranormal, you were going to do some digging. The term typically refers to the dead, right? The town library should have records of your property and the folks who lived there before you.

It thankfully didn't take much to get the information you were looking for. There were several newspaper articles from the 1930's that included details of a man named Alastor. Alastor.. that was the name you heard in your dream. It explained the mark on your arm.

He was a local serial killer who targeted those who were for the most part ill intentioned. Especially toward women. He was found dead in the woods behind your house, burying one of his victims. Mistakened for an animal. Which is why to this day hunting is illegal in those set of woods.

More newspaper articles opened up about his profession. Despite the mans.. er.. hobbies, he was quite the talent as a radio host back in the 20's. Youtube even had some of the old audio recordings. Your heart soared upon hearing his voice. This was him. The stag you saved, the shadows watching over you, and the voice that whispered to you in your dreams.

What didn't make sense was.. why was he a stag of all things? Why did it feel real? Well, as it turns out, the power of the human soul varies in the afterlife. Some could just interact with inanimate objects while others can only muster a sound whether it be naturally or through something called a spirit box. Then, what was Alastor?

Ultimately, you had fallen in love with Alastor. Over the course of your life, you had gotten to know him from your sweet dreams. He often thanked you for your kindness. Never had he met someone that put his faith back into humanity. Who would show such a lowly animal mercy and generosity? And the day that you arrive in Hell, he'll be there to catch you and say.

"The name is Alastor, the radio demon. A pleasure to be finally meeting you properly. Welcome home, ma chère."

a/n: i would just like to say that none of the pictures are mine, creds to the amazing artists 🎨

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dilemmaontwolegs · 7 months

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Hiiii I absolutely loved you Max fics I don’t know if you ever would want to do that but if your interested please do a mafia storyline with Max or Mick! ❤️

Little Lion Man || MV1 & CH16

Pairings: dark!Charles Leclerc x fem!reader, Max Verstappen x fem!reader Summary: you find yourself caught in a war between the mafia families that ruled Monaco. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, guns, murder, pregnancy, slight non con/reluctant vibes, forced marriage WC: 3.5k

For a nation so small it was hard to believe that Monaco could be home to not one but three mafia families. There was the Leclerc famile, Verstsppen familie and the Sainz familia. The Leclerc’s had always called Monaco home but the Dutch and Spanish families had made their arrival known in the 90’s, almost burning the city in the war that broke out.

Just over 30 years later, it looked like history was going to repeat itself as the prodigal sons took over the family businesses.

“You are my daughter, if I say you will marry Charles then you will marry him. End of argument.” You would hardly call it an argument when you weren’t even given an opportunity to say your piece but your father left no room for a rebuttal as he slammed the door closed behind him. There was a reason the Sainz’s called him the Peacemaker.

You were a bargaining chip, a pawn in your father’s arsenal to end the war between the Leclerc’s and the Sainz’s before it could spill out into the street and affect everyone’s bottom line. The last thing anyone wanted was to lose their men, their money and their product.

Two weeks later you were shoved into a wedding dress that could have been a film prop for any 80’s rom-com, puffy sleeves and all. It was hideous.

“You are quite beautiful,” Charles said as you reached the dais where the priest waited. “I suppose that will make this easier.”

By ‘this’ you assumed he meant the moment the reception was over and you found yourself stepping into his bedroom, your bedroom too now. Charles had been quiet for most of the evening, indulging in a handful of whiskeys over ice as he mulled over what his life had become, but he found his voice as he tugged his tie off. “On the bed.”

Your fingers tightened around your waist as you hugged yourself, trying to fight back the tears you thought you had finished shedding when you resigned yourself to your fate. “You don’t have to do this, we can come to an arrangement.”

Charles scoffed and continued to unbutton his dress shirt. “This is the arrangement.”

You swallowed as he shucked the shirt over a leather armrest and you saw the dark tattoos that curled over his biceps and down his forearms. A snake moved with his muscles and entwined around a gothic cross. Beneath it, thorny roses with blood drops splattered over the petals decorated the otherwise sun kissed skin.

“I don’t know what my father told you but I-”

“Your father said you would be an obedient wife,” he interrupted as he pointed a ringed finger to the bed. “I’m only as terrible as you make me.”

You took a step back as he stepped closer, his hand lifting to your face. It was reflex to flinch from his touch, knowing the violence his hands were capable of dealing to those who displeased him. You couldn’t help shivering as his cold wedding band touched your cheek and his other arm snaked around your waist, dragging the zip of your dress down your spine.

“What does that even mean?” you whispered. You took a breath and grew the courage to tip your head back and met his uniquely green eyes - the colour brighter than the soul behind them.

He pushed the puffed sleeves from your shoulders until the dress fell to the floor and inhaled at the sight of your body being bared to him. Biting his lip, he stepped back and ran a hand over his shadow of a beard. “Behave yourself, and I will too. Push me, and I’ll push you back harder.”

You felt the colour drain from your face at the threat and he chuckled as he closed the distance between you, forcing your lips apart with a demanding kiss. His palms ran down your spine and over the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against the hard expanse of his body.

“One other thing,” he murmured against your lips. “Disappoint me or my family and, well…it will be the last thing you do, chérie.”

You collapsed into Max’s arms the moment he opened the door, your fingers digging into the straps of muscle along his back as you clung to him like a lifeline. The penthouse apartment was quiet except for the tv playing in the master bedroom and your sobs filled the foyer before he could even close the door.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Max said, despite holding you just as tight. “He probably has Arthur or Lorenzo following you.”

You started to pull back but his arms caged you in his embrace so you settled for talking into his chest. “I know how to lose a tail. I was careful.”

He sighed and rested his cheek on your head, inhaling the floral scent of your shampoo he had missed. “I know, liefje. How long is he gone for?”

You screwed your eyes closed and wished he had never brought Charles up, but you knew Max wanted to know how long he could have with you. “He’s in Nice for a meeting. A few hours at least.”

The hatred for your husband had led you into the arms of Max, his rival and head of the Verstappen familie. The three families would meet each quarter for negotiations and settle disputes, or at least that was what it was meant for, but they just used it as a way to flaunt their wealth and success over each other.

It was after the wedding when you went to your first one that Max had caught your lifeless eyes as you sat beside Charles, decked out in a custom designer dress with diamonds strung around your neck, slowly choking you. He had been struck down by the vision before him and had never wanted something for himself so much in his life. He had been willing to go to war for you and he didn’t even know your name. He had learned it soon enough.

“Do you know who he’s meeting?” Max asked. Even when he wasn’t meaning to he was phishing for information, a reflex he couldn’t seem to stop with a mind as sharp as his.

“Please, mijn leeuw, not tonight,” you whined as you buried your face in his neck. (My lion)

“I’m sorry,” he said with a kiss to your forehead before he tipped your chin back to meet his ice-blue eyes. “What do you need from me, liefje?”

“I need to forget. Please, help me forget.”

Max closed his eyes as rage hardened his features and you knew he was rueing the day he let Charles live. The solution to your problem couldn’t be solved with a bullet and although Max knew that, it was still a bitter pill to swallow. He wanted nothing more than to bathe in Charles’ blood for what he had done to you, but the retaliation would be catastrophic. He had too many people relying on him, friends and family alike.

All Max could give you was a few short hours of his time to show you how he would treat you if the circumstances had been kinder. For a few short hours of stolen time he could erase the touch of Charles from your mind.

Max took your hand, his fingers easing your wedding ring off before placing it on the hall table with your handbag. You relished the freedom that came without the constricting band and flexed your fingers like it had been physically painful to wear the gold jewellery. In a way, it had.

Linking his fingers with yours, Max led the way through the apartment and into the bedroom you found comfort in. This should have been the place you called home, the solace you returned to at the day’s end. It was the one place you felt safe, even though just being here put your life in danger. If Charles ever found out you knew you would be dead, your body left somewhere it would never be found.

“Max…do you believe in God?” you asked in the quiet afterwards. Your arm was curled around his waist, fingers tracing the lion tattoo that covered his rib cage. You could feel the time ticking away with each heartbeat in his chest that you rested your head upon.

“No,” he said honestly, his accent thickening with his amusement. “Do you?”

You looked at the slight change in skin tone where your wedding band usually sat and slipped out of his embrace to find your clothes. “I have to,” you whispered as your throat began to tighten at the thought of returning to the cold mansion Charles owned. “There’s got to be something more than this hell. Maybe one day he will answer my prayers.”

Max could remember the feeling of taking over the family business, how he thought he was invincible - godlike even. Now he felt powerless to the situation. He didn’t like the feeling. He wanted to be the one to answer your prayer.

“One day…” he promised himself aloud, missing the way your spine stiffened at the words. There was no guarantee you would survive long enough for him to keep it.

You stared dumbly at the two pink lines and felt the walls of the bathroom constricting around you. You couldn’t imagine bringing a child into the world you were imprisoned in, it was unfair and deadly. What if the babe had dirty blond hair and ice blue eyes? A new fear sent a shudder down your body and you looked at your stomach, nothing to show - yet.

The door crashed off its hinges as Charles busted it in and you screamed at the surprise, cradling your abdomen on reflex.

“I called you ten fucking times!” Charles growled. His eyes narrowed as they scanned the room before settling on the pregnancy tests lined up. For the first time since you had wed him, Charles looked lost for words, and after a moment his hard stare softened. “We are having a baby?”

You couldn’t remember when he ever addressed anything as ‘we’, it was always you and him - separate, not together. You didn’t know how to react to the instant change in him but you nodded stiffly as he waited for an answer.

A smile grew on his face as he stepped forward and pulled your hands away from your stomach to place his own beneath your camisole. “My son, my heir,” he chuckled, the warmth of his palms almost blistering your skin.

“It might be a girl.” You flinch at the look he gave you and muttered an apology. Just because he was suddenly being gentle didn’t mean he would stay that way, especially if he ever found out the child wasn’t his. Nausea rolled through you and you pushed away to hurdle yourself at the toilet before you emptied your stomach.

It wasn’t morning sickness.

It was a sickness of the heart.

You knew if Max were to believe the child was his then he would have no choice but to go to war, it was a matter of pride and family. On the other hand, Charles would never let the child live if it wasn’t his and despite just learning of its existence, you were willing to do anything to protect it. You needed to tread carefully and that meant no more escaping your guards to see Max. It meant playing the good wife, at least for the next eight months.

You could feel his intense stare from across the table, willing you to meet his eyes. Too many times you felt them drifting up from your husband’s hand clasped on your lap only to snap them back down before you could give in. It would do no good to look at Max. You hadn’t seen him since the night before you took the pregnancy test and you had dreaded going to the quarterly meeting.

There was no hiding the bump in the tight dress Charles had chosen for you. There was no way that Max had missed it when you walked in on your husband’s arm. He had seen it and he had questions.

“I’m going to the ladies room,” you excused yourself after the meal, while the men talked business.

“Arthur will go with you,” Charles said with a nod to his younger brother sitting at his other side. “I don’t trust any of these assholes.”

His hand lingered on the small of your back as you stepped out and you glanced across to see Max’s eyes fixated on that touch. Though you did not welcome the hands of your husband, you no longer feared them the way you used to. Charles was far gentler now that you were, potentially, carrying his heir. It could also be Max’s.

A hand clasped over your mouth and silenced the scream that rose in your throat. “It’s me,” Max whispered, soothing your racing heart.

You looked around the powder room wondering how he had made it past Arthur and saw a narrow cleaner’s entrance left open a crack. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You never came back, never answered my messages.” The hurt in Max’s voice made your chest ache and your hands dropped to the growing swell of your abdomen. He followed that movement, his chest filling with the deep breath he took and the pearl buttons on his shirt started to strain until he exhaled. “I didn’t believe the rumours.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asked, the biting tone wanting detailed explanations like you were one of his men answering for your actions.

Your lips parted, ready to tell him exactly what you were sorry for, before they slammed shut. “I should go.”

He caught your arm as you moved past and he pulled you flush against his body to bury his face in your neck. “Tell me, please. I’ll make it happen, I’ll answer your prayers, I’ll go to war for you - for both of you. Just tell me, is it mine?”

The confession threatened to slip past your lips, the truth that you didn’t know, that he very likely could be. The confession threatened to eat you alive like it had done every time you saw one of Max’s men around Monaco. They always managed to get a message to you, but you never had a response to send.

“No,” you muttered as you pushed him away.

He rocked back on his heels but remained steady as he watched you retreat to the exit. “No, it isn’t mine or no, you won’t tell me?”

Your back hit the door and you blindly reached for the handle, sparing one last look at his shimmering eyes so you could remember them a little longer. “Whatever helps you to sleep at night.”

“Dammit, liefje, just tell me. I need to know.”

You broke away at the endearment that weakened your resolve and your shoulders curled in on themselves. “I can’t tell you, Max, because I don’t know. I. Don’t. Know.” Your voice cracked and the weight of those words fell tenfold on your shoulders as your hand slipped from the doorknob. “I don’t know who the father is, Max. I-I’m sorry.”

His strong arms grappled you into a tight embrace as you broke down in them, your knees giving out as you felt his lips on your forehead, smelt his cologne on his neck. “It’s okay, liefje, I'm going to fix this.”

You pulled back with eyes and blinked away the tears as you placed your hand on your belly. “How? What if it’s not yours?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything,” he promised as he tipped your chin back. “Mine or not, this baby is yours and that’s enough.”

A knock sounded at the door and you panicked as Arthur asked if everything was alright. Your reply was muffled as Max stole a kiss and quietly repeated his promise before disappearing back into the cleaner’s room. Wiping your eyes, you unlocked the door and met your brother-in-law’s narrowed eyes before they searched the room behind you. “You’ve been crying.”

“Pregnancy,” you said with a wave of your hand. “It’s called hormones, Tur. Happens all the time, just ask your brother.”

Max’s chair was still empty when you reached the table but he entered from the main door a few minutes later. The mask he often wore in front of those outside the familie was firmly in place as he unbuttoned his suit with one hand and dropped back into his seat, apologising for taking an important call.

“Your men can't handle one evening on their own?” Charles baited over the rim of his wine glass with an antagonising smile.

Max returned the grin with his own as he slipped his phone into his suit jacket. “You have no idea what my men are capable of.”

You could feel the ripples of those words across the table, the feel of a threat in the air. It not only set Charles on edge but Carlos too - the two sharing a look of concern before facing the Dutchman once more.

Max took a mouthful of his gin and tonic and bit into the lime wedge without reacting to the strong citrus taste. Taking his time, he picked up his napkin and cleaned the drops of juice from his fingers before laying it over his lap as everyone watched closely.

It looked as if he were nervously fiddling with his rings under the napkin and Carlos snickered, relaxing back into his chair until your lion spoke again. “But you will…”

The air stilled for a moment as the napkin drifted to the floor and warmth splattered your cheek. You couldn’t think fast enough to process what had happened or why the wetness on your cheek was red. It could have been minutes but it felt like hours before your brain connected the dots and you saw your husband's body slumped in his chair before you, his green eyes open but unseeing.

Across the table, Max had risen to his feet, the fidgeting revealing a silencer he had been screwing onto his gun. He was cold and precise as he took out Carlos next, his accuracy unmatched. Around the seats he went, faster than they could react as the doors were busted open and his second in command arrived. Danny was ready to die protecting Max’s back while you dropped to the floor and prayed for protection of your own.

“We have to get out of here,” Arthur growled as he caught your ankle and dragged you back where he was kneeling, his white chinos turning red as they absorbed his brother’s blood. “Stay low, protect my nephew.”

“Do you have a gun?” you asked with a shaking voice.

“Of course not,” he spat angrily. No one was meant to have weapons at these meetings and you were assuming Max had retrieved his from the reception area before returning.

“Then you’re fucked.” You kicked your Louboutin into his face and scrambled away as he howled in pain, reaching the edge of the table close to Max.

“Liefje, are you alright?”

“Arthur, under there,” you rushed as you pointed behind you, closing your eyes as he lifted the cloth and the muffled gunshot rang out.

“Not anymore.”

“Time to go,” Danny suggested, reloading his magazine and kicking a few bodies to check they were truly dead.

“Is that it?” You asked, hope filling your voice despite the devastation in the room surrounding you.

Daniel threw his head back and laughed but Max just shook his head and said, “This is just the beginning. We just declared war.”

“But they’re dead.”

“Someone will take over, and when they do - we will need to be ready.” Max reached out and wiped the blood from your cheek. “You’re free of him now, you both are.”

Your breath rattled out of you as you felt the weight lift from your shoulders and as the sirens grew in the distance you managed to smile, the first genuine smile in months. Your prayers had finally been answered. “Thank you, mijn leeuw.”

Five Months Later

Ice blue eyes met yours before a piercing cry erupted and Max’s laugh was one of pure joy. “Mijn zoon,” he cooed softly as he rested his cheek on your head and you watched the midwife gently bring your son to your waiting arms.

Tears blurred your vision at the warm comforting weight of his tiny body lying chest to chest with you. You had never felt anything more precious, never held anything more delicate. He was perfect.

“My little lion man,” you whispered, brushing a kiss over the tufts of dark hair he already had. “We love you so much.”

As if he knew what the words meant, his eyelashes fluttered and he peeked them open to bear twin green irises. He would be an heir. He could unite the families. Or, he could tear it all apart.

Only time would tell.

#max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #f #mafia au #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula one imagine #formula one fanfiction

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sydnikov · 3 months

Text

the ink on your skin || N. Hischier

Author: Sydney / @sydnikov

Pairing: Nico Hischier / gn!Reader

Word Count: 10.5k

Summary: You’re a successful tattoo artist right in the middle of Newark, New Jersey. One of your many clients just so happens to be a teammate of Nico Hischier, and he and his girlfriend, Natalie, play a game of matchmaker to get you talking. While you’ve never been a huge fan of hockey, getting to know Nico gets you instantly addicted to the sport as well as him. Friendship quickly turns into holding hands, kissing, acting like a couple but holding off on a label… And then, finally, right as you’re drifting apart, Nico swoops in and turns it into something more.

Warnings: Cursing, some angst, lots of anxiety talk, Tw*tter mentions, mostly fluff, poorly proofread

A/N: This is for @selfindulgentpoorlywritten for @wyattjohnston ‘s Winter Fic Exchange 2024 😁 I’ve been wanting to write for Nico for a while anyways so this gave me the perfect opportunity, and I really enjoyed having a bit of a personalized reader insert to play around with. I hope y’all enjoy! Loosely based on the lyrics of “Tribulation” by Matt Maeson

“Fuck, man, that hurts,”

You chuckle, lifting the needle of your tattoo gun for a few seconds before continuing your work. “I’m almost done, I swear,” you reassure, hiding your smirk as you take a napkin to dab away at the excess ink surrounding your linework.

The very man you’re tattooing, Jonas Siegenthaler, or ‘Siegs’ as you affectionately call him, is someone you’ve known for years. He is also a regular of your tattoo parlor, and right now is getting a lion on his right wrist shaded in.

Playing professional hockey, he doesn’t have much time to spend keeping up with a healing tattoo, but Jonas scheduled an appointment with you a week ago after his team, the New Jersey Devils, were eliminated in the playoffs. With three months to himself, he told you that now is the perfect time to get started on shading his wrist again.

Jonas curses again as the needle goes over the underside of his wrist, and once again you can’t hide back your laughter. You’ve been a tattoo artist for quite a few years now and are fairly used to the varying reactions your customers have, but expletives always manage to get you to break character. With any other client you’d at least attempt to be stoic, but you’ve been friends for long enough to know he doesn’t mind.

Finally, you finish your work, wiping away the remaining ink and powering off your tattoo gun. “Alright, Siegs, that’s it for today.” you say, wrapping his wrist with the proper coverings. Once you’re done sanitizing your own hands, you admire the art on his skin for a moment.

Jonas does the same, sitting up with a giant grin on his face. “It looks amazing, as always,” he looks like he wants to touch his newly-inked skin, but refrains when seeing the warning on your face.

“Okay,” you say as you lead him to the front of the store to ring up his aftercare supplies. Jonas is no amateur when it comes to tattoos by any means, but you feel the need to remind him anyway because athletes in particular always tend to lax out on tattoo aftercare. “You know the drill, but I’m still telling you anyways,”

Jonas just raises an eyebrow, listening to you list off all aftercare instructions as if he hasn’t been coming to you for years. Strangely enough, he couldn’t actually think of a time you’d hung out with each other outside of your working hours. He’ll have to change that, he hums to himself, especially after seeing the small New Jersey Devils flag you have hung on the wall.

“Have you ever been to a Devils game?” he asks as you’re handing him his aftercare supplies.

“I don’t think so, no. You know I don’t pay attention to hockey that much.”

“You should,” Jonas pushes, following you as you shuffle around the entrance of your parlor, likely looking for some supply he wouldn’t know the name of. “We’re a blast. And playoff hopeful again next season,”

You shoot him a wry smile, the both of you knowing it would take a lot more convincing to get you to leave the comforts of your shop to watch a sport you’ve never kept up with before. “Yeah? I’ll consider it,” you deadpan.

The defenseman takes no offense to your words, instead finding them to be a challenge. Mischievously, he grins. “Your consideration will turn into a yes, just you wait,”

“Sure,” you laugh, changing the subject. “You get an uber yet?” It’s relatively early in the day, so competition for booking one shouldn’t be too difficult.

Jonas shakes his head, unlocking his phone at the reminder of needing to leave. “Nah, my teammate is picking me up. He’s our captain, maybe you’ve heard of him—Nico Hischier?”

You think back to news articles you’ve seen online from late April when the Devils made the playoffs for the first time in years and you think you may have heard something about the team’s captain, but otherwise you don’t know much.

“I thought everyone would have gone home by now,” you say instead. It had been a week since their season ended, after all. Maybe this Nico guy had captain duties to attend to? You figure it’s nice of him to pick his teammate up from getting a tattoo either way, though.

The hockey player hears the curiosity in your voice, wondering how you would react to meeting his captain. “We’re both from Switzerland, so we both agreed to fly home together once we were all finished up here in Jersey. Getting my wrist shaded was the last thing on the list, thankfully,”

You make a noncommittal noise of understanding, your curiosity officially peeked by this ‘Nico’ guy. If you’ve learned anything about how the Swiss act from Jonas, you’re definitely looking forward to seeing if this captain was anything like his teammate.

Soon enough, the bell above your door is ringing as a man enters the parlor. You assume it’s Nico Hischier because of the Devils beanie he’s wearing, and because he looks out of place standing in your little parlor on the opposite side of town where his team plays. You wouldn’t know he has several tattoos himself.

You meet his eyes for a moment, and it almost looks like he’s caught off guard by the sight of you before he spots Jonas. He’s tall, you note to yourself, his shy smile endearing as he greets his teammate with a pat on the back.

“Nico!” Jonas greets happily, engaging in a short conversation before he turns his arm up to show his newly-shaded ink. “This one hurt like a bitch, but it’s looking beautiful now, isn’t it?”

“It is,” the man who you now know to be Nico confirms, admiring your work on his friend’s skin. “You did this?” he suddenly asks, the deep timber of his voice catching you off guard.

“Yeah,” you say, a little breathless. He’s beautiful. You think to yourself, confused about why you suddenly feel so hot when you purposefully keep the temperature in your shop cool. “Jonas is one of my regulars.”

Nico hums in response, eyes flitting back and forth from the lion on Jonas’s wrist and back to you, undoubtedly curious about how long his teammate has known you, and why he feels disappointed that he can’t see the rest of the ink decorating your own arms.

He himself is no stranger to tattoos, but he doesn’t have many nor do his look so intricate on his body like they do on yours. I need a new tattoo artist, he thinks, then mentally slaps himself because what?

With your cheeks feeling like they’re on fire, you turn away from the two hockey players in front of you to try and hide the embarrassment you feel. Unbeknownst to you, your movements make the light catch the dainty jewelry decorating your ears and nose, and Nico now undoubtedly finds himself in awe at your retreating form.

Who are you? He thinks. Siegs is a shit for not introducing you sooner. And then he rolls his eyes at himself again. What the fuck is the matter with him, anyways? He must have gotten a concussion during the playoffs, or something.

“You’re a regular?” He looks to his friend, subtly asking how long you’ve known each other. “You must like them, then,”

Jonas never prided himself on being intuitive; Nico’s prying went right over his head. He says your name with a fond smile, briefly looking to you as you mess around your desk again. “Oh, yeah, they’re the best. They’re fucking amazing with a tattoo gun, not to mention a huge Devils fan, too,”

You just so happen to overhear their conversation. “No, I’m not,” you scowl, but quickly retract your statement because Nico is looking at you like you just kicked his puppy. “Well, I mean, I’m a fan but not, like, a huge fan. I’ve never even been to a game,”

“Siegs, you should’ve brought ‘em around sooner, what the fuck!”

“I tried,”

Nico continues on like he didn’t hear him. “You’re coming to opening night. On me—on us, yeah?”

You’re much too in shock to comment on his slip of tongue, instead staring wide-eyed as he looks at you with determination. Nico just met you, but feels this compelling need to know you beyond the fact that you’re his friend’s reserved tattoo artist.

“You might as well just say yes,” Jonas speaks up, having caught on to your hesitation. “He won’t stop until you do,”

“Damn right.” The captain agrees, crossing his arms to further cement his point.

You’re drawn to the muscles that flex under the material of his shirt, and okay. Wow. With the way your body is heating up you would think that you’ve never been attracted to another human being in your life.

Quickly, your eyes dart back up to Nico’s, and you flush when you see he’s already caught onto your admiration of his body. He raises an eyebrow, teasing, and then you finally blurt out your response lest he call you out. “Well,” you start, clearing your throat when your voice comes out hoarse. “I guess that could be fun, yeah?”

Nico’s infectious grin at your agreement has you returning one of your own, flushed at the way you already knew your life would be a much happier one if you got to see him smile like that at you forever.

The two Devils’ players left soon after that, but not before you exchanged numbers with Nico Hischier himself while a smug Jonas watched from the background. “So I can send you the tickets when the time comes,” he’d said.

It was a perfectly believable excuse to you, but Jonas clapping his teammate on the back as if it were some kind of accomplishment had you questioning if Nico planned on texting you before their opening night.

You forced yourself to forget about it, though, in the meanwhile. You still had two more clients after they left, and you couldn’t exactly do your best work if Nico’s chiseled face and soft eyes wouldn’t leave your head.

And then a sharp pang struck your heart as you figure you’re just being delusional again. Reading too much into a situation that had no call for it, and imagining the way he looked at you like there was something behind your guarded eyes he wanted to explore.

No, you quickly put an end to your thoughts, steeling your resolve as you march back into the shelter of your shop. You aren’t putting yourself through this. Not again.

In a world of meaningless hookups and disappointing endings, you were a damaged romantic who would have once given the world if asked. But that hope for the future you envision with rose colored glasses is long gone, destroyed along with the pieces of your heart that shattered the last time you let yourself get too close to someone.

You decide then and there, with the image of Nico Hischier and his look of awe the moment he first saw you, that you weren’t going to ever grant him the ability to break you like the last person who did so years ago.

Despite the politeness he exudes, you half expect him to start making a move the moment he lands in Switzerland. You think he’ll start with a text that says, ‘Hey, how are you?’ and once you respond (because you will) he’ll send you pictures of him in his homeland, ones that require a compliment or an inquiry about what he’s doing.

You think you have him figured out. Men are predictable, you would know—their brains all work the same, and that includes how they hit on people they’re interested in.

However, you’re surprised to find that a text from him never comes. There’s no message awaiting you in between tattoo sessions, no ‘how are you’ or a picture of a ski lift or whatever it is people do in Switzerland. It irritates you because you don’t have Nico all figured out like you thought.

If you couldn’t place him into the typical group of uncommitted assholes you’d come to learn, then just who is he?

The answer escapes you for many months after. You certainly don’t text him, but you do find his Instagram after drinking one too many glasses of wine and scroll through his pictures. Nico isn’t very active online is what you gather, for his last post was back in May after they got eliminated from the playoffs.

It makes him endearing, much to your displeasure. People glued to their phones and still use Snapchat as their main form of communication irritate you to no end.

Not Nico, though…

He stays on your mind for the entirety of summer, because you just couldn’t get the memory of his eyes out of your head. It panics you a little because it feels like you’re forming a crush, and your last one didn’t exactly bode well for you.

Whatever. It’s just a small, meaningless feeling that just so happens to have stuck. Nico probably wasn’t even going to send you a ticket for opening night.

This is what you tell yourself as September rolls around, the NHL preseason starts, and your stomach sinks deeper and deeper the closer the Devils’ opening night comes.

You’re thinking about him again right now, much to your displeasure, as you finish wiping down one of your stations after your last client of the day left. It was a busy one, and you’re grumpy because your neck hurts from leaning over for so long.

You accidentally knock over your cleaning spray in the midst of your aggressive cleaning, and just as you pick up the bottle there’s a quiet knock on your shop’s door.

“I thought I flipped the closed sign,” you mutter, exiting the room you were just in and walking to the lobby. You’re unable to make out who it is outside, the only striking feature being that they’re tall.

You open the door warily, speaking before they get the chance to. “Sorry, we’re closed for the night. You can come back tomorrow morning or call to book an appointment—”

“I’m not here for a tattoo.” He interrupts you with what sounds like amusement, and you freeze because you would recognize that voice anywhere.

You look up to meet his eyes, and are struck with the same dark brown that’s been haunting your mind for months.

“Nico,” you say, shock written all over your face. You lick your lips, trying to find something to say. “You’re… What are you doing here?”

“I still have the address saved from when Siegs sent it to me,” he admits, aware that’s not what you’re really asking. Facing you now, he finds himself nervous. You hadn’t changed much, except for maybe the addition of another piercing in your right ear, he thinks.

But you were so unlike other strangers he’s met in the past; they know who he is, all about his life, whereas you look at him like you’re not sure what to think.

Nico finds it refreshing. You’re intriguing, someone to figure out—not to mention he really likes your tattoos. And piercings. He fights the urge to trail his fingers up your sleeves to reveal the art decorating your skin.

You’re raising an eyebrow at him, and then he realizes he’s been silent for a good minute while he’s been staring at you. He releases a quick breath, “You still want to come to opening night, right?”

“I do,” you say, foregoing acting coy. Fuck it, you actually did really want to go. “Why? Is there an issue?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he reassures, giving you a quick smile. “I’d just rather explain the ticket situation in person than on text,”

His reasoning sounds understandable to you, but you fail to pick up on why he still seems so nervous. It’s just a ticket to a game, right?

“So since it’s just you,” he starts, hesitantly. “You’ll be sitting with, um. You’ll be in the wives and girlfriends section.”

Truthfully, Nico wouldn’t be shocked if you decline after hearing where you’ll be sitting. He himself probably would have, because who, as a stranger, wants to sit with the players’ significant others?

He watches your reaction, holding his breath. But all you do is laugh a little, shrug nonchalantly even though internally you’re shitting your pants.

“Okay, but you do know I’m neither a wife nor a girlfriend,” of you, you want to add, but keep that last part to yourself. Even though over the course of these last few months your mind definitely imagined it.

Your expression is teasing, the corner of your lips quirked up into a small smirk that has the tension falling from Nico’s shoulders. You aren’t mad. This is a start.

He rubs the back of his neck, looking rather sheepish. “I didn’t know if you’d be okay with that,” he mumbles lowly, meeting your eyes. If you look closely you think you can see a rosy hue covering his cheeks.

“It’s just one game, yeah?” You muse, secretly pleased at the fact that he’s the nervous one this time, not you. “Nothing wrong with that,”

Nico lets out a breathless laugh, relieved knowing you won’t be caught off guard when you come to the opening game in October.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Nothing wrong with that all.”

He stays for a few more minutes after that, your conversation surprisingly pleasant with little awkwardness as you shyly ask about his stay back home, and he gladly expresses his joy at being back in Switzerland for a few months.

His unabashed enthusiasm to share his life with you catches you off guard, but you find that you like learning these little things about him. It defeats your whole purpose of not letting yourself get close to him, but you push that worry to the back of your mind for later.

Nico does eventually leave, but not before giving you a hug that leaves your heart racing. One of his hands came to rest respectfully at the small of your back, and you could have sworn you felt his lips brush your cheek before he pulled away.

“See you soon,” he had grinned, his eyes dark and enthused.

Feeling corny and rather irritated with yourself, your fingers brush the spot on your cheek, swearing you could still feel the heat of his lips.

You still don’t hear from Nico even after his visit, and you’re once again struck by the fact that you still can't tell what his intentions are. You find yourself checking your phone anyway, going so far as to stalk his Instagram. Again.

This is most definitely becoming a bad habit. A very bad one. You think to yourself as, one day, you find yourself staring at your screen once more, weeks having gone by with the brown eyed boy still on your mind.

With another client in just over two hours, you find yourself using the break to get some work done on your laptop at the desk in the lobby of your shop. You aren’t very productive, but it makes you feel better about your wandering imagination being so distracting.

Just having happened to save a finished spreadsheet of your recent clients and their pricing, a man is pushing open the door to your shop. You quickly determine that it’s some type of delivery based on the package he carries before he drops it onto your counter.

He reads out your name from a paper, glancing up at you for confirmation of your identity. “Yes, that’s me,” you say, eyeing the unknown sender label. “Do you know who sent this?” You haven’t placed any orders recently, so it isn’t something from you.

The mailman shakes his head, giving you a polite smile before wishing you a good rest of your day. You wave to him offhandedly as he exits the shop, and then find a pair of scissors to carefully cut through the tape holding the box shut.

As if you’re opening Pandora’s box, you’re wary as you unfold the cardboard, your fingers brushing against thick fabric before carefully taking it out.

Unfolded and spread out across your desk, you freeze. You’re lucky no one else is here in the front to see you because your face is a deep shade of tomato red, and you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

Before you lay a jersey for the New Jersey Devils, and you know even before turning it over that it has Nico Hischier’s surname and number printed on the back.

As you’re staring at the jersey in awe, your fingers trailing over the brand new and surely expensive fabric, your phone pings with a new message.

It’s from a number you’d memorized months ago even though you’d never once used it to communicate. A text from Nico Hischier greets you as you unlock your phone.

UPS sent me a notification that the package I sent you arrived. I hope you like it. Looking forward to seeing you next month :)

“Oh, he’s good,” you say out loud, your smile growing even wider if that were possible. Your heart’s tempo picks up, and your fingers fly across the keyboard to respond.

You’re still not sure what he’s about—what are his plans here? Does he like you? Is he flirting for fun or does he have intentions to go forward?

You try not to overthink it as you finalize your response, pressing send soon after.

I just got it. I have to say, you’re bold. I guess I have no choice but to wear it now considering how much it probably cost you.

As if he were waiting for a response, a new message appears almost instantly.

It’s no big deal. Really. Just want to make your first game a memorable one. I’ll sign the jersey for you, too.

Careful, hot shot, I might start thinking you have other intentions here.

You wouldn’t be wrong.

September passes quickly, and before you know it October 12 is here and you’re nervously walking through Prudential Center to the section your seat is in.

You don’t stick out as much as you think you do, which is relieving because everyone around you is too focused on getting to their own seats and discussing the game.

You know you don’t fit the typical bill of someone coming to support a professional hockey player, considering what you think you are to Nico is… Complicated.

Your arms are covered in small but meaningful tattoos, and your ears are decorated with piercings along with the lone stud on your nose. You wouldn’t think someone like Nico would find it all attractive about you, but he’s said so numerous times over call and text.

You think about said communication as you finally sit down, a good thirty minutes before the game starts because nobody else is around you yet.

After Nico sent you his jersey, it’s like the floodgates opened from whatever was holding the two of you back from talking. Despite your reservations, he enraptured you from the get-go and you just couldn’t stop yourself from falling.

Nico is a really good texter, surprisingly. None of the lower case bullshit or long response times you’d expect from a sports player, but instead the exact opposite.

He doesn’t give you the feeling of talking to a child, an immature man who doesn’t know what he wants; in the time spent between him first using your number and going to the game, you’ve noticed how his responses are thought out and intentional. He responds quickly, but not too quickly to make you think he doesn’t have a career to focus on, and he makes you smile when he adds those cute smiley faces after the end of his texts.

You think you’re enjoying Nico Hischier a little too much to be normal, but you choose not to focus on that as you’re greeted by an unknown woman tapping your shoulder.

“Hi!” She says, giving you a welcoming smile that instantly puts you at ease. “Nico said he invited someone to come tonight. And Jonas,” she adds the last part like it was an afterthought, then gives you a slightly apologetic look. “He didn’t have time to tell us your name, so he just said to look for piercings and tattoos. I’m assuming that’s you?”

You’re not offended by others using your slightly unconventional looks to point you out; you’re proud of all of your piercings and the ink decorating your skin. You wouldn’t be you without them.

Slightly overwhelmed at the amount of words that just spewed from her mouth, though, you hide it well as you damper your nerves to respond. “Hi. Yeah, um, that’s me. They both - Nico and Jonas - really wanted me to come tonight.” You don’t include the fact that it was all Nico who sent you the ticket, showed up at your shop, and had been texting you nonstop for the past month.

The woman grins, seemingly relieved she had the right person. “Nico never brings anyone around so we were all pretty excited to meet you. I’m Natalie, Jonas’ girlfriend, by the way.”

Natalie is the exact type of girl you’d be expecting to date a professional hockey player. She’s blonde with a lithe figure, bright blue eyes and a face that could be on the front page of a magazine. She fits in with this crowd, not you, but you try not to let that bother you as you focus on her being the woman who makes one of your good clients happy.

Jonas has mentioned his girlfriend numerous times before, singing nothing but praises, and he’s even shown you a picture. Now that she’s in front of you, you instantly recognize her.

“I thought I recognized you,” you say. “I’m Jonas’ tattoo artist, he talks about you all the time,” maybe you were exaggerating a bit, but. Siegs wouldn’t mind. You were buttering him up to the ‘love of his life’, after all.

“He’s mentioned you too, oh my gosh, now it’s all clicking!” Natalie instantly gasps, sliding into the seat next to you. “You’re crazy talented. All of his tattoos are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you grin, a little bashful. “He’s a great guy. I enjoy working with him.”

Natalie smiles back, and soon the two of you are joined by the rest of the WAG’s as the puck drop grows closer. Just as you’re about to pull out your phone, Natalie has seemingly managed to break free from whoever she was talking to.

“So, how do you know Nico? Jonas didn’t mention much about you coming, it was mostly Neeks who asked us to greet you,”

Neeks? You file that nickname away for later, and then your face grows red because you’re not sure how to answer her question.

“We actually met because of Jonas, funny enough. He was getting his wrist shaded, right after they got eliminated from the playoffs, and he asked Nico to come pick him up from my shop when it was done.”

“I remember,” Natalie says. “We were flying to Switzerland right after he was done. Sorry, you can continue,”

“You’re good,” you chuckle. “But yeah, then Jonas mentioned how I’d never been to a game, and Nico is who managed to convince me to come tonight.” You keep it simple, vague. No need to provide a complicated answer, mostly because you didn’t know how to reply without making it seem like you and Nico hadn’t been flirting for weeks now.

She looks like she’s about to say something, but suddenly the lights are dimming and an announcer is speaking, his loud voice booming throughout the arena. The next thing you know the lights are coming back on full blast, the puck is dropped, and ten hockey players are whipping across the ice at lightning speed.

Holy shit, you want to say, the sounds of screaming fans and players slamming against the boards rather overwhelming to you but in a good way. It has your blood pumping, and while you don’t understand much of anything - like why the refs blow the whistle randomly or what certain penalties mean - you find that you’re having a good time with Natalie keeping you company, explaining things as they occur.

“That Red Wings player is going into the box which means they’re down a player, and—oh, look, there’s Nico!” She’s pointing to the ice, and you have to squint to follow her line of sight, but you quickly recognize the Swiss captain’s profile and fight the muscles in your face from breaking into a smile.

Alas, you end up losing that battle as a grin manages to fight its way onto your face anyway. You know he can’t see you from so far up, but you like to think he tries as the Jumbotron focuses on him and catches his eyes peering up into the general direction of where you’re seated.

To downplay your excitement at spotting him, you ask, “What’s Jonas’ number?”

“Seventy-one,” Natalie answers, about to say something else, but interrupts herself as she along with almost every other fan in the arena jumps up out of their seats to shout obscenities at the referees.

Yeah, you think to yourself, comically scared of the aggression these hockey fans show for their team. This will take some getting used to.

Almost three hours later, the Devils manage to secure the win for their first game of the season. They almost blew it, or that’s what you hear from others around you, but you’re just glad to have something to congratulate Nico for when you go to meet him outside the locker room.

Speaking of, you along with the other WAG’s are walking down there right now, and your nerves from before the game are coming back full-force, stomach-twisting, vomit-inducing and all.

You’re standing next to Natalie as she talks with two other girls, and you’re content to just listen because your nerves aren’t allowing you to do anything else.

Then, as if the universe were tuned into your thoughts, the locker room doors open and multiple Devils players come streaming out. They’re freshly showered, back in the suits they arrived at the arena in, and you don’t even bother to hide your eagerness as you look for Nico in the crowd.

You spot Jonas first, though, as he catches sight of Natalie and bounds over to her with open arms. “Good game,” you think she says, then says something even quieter and that’s when Jonas sees you standing next to them.

He says your name in shock before a broad smile stretches over his face. “You came!” And then he’s also bringing you into a hug, looking all too happy to have some of his favorite people surrounding him.

“I did,” you laugh, pulling back after a moment. “It was really fun to watch. I’m glad you guys won,” you kind of wince at the end, knowing their win was shaky at best, but he looks like he appreciates the humor all the same.

“Yeah, we are too,” he says, then looks as if he just remembered something. “Nico was coming out right behind me, and—oh, there he is! Neeks!” He calls his captain’s name abruptly, and you swivel around to see Nico Hischier in the flesh heading towards you.

“There you are with the nickname again,” Nico chuckles as he approaches, then embraces his friend as if they didn’t just see each other a minute ago.

When he pulls back, his eyes quickly find yours, and unlike the first time you met there’s no awkwardness as Nico gives you a wide grin before wrapping his arms around you.

“You came,” he says into the top of your hair, and you can hear the smile in his voice. He doesn’t give you time to speak before he’s pulling back only slightly, enough to see your face from below peering up at him.

You take in the sight of him above you, rendered speechless as this image of him smiling so happily will likely replay in your memory forever. Nico is pure ecstasy, delight incarnate as those dark brown eyes likely have you painted in a way you could never see yourself in.

Finally finding your words, you duck your head for a moment, embarrassed at the blush you know is on your cheeks. “I wouldn’t miss it,” you say, referring to the game. “You played great, Neeks,”

Nico playfully leans back, lightly groaning at hearing you tease his nickname. “I should’ve known they’d say that in front of you,” he sighs, but you can tell it’s in nothing but jest as his smile remains. “Thank you, though,”

And now it was his turn to be bashful, as the blood rushes to his cheeks. What a picture you’re sure the two of you were; both pairs of hands still holding the other and equally flustered expressions on your faces. You find that you don’t mind the contact, though, despite having a slight aversion to touch. Nico’s warmth is comforting, and you rather like being close to him.

It’s not until Jonas coughs loudly from behind you that you and Nico finally release your hold on one another, and you turn to see he and Natalie looking at the two of you with barely contained excitement.

You meet Nico’s eyes, both of you struggling to hide your laughs at Jonas and Natalie’s failed poker faces. “Nice assist, Siegs,” you say to break the lingering tension, and the four of you come together like you’d all been close friends for years.

As you’re all leaving the arena through the exit the players use, Jonas and Nico walk ahead of you, exchanging teasing words and lighthearted insults, while you and Natalie watch from behind.

“So,” Natalie chirps, looking at you expectantly. “What do you think?”

You’re not dumb. You know she’s asking about Nico, thinking this is the first time you’ve talked to him since you first met him at your tattoo shop.

“Hockey? Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” you say, snickering when she sighs at your avoidance. “I’ll have to go to more games.”

“Not about hockey, about Nico,” Natalie says, whispering his name as if it’s taboo. “We aren’t blind. That was a long hug, and Nico literally never brings anyone here. Ever.”

“Technically, Jonas offered to bring me to a game first,”

The spunky blonde ignores you, offhandedly waving her arm. “Semantics. He also keeps turning around to look at you. Like right now.”

What? You instantly look ahead and see she’s right, your eyes meeting Nico’s. His face turns red as he sends you a shy smile, and then he turns back to Jonas who is still talking beside him.

Natalie observes the interaction, a small grin on her face. “You’ve both been talking long before now, haven’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?” you chuckle bashfully, slightly embarrassed your interactions allow her to pick up on your chemistry so quick. She shrugs, increasing her stride to stand in front of you as you reach their cars. “A little. But I’ve known Nico for a bit now, he’s a good guy. He likes you, too, I think.”

You don’t get the chance to respond before Jonas is wrapping an arm around Natalie’s waist, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. “We gotta get going, yeah? Early morning tomorrow,”

Nico’s hand is brushing against your arm as he moves to your side, unable to tell if the resulting shiver from his touch is from the slight chill in the air or just him. “We have a game in Arizona, a back-to-back,” he clarifies, answering your unspoken question.

“Ah,” you say. “That sucks.”

“Not this time. I’ll have plenty of good things to think about on the flight.” He winks at you, perfectly implying what those ‘good things’ are.

Your face turns red just as Jonas pretends to gag. “That would be our sign to leave. Right, babe?” He attempts to lead his girlfriend away, but Natalie suddenly gasps and runs back to you.

“I forgot to get your number,” she says, thrusting her phone into your hands. “We’re definitely hanging out again.” And, well, okay then. Who are you to deny her?

Jonas and Natalie drive away in his fancy sports car, which leaves you to walk Nico to his own. It’s quiet between the two of you, comforting because you’re both content to revel in each other’s company. Your hands occasionally brush - purely Nico’s fault - until he gathers the bravery to lace your fingers together just as you approach his car.

He doesn’t drop your hand, not even as he turns to face you once you come to a stop. “You have a ride home?”

You shrug sheepishly. No, you hadn’t really thought that far. “I was just planning on ubering…”

Nico scoffs, as if the very thought offends him. “Yeah, no. I’ll drive you home.” At the apprehensive look on your face, his confidence wavers slightly, and he mindlessly rubs his thumb over your hand to calm his own nerves. “If you’re okay with it, of course,”

Why does he have to be so cute? You give in instantly, the tension melting from your bones as, boldly, you use his grip on your hand to tug him closer. “That would be great, Nico, thank you.”

While his car, like Jonas’, is also expensive, you feel comfortable surrounded by the dark material and the scent of Nico’s cologne. The radio is playing softly, and he’s humming along quietly while strumming the fingers of his hand on the steering wheel. His other is resting on the gear shift, but you can tell by the way his hand keeps twitching that he wants to move it closer to you.

If you’ve learned anything about Nico within the weeks that you’ve been talking to him, it’s that he is huge on physical touch. He said it over text, but in person it’s even more obvious because his hands are rarely to himself when he’s next to you.

As the minutes go by, you finally give in to his body’s desire with a laugh as you reach over to tangle your hands together, now resting in your lap. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you liked touching, were you?”

Even with the darkness surrounding him, you can easily spot the maroon flush blooming across his cheeks. He briefly looks to you, unable to hide his grin before turning his attention back to the road. “No,” he laughs, gripping your hand reflexively like he’s testing out the contact. “I wasn’t.”

You’re both significantly more loose after you give in to your want for the other, and the rest of the ride is silent save for the occasional song lyrics mumbled by Nico. Almost too quickly he’s pulling into the parking lot of your apartment complex, and you’re disappointed when your hands release as you climb out of the car.

“Can I walk you to your door?”

“Sure.”

Like the car ride, the walk to your apartment is comfortably silent, and this time Nico doesn’t hesitate when taking your hand. He smiles when you shiver, but doesn’t say anything which you appreciate.

The elevator is stopping at your floor almost too soon, and you find yourself not wanting the night to end. You’re enjoying his company far too much, and you really like holding his hand. Imagining yourself doing this on a regular basis is overwhelming and definitely freaks you out a little once you come to a stop at your door.

“Here I am,” you chuckle, a little awkwardly. So… What do you do now? Thank him? Hug him? Kiss him?

You go to say something, anything… But Nico beats you to it. “Thank you for coming tonight,” he says, squeezing your hand. “I couldn’t see you from the ice, but I liked trying to pretend I could see you watching me.” He winks, then, and you don’t bother denying that yes, you were watching him the entire time.

You still try to be humble, though. “Thank you for getting me a ticket,” you say, trying to decide how forward you should be. His eyes sparkle, though, as you talk, like he can’t get enough of your voice… “All the girls were nice. Welcoming. It was fun pretending I was one of them.”

“I want you to be,” Nico blurts, almost breathless. “‘One of them’, that is. I think I like you,” he laughs like he can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

You’re unable to take your eyes off him, those dark brown of his bearing into you. The color is warm, just like Nico because he reminds you of a summer day and if he's the sun, then you’re a mere leaf desperately searching for his light.

“I think I like you too,” you admit, a little quieter, a little shy. You still don’t like being touched, but as his hands come to cup your cheeks you decide that you do like the feel of his calloused skin against yours, and then he’s dipping his head to capture your lips in a kiss you don’t know you’ve been waiting for.

You melt instantly, sighing into his mouth with relief. Nico’s kisses are long and smooth, and you’re happy to let him lead before he’s pulling back all too soon, his beard scruff leaving the skin around your lips burning pleasantly.

Fluttering eyes open, leaving you with the distinct feeling of coming up from underwater. Nico looks just as elated as you feel, gazing at you from dark brown eyes filled with adoration. His thumb runs across your bottom lip, and then he’s stepping back respectfully.

“I’ll call you when I get back to my place, yeah?” He says, and you’re glad he seems just as eager to continue talking as you are.

“Yeah, that… That works,” English has left your head, and you stumble over what to say next. Nico has left you speechless, literally. “Drive safe.”

He flashes you a blinding smile, and then disappears back into the elevator.

“Oh fuck,” you say to the emptiness of the corridor. “Fuck. I’m so fucked.”

Nico calls you when he gets home, just like he said he would. He also calls you the day after that and the day after that, and when he can’t call because of a game or practice or whatever, he’s texting you.

You’re swept up in the world of Nico Hischier; his friends have become your (albeit, surface) friends, Natalie has taken you under her wing, and as the weeks go by you’re regularly attending games in the WAG section.

There’s no label on your relationship, and while you like that you’re taking this slow, there's still this desire to kiss him in front of everyone after a game won, to show the hockey world that this man, this man right here is yours.

You don’t act on it, though, as much as you may want to. You have this fear that because your appearance isn’t so conventional, that Nico would get hate for being seen with you. Everyone around you subtly hints that this fear of yours is irrational, but you know better.

As the new year comes and goes - it’s the best way you’ve spent new years in forever because Nico kisses you right as the clock strikes twelve, under the flashing lights and his cheering teammates around you - the Devils’ season continues to dominate. They’re projected to make the playoffs again, and you’re going to just about every game now to show your support.

What you don’t realize is that the fans’ scrutiny of the players only grows the closer the end of the regular season comes, and their attention also shifts to the significant others. WAG playoff jackets are apparently a thing, and you hear from Natalie how the designs for this year are already in the works.

Nico hinted one night that he wanted you to wear one by mentioning he can’t wait to see you when they’re in the playoffs. You gave him a slight look of suspicion because he said it in a way like he’s anticipating something, but he only shrugged cheekily when you tried prying.

Everything comes to an ugly head, though, when you discover hockey Twitter. You’ve obviously known of the app, but you only download it when you hear how the hockey coverage is extensive and you decide you want to keep up with all NHL news more easily.

That’s when you stumble across a term called ‘puck bunnies’, and how there are accounts dedicated to the players’ dating lives with information as trivial as who they’re being spotted with.

Anxiety takes control one night when you’re scrolling through a gossip page, and you succumb to the urge to search Nico’s name. To your horror, there are posts mentioning how a new person (you) has joined the WAG’s at games, and fans have spotted him leaving with this new person consistently.

You can’t find anything mentioning your identity, but you do find criticisms of your appearance. A lot of them. And, really, you knew this was going to happen, it was just a matter of when. The thought doesn’t comfort you, though, as your stomach drops when past girlfriends of Nico are brought up.

They’re all blondes, the occasional brunette, too. Of course they are. You figure anyways that part of the reason you were so intriguing to him to begin with is because you’re so unlike anyone he’s ever dated before. It still doesn’t make you feel better.

You have unconventional piercings, tattoos and quite a lot of them, and you don’t have the money to splurge on expensive clothing like these models do. A word a lot of these hateful posts use is ‘downgrade’, and your insecurities start to agree.

Why does Nico even like you? What do you have that these other girls don’t? From the looks of it, you’re the first of, well, you that he’s ever dated.

You hate it. You hate all of it. Twitter, stupid puck bunnies (how demeaning, too?), your incredibly strong feelings for Nico, and the thought that you aren’t good enough for him.

Now, what you should be doing is calling him. Hell, even Natalie. You know you need to talk to someone about what you’ve found, get some reassurance that the online gossip is purely just that: gossip.

But, well, you’ve never been reasonable. Anxiety and overthinking has ruled your life since you could talk. Instead, you stay silent, stew in your self-loathing and scroll through more of the disgusting Twitter thread.

You let these strangers’ words get to you, their biting insults swimming around in the back of your mind over the next few days all while everyone else is none the wiser.

Especially Nico, who thinks everything is fine until it isn’t. He’s busy with the team, leading with a grace only a captain could possess, and playing his heart out every game to ensure their spot in the postseason. He thinks your distance is because you know how busy he is and simply just don’t want to bother him.

Which, he appreciates you respecting his career, but your shortened responses, curt replies, and frequent denials to come to his games start to signal warning sirens in his head. You aren’t an open book by any means, but this… Nico finds it startling. He knows something is wrong.

So he pries. He texts you more than normal, during video reviews where he’s supposed to be paying attention to replays and right after practices, too. One could say he’s being overbearing, and in the midst of all your self-loathing and depressive overthinking, you snap.

Nico had kept texting you, over and over again, asking for your schedule over the next few days along with continuously asking about when you could see him next. Your fingers moved faster than you could think, and then you pressed send on a message you keep telling yourself you don’t regret.

I just don’t have time, Nico, jesus. Let it go.

The read receipt had appeared under the message less than a minute later, and not another text came through. You’d most definitely had a slight mental breakdown, wanted to call him and apologize and kiss away the frown you’re sure is marring his beautiful lips, but you try convincing yourself it’s for the best.

You don’t deserve all the good that Nico Hischier brings into your life. He’s far too good for you—everyone else seems to think so, too.

And so, that’s that. Nico doesn’t text you anymore and you certainly don’t text him. You’d burned that bridge with no hesitation, and any sparks that were growing between you are certainly extinguished now. This is what you tell yourself, anyways, even as you still can’t stop yourself from tuning into the Devils games over the next few days.

You throw yourself into your work, even more than before. You switch around scheduling for different clients, place multiple sessions right after the other so the buzz of your tattoo gun is too loud for you to think of anything else.

It works, for a time. But you can only do it for so long, and it doesn’t stop you from watching recaps of Nico nor does it keep you from noticing how off-kilter he seems. You’ve come to realize that whenever the captain is off, so is the rest of the team, and the Devils go on a losing streak over the next two weeks that kills you almost as much as you’re sure it’s killing them.

You still don’t contact him, though. You keep your distance, avoid the bars you know they frequent and dodge Natalie’s attempts at meeting up, too. You’re sure she knows you and Nico aren’t talking, either because of how badly he’s playing or because Jonas told her, and you don’t want to give her an opportunity to pry.

And Nico, well. He’s very obviously a mess. He’s snappy, overwhelmed, angry at the littlest things; he broke his stick against the wall during one practice because Jack had passed him a puck, but Nico botched the play just like everything else in his life, apparently.

A perk about being the captain is that none of his teammates have the guts to come up to him to bluntly ask him what’s wrong. On the other hand, his teammates follow his lead to a T, which means that as a result of his foul mood and horrible playing, their spot in the standings has noticeably suffered.

You don’t leave his head, not when he’s in the middle of a game or lying wide awake in his bed until the early hours of the morning. Many times he contemplates breaking the barrier you’d put between the two of you, to ask what he did and if there’s anything he can do to fix it. Nico thinks it’s his fault, that maybe he came off as too clingy…

He knows of your past, knows you’re so wary to jump into relationships for a reason, and figures he just did something to scare you back into seclusion.

The abrupt silence between the two of you builds, and Nico is so frustrated with himself and with you that when they play a division rival, the Philadelphia Flyers, his pent-up aggravation is released and he plays the best hockey he’s probably ever played before in his life.

Nico has never done drugs, but he’s positive the adrenaline pumping through his veins is similar to the rush of dopamine one would feel right after. He’s high off the elation of winning, and it gives him the courage to finally do something about the mounting irritation from his lack of contact with you.

He leaves the rock as soon as he’s able, breaks a few traffic laws in his haste to get to your shop as quickly as possible. It’s a long shot, showing up this late at night on a Friday, but he knows your habits and he knows you.

As he swerves into a parking spot, his gut tells him he’s right. You’re here. You have to be.

Unfortunately for you, Nico is right. You are, in fact, holed up alone in your shop, postponing the lonely ride to your lonely apartment in place of searching for something to do.

You watched the Devils game in the midst of distracting yourself, because of course you did. You saw how the players’ growing frustration led to pure determination that ultimately secured them the win.

You’re proud of them. Proud of Nico. You want to text him, do something, but… then there’s rapid knocking on the doors, and you’re peeking around the corner to catch a glimpse of the likely drunkard trying to break in.

You’re about to just wave them off, gesture towards the sign hanging on the window you know is switched to close, but the man outside speaks and you’re frozen.

“Please, baby, let me in,” the voice is laced with pure desperation, and oh, now you can see him as clear as day. He mouths your name through the glass, and you don’t have the strength to send him away.

You reluctantly unlock the door, shying away from his touch when he tentatively puts a hand on your arm. Nico is having none of it, though, and quickly grabs your hand to tug you back towards him. He’s had enough of your silence, isn’t going to let you walk away so easily this time.

When you don’t meet his eyes, he lets out a heavy breath, squeezes your hand once, then, “What the fuck is going on?” and you’re still silent, still avoidant, refusing to look up at his face. He says your name, voice anguished as he begs again, “Talk to me, please?”

You dodge his questions. “Why are you here, Nico?”

Nico reads your body language, watches as you refuse to meet his eyes and finally break away from his touch. He realizes he still affects you, and that you pushing him away is purely because you’re in your own head and don’t know how to get out of it

“Did you see my game?” Nico eventually asks, realizing he has to approach this gently, like you’re a wounded animal and in a sense, you are.

You did, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. (He knows, anyway). So you just shrug, pretending to fiddle with the random shit on your desk.

“So that’s a yes,” Nico mutters to himself. Then, he speaks up, louder, so he knows you hear him. “I scored a goal tonight.” he pauses, waits for your reaction.

You look up then, only for a moment, squinting your eyes in what looks to be a glare. “Congratulations.”

The way you look at him screams paranoid, insecure, and suddenly Nico is hit with the memory of a conversation he had with a fan a few days ago. She was young, in her early teens and certainly not out of highschool so he didn’t take her gossip too seriously, but…

“You guys are so cute!” he remembers her squealing, shoving her phone in his face. It was a blurry picture of the two of you holding hands walking out of the arena, that much he remembers. “Everyone’s hating on them online but they’re all just jealous you’re taken now.”

Nico had been signing her jersey when she said that. He raised an eyebrow, was tuning her out slightly. “Hating? On Twitter? Shocking,” he had laughed. “Does anyone take them seriously?”

The girl - whose name he now doesn’t remember - had shrugged. “A few obsessed people, yeah. Don’t go on Twitter if you want to keep your sanity. I’d tell your… friend that, too.”

Except he didn’t. Her words went through one ear and right out the other, and it’s like a halo of light just lit up his head because oh, Nico understands now, and he feels his stomach dropping over the thought that you’ve been living with this for weeks now.

Nico scoffs at your sass but it sounds more like a laugh. He knows what to do, now. “Signed a few fans’ jerseys after the game, and then I remembered an interesting conversation with this one girl a few games back. It was really enlightening. Wanna know what she said?”

You know what’s coming. You’ve already seen what people say about your rumored relationship with Nico, and you think he’s just telling you this to definitively end whatever you started with each other.

Words escape you, but what does manage to come out is a choked up, “Not really”, under your breath.

“She said people talked about us online. Were saying a bunch of bullshit about how you ‘aren’t my type’ and that I’m too good for you. Can you believe that?”

Nico takes a few cautious steps towards you, leans over your desk to gauge your reaction. He sees the light sheen in your eyes, the way your hands tremble as you attempt to look like you aren’t hanging on to his every word.

But Nico sees right through you. He understands immediately, in that moment, why you’re pushing him away, and it breaks his heart into a million pieces.

“Oh, baby,” he coos, softly. “You didn’t think I agreed with them, did you?”

You try to respond, but you cut yourself off by letting out a sob as the overwhelming emotions catch up to you.

Nico immediately rounds the desk, his own eyes tearing up as he wraps his muscular arms around your body in a protective hug. You’re shaking as you bury your head into his neck, spurting apology after apology.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”

“I know,” he shushes, one hand running through your hair while the other rubs soothing circles on your back. “I know. It’s okay,”

“Why don’t you hate me? You should hate me,”

“I could never hate you.”

You don’t let go of Nico, not even as he slides down the wall with you in his arms. It’s behind your desk, so you’re hidden from view. The thought that he did this on purpose so you can break down in peace only makes you cry harder, and yet he doesn’t falter in his comfort.

“Is this why you went silent on me?” He eventually asks, gently, so as to not startle you. “Because of… Twitter?”

You nod imperceptibly, feeling rather embarrassed now that it’s said out loud how much online gossip has bothered you. It wasn’t just because of that, though. “It’s stupid, I know—”

“No, no it’s not. Your feelings aren’t stupid.” He says immediately. “I’m sorry you found those things online. I wish you would’ve told me, or something, that way I could’ve reassured you,”

“I should have,” you say. You almost lost him, this person you care about so deeply. “You scare me so much, though, you know?”

Nico jerks, aghast. “No, no, not like that,” You reassure, unable to stop yourself from smiling. “I mean… What I feel for you scares me. Like it’s too good to be true,”

You’re nervous to continue, but then his fingers begin tracing the tattoos on your arms and you shiver because of an entirely new reason, other nerves forgotten.

“And, I don’t know. I guess I was looking for reasons to doubt… Us. Which is wrong, I know. And then I found the Twitter thread, and I let their words confirm what I was already thinking.”

One of his hands trails up the back of your neck, gently massages the skin there for a moment, and is then carefully smoothing over some of your older piercings, admiring how the jewelry looks against your skin. He’s working to calm you down, and it’s working because you then realize you've forgotten how to speak.

“Um,” you swallow, throat dry. “You’re here, though,” you finish lamely, finally meeting his eyes in awe.

“I am.” He affirms. The hand on your arm joins the other to cup your face, and then your eyes flutter shut as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips. “And I’m not going anywhere, yeah? Not unless you tell me to fuck off. ”

“Okay,” you whisper, assured and now content as his arms go back to curling you into his chest. “Okay. Sounds good.” And then a thought strikes you, like the deprivation of his life you’ve been forcing yourself to deal with has had enough. “When’s your next game?”

Nico’s face breaks out into a beautiful smile, one that takes your breath away. “There’s one at home next Thursday,” he says. “I think Natalie might hurt me if I tell her that you’re still too busy, so does this mean you’ll come?”

“Can’t have that now, can we?” you murmur, matching his grin. “But yeah, yeah, I’ll go,” and back to cool nonchalance you go, unable to take the love rushing through you.

Finally, you find the strength to lift yourself off the floor. He immediately grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together. As you stand in the middle of your shop, smiling goofily at each other, he looks nervous again, and his thumb smooths over the back of your hand reflexively.

“I’ve missed you,” Nico admits, looking down at you shyly. “Didn’t realize how much I liked having you in my life.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, genuinely upset with yourself for shutting him out. “I missed you too. A lot.”

“So we’re good now, then?” he looks anxious, like he thinks he still did something wrong. “You’ll talk to me next time?”

“We’re good. I’ll talk to you,” you swear. And you’re serious this time. It hurt you just as much as it hurt him to fall out of contact for weeks. Terrifyingly enough, you’re sure it’s because you’re falling in love with him.

You’ll hold back from saying those three words for a little while longer, though.

“So,” you say after a moment. “Catch me up? On everything I missed?”

He grins again, and you think it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on. “Can we recap back at my place?” At the suggestive look on your face his face quickly turns red. “I just miss having you in my bed,” he mumbles, and at your laugh just starts dragging you to the door.

“Wait, wait, I need to lock up!” Nico playfully groans, squeezes your hips with a mocking “hurry up” and then you’re running out onto the busy streets of New Jersey like two reckless teenagers looking to elope.

It’s healing, freeing, and dangerous all at once because you can’t stop giggling and Nico can’t stop kissing you, and as you look at his face outlined by the red of a stoplight you think, I could fall in love with him.

You’re sure he’ll catch you when you hit the bottom, too.

A/N: I was planning on including smut but since I wrote this with a gender neutral reader not even I could make that work LMAO regardless, I hope you still enjoyed! I haven’t written a 10k+ fic in a while so I had a lot of fun with this one. As always, comments and reblogs are much appreciated <3

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wileys-russo · 5 months

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not sure if you’d like this idea but i keep seeing this trend of coloring in your partners tattoos and imagine a blurb where reader is doing this with alexia or mapi <33

feels so weird to write mapi or ingrid without the other tbh colouring book II m.león

"hola amor!" you called out as you returned home from work, utterly exhausted as you swung the door closed behind you, frowning as your girlfriend was nowhere to be seen.

"maría?" you sung out, dropping your bag on the counter and wandering around the flat, popping your head in and out of each room. finally, as you entered your bedroom you breathed a sigh of relief.

your girlfriends back was faced toward you sat outside in the late afternoon sun on the balcony of your bedroom, clearly focused on something as you made your way over.

opening the doors you quickly realised why she hadn't heard you, between the gentle buzz of her tattoo gun and the music playing from her phone you clearly caught the older girl off guard as she looked up in surprise.

"more?" you shook your head with a smile, the girl tattooing what looked like a sword on her ankle. "i told you bebita, they are addictive!" the spaniard grinned, flicking off the gun and wiping down the fresh ink with a sanitary pad.

"like it? my lines are getting very good." mapi beamed flashing her new tattoo toward you as you hummed taking a seat, kicking your feet up and sighing contentedly.

"you know...i can still give you one." you felt her hand on your leg as you cracked one eye open and smiled in amusement. "and you know, when hell freezes over." you teased as she pinched your leg lightly with a hum.

packing away the gun and wrapping up her tattoo carefully the girl pulled off her gloves and dissapeared inside for a moment to put everything away. "how was work?" mapi returned, bending down to place a chaste kiss on your lips.

"good, tiring, long, very glad its the weekend." you grinned up at her, accepting her outstretched hand as she guided you up and out of your seat. "come hermosa, rest with me." your girlfriend pulled you down onto the bed with her, pulling your back into her front as she held you tightly.

the two of you spoke about your days, wrapped up together in the warm rays of the dying soon, golden hour both your favourite times of day.

your girlfriend settling a little more, the sweet words whispered in your ear and the gentle kisses placed to the back of your shoulder blades did very little to lull you to sleep, though that seemed no issue for the tattooed footballer behind you.

glancing over your shoulder you smiled seeing she was asleep, chest rising and falling as you carefully wiggled out of her hold and placed a kiss to her forehead. your combined body heats a little much you shuffled to lay beside her, mapi stirring and rolling onto her stomach but otherwise remaining out cold.

cheekily answering a few work emails you found yourself doom scrolling social medias, one video in particular peaking your interest. pocketing your phone you quietly made your way out of the bedroom, hunting around the house for what you were after.

returning to the bedroom your girlfriend grunted tiredly as you sat on the back of her legs. "qué?" the defender mumbled. "can i color in your tattos mi amor?" you asked, bending down so your head laid next to hers.

"why?" her body vibrated with a small chuckle as she blinked sleepily. "why not?" you questioned back as the older girl hummed, nodding and shutting her eyes again as you kissed her cheek.

her body tensed a little as you pushed her shirt up, finger tracing the multitude of designs inked along the soft tanned skin. assisted by the pencil case you kept handy for when your niece visited you grabbed out a handful of markers and shifted a little so you were comfortable.

your girlfriend relaxed and drifted back to sleep, finding the gentle scratchings of the markers against her back oddly soothing as you frowned in concentration. finishing the lion in the middle of her back you moved onto the smaller more intricate designs on her shoulder blades, taking your time to ensure you kept it neat.

you felt a little childish at how much you were enjoying this, admittedly only coloring when your niece was over and that was only ever to placate her after a tantrum. but you couldn't deny that this was helping the melt away the stress which lingered within your body from a long week of meetings and deadlines and overdue reports.

unknown to you your girlfriend was now awake, laying down quietly and making sure not to move too much, glancing up with a soft smile seeing the way your tongue poked out of the corner of your mouth in concentration.

"bon dia hermosa." you caught her eye giving her a smile of your own, capping your marker and tucking it back away. "i think it is a little late for a bon dia princesa." the defender grinned, grabbing your hands and gently tugging you back down onto the bed beside her.

"did you have a nice time coloring?" she mocked playfully, kissing your nose as you rolled your eyes. "you're like a human coloring book amor, can you blame me?" you leaned in to give her a proper kiss, a lazy makeout session quick to follow.

you sighed happily at the way her hands rested on the small of your back pulling your body closer into hers, angling your head a little more to the side as your tongues clashed and you tangled your hands in her hair.

your eyes fluttered closed as her lips detached from yours and found their home on your neck, the defender moving to grab your hips as she sucked a bright red mark just below your jaw. pulling away she peppered gentle kisses across it to soothe the sting and her teeth tugged playfully at your ear lobe.

"you know mi amor if you let me give you a tattoo you could become your own colouring book."

#mapi leon x reader #woso fanfics #woso x reader #mapi leon #woso imagine #woso blurbs #woso

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jangmi-latte · 1 day

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this is to add up from @lovee-infected's analysis back in 2020 about leona being in the lion guard (read it here) but i randomly binged-watched the lion king series and realized scar was part of the lion guard before and has a tattoo which signifies his position. was also gifted "the roar (roar of the elders)" as his weapon but he must use it wisely or else he'll lose both his position and power (to which he eventually did).

the roar is booming, thunderous, and powerful. leona's roar is loud...really loud and it's not just his roar, it's his voice in general. AND HIS UNIQUE MAGIC IS "KING'S ROAR" and he seems well-educated in his country's defense mechanism. here's the difference between "king's roar" and "roar of the elders" take note of the bolded words

ROAR OF THE ELDERS/THE ROAR (The Lion Guard)

The Roar is strong enough to blast downward-falling water upward, scatter a pile of boulders, or force someone else backward, sometimes sending them flying miles away. However, if the Roar is used in anger, regardless of the intent, it can cause mass destruction and there is a risk of it rebounding like an echo, which can cause natural disasters such as earthquakes. When used in anger, the clouds will be dark and stormy...before Kion uses the Roar, he always tells everyone to get behind him...So he [Scar] tried to employ the rest of his Lion Guard to help him overthrow Mufasa, but when they refused, he destroyed them (Roar of the Elders from The Lion Guard Wiki).

KING'S ROAR (Leona Kingscholar)

In Leona's dorm uniform card, we see him confronting his dorm mates after they mobbed on Jack. His dorm mates threatened him [Leona], questioned his position as their boss and why does he have the right to order them around. He told Jack to "stand back" while he handles them himself. To deflect them and show them his power he used "King's Roar" which resulted in his dormmates and Jack saying:

"My foothold is trembling." "The terrain is rapidly shifting." "The ground is splitting?!" (Jack)

During his overblot, the skies and the clouds turned dark (as it commonly does during overblots). It showed that it can harm a person (such as Ruggie) by turning them into dust/sand. Ruggie also mentioned how he doesn't want to get involved in a blast from Leona's unique magic's full potential. Here's to say that turning something into sand ISN'T the only thing his unique magic can do.

ruggie also mentioned during his magishift club wear card that leona's voice is loud and that they can hear him very well despite the spectators being noisy (translation credits go to @mysteryshoptls):

We can hear Leona’s voice pretty good even when we got noisy spectators durin’ a game. Guess lions just got a healthier roar to ‘em.

if the roar of the elders is used for good and must be used for good, then king's roar is the twisted version of the roar of the elders since it is seen as something dangerous instead of something that can be used for good. seeing as the leona's unique magic was feared upon by his people in the palace, the roar of the elders, on the other hand, was seen as something admirable and worthy for a person to have.

heck the roar of the elders is confiscated if they're used for bad and evil as it musn't be used for ill-intentions. meanwhile, leona's unique magic is implied to be used for ill-intentions because "anything he touches turns into sand" and what good can it bring, right?

i see what you did there twst...very clever.

#twisted wonderland #twst #savanaclaw #leona kingscholar #took me a while to look for the post since it was one of my faves #i've been blabbering so much about savanaclaw what is going on #this is savanaclaw rook's fault haha right my ex is its dorm leader

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blueparadis · 7 months

Text

╰┈➤ MOVEMENT ✦ SATORU GOJO.

⟣ ──┈ · · · + synopsis ➢ Satoru Gojo decides to make the last session of this contractual relationship memorable for you, by doing what he does best, that is, bending the limits and breaking the rules and in that process, he hurts more than one heart.

⟣ ──┈ · · · + cw ➣ non-sorcerer au + bdsm au, bdsm terminology, contractual sex, explicit sexual scenes, mutual pinning, hurt and angst with slight comfort, bondage ( shibari ), Gojo is domme here, sub!reader, mention of safeword and sex toys, slight age gap, gojo is in his pushing thirties reader is twenty-five, tattoo artist!reader, aftercare, angst and fluff; 5,6k word count. | blog navigation + koct’23 masterlist. + cross posted to ao3. |

Perfection is a stage that every creature strives to achieve. A witch tries to devise an evergreen spell for immortality, a lion tries to hunt for an elephant, a bird tries to fly during rainstorms, and an alchemist tries to create a philosopher’s stone— there is no end to it. It is always the most impossible, the oddest feat to achieve.

So, Satoru Gojo believes that perfection is nothing but a state of mind; to think about achieving something impossible, but that is not where it ends.

Achieving the impossible is not the end of the road toward perfection, there is always a price that one has to pay. In most cases, it is either the slow painful death or death at an unexpected moment of life, if not death then the skill of achieving perfection is stripped off and now, the creature stands amongst others in shame and sadness, for instance, a witch might lose all her powers after receiving immortality left with eternal desolation and abandonment at the end, a lion might die while hunting for an elephant despite being at the top of the food chain, a bird might lose its feathers and an alchemist might lose their sanity in the pursuit of perfection. Despite such irrevocable loss at the end of such a bumpy and rocky road, people still pursue perfection. They are all chasing nothing but a mirage, how silly!

Satoru Gojo does not understand the idea of a perpetual flow of zeal to achieve such greatness. He never tries to do the impossible, he just does what he is capable of and that alone earns him every bow of a person that he has ever come across, and applause from people with puny ambitions. They think Satoru Gojo is perfect. The cacophony of such praises makes his head ache because, in the end, they are all for nothing but hollow, laced with some ultimate gain underneath. But at the same time, he can not deny the idea of the existence of such perfection either. If he were to deny this slightest possibility of such perfection, he would deny someone’s existence.

Satoru is lying on the bed with half of his body hanging outside the bed. His feet are on the ground while his cyan galactic eyes just stare at the starlight ceiling of this room. He is more than capable than most other men to make someone see stars yet you specifically moved into his house only on one condition, that is, to have a starlight ceiling. What a stinging mockery! His teeth find refuge in the inner flesh at one corner of his lower lip as a vision flashes in his mind. You, laying on your back on this same bed but hands tied together with just his tie and resting at the belly button while his deft fingers push a vibrator inside you. Fully dressed in a pearly white sundress, under the blue lighting, you look nothing less than some fairy god. If such a being were to exist he would say you looked perfect that night.

His phone chimes. Twice. Two different notifications. He jumps out of bed at the second walking towards the side table to check his phone. He is not supposed to be here, according to the rules of his contract with you, in your room. But Gojo has always been the breaker of rules; not all but the rules of which one is the most unaware. For instance, you would not even know that he has been in your room while you are not here, while you are busy with your day. But he is here for a reason not because he wanted to break some grey rules. He unplugs his phone from your charger.

‘One week before the contract terminates’

Satoru turns off the lights and saunters out of your room. One week. Seven days. One sixty-eight hours out of which he can only see you during nights, and play with you only at weekends. This arrangement has been going on for almost two months now; this is the last week he gets to spend with you and the last weekend for his play with you; after that, he will ask you to meet at some cafe to discuss the extension of this contract. Everything is going to be perfect. He does not want to admit how perfect you are in every way simply because he might end up doing something detrimental to this contractual relationship. It shocks him, sometimes terrifies him how you are exactly the person he concocted at one corner of his heart. That is what he liked most about you: you were fearlessly flexible.

Satoru’s jaw dropped when you said you were okay with him if he kept another sub or even a lover. At first, he thought you were bluffing but with a man like him tricks never run out of stock and not once he sensed jealousy in you. Talking with you was liberating be it on the phone or in person. You never invaded his space, his life yet asked the questions that you needed to know as his sub. Sometimes he would think about what it would take to make you feel uneasy, feel vulnerable, feel that everything was crashing down like a centuries-old castle as you desperately needed something to hold on to, someone to cling onto. It is too soon to let a sub like you go. So, he definitely wants to extend his contract with you: no second thoughts about that. Everything was perfect before, being with you, spending time with you, sending you surprise gifts, hearing your squeals of happiness— everything was perfect, what could possibly go wrong? And even if it does, he can handle it. There is nothing that is beyond the grasp of one of the richest bachelors of Tokyo.

It is half past eight and you will be here around ten o’clock. But before that, he needs to check his playroom, set everything right, and prepare dinner. Satoru makes himself busy in the kitchen. He revisits his memories of you, searching for what you like to eat and what you do not. For the past two months at weekends either you cooked along with him or ordered via takeout or had a chance for takeaway. So, he never got a chance to show how good he was with his hands in the kitchen. A low humming escapes his mouth as he starts to gather the ingredients; at first, he needs short-grain rice, vinegar, salt, sugar, and water. He sets the rice for it to cook and meanwhile, prepares the other set of ingredients for the filling. The clock strikes nine, the doorbell chimes and Satoru’s eyebrows grow closer. He walks towards the main door to check the screen and the line of confusion on his forehead vanishes. Both of your hands are full of bags and other accessories. He wonders how you even ring the doorbell before opening the door.

“You are early,” Satoru remarks as he holds the door letting you walk inside his house. You look around and steadily walk towards the kitchen. Satoru follows you a little bit offended from not getting any response from you. Keeping a packet on the counter you wash your hands. “What's this?” he asked standing near the counter.

“Food.” You supply making yourself comfortable on one corner of the counter. Satoru rolls his eyes.

“You are early,” He repeats. This time more emphasis on ‘early’ to hear the explanation you are to give, that is, if there is one. He has this habit of repeating his sentences, sometimes a word to assert dominance but he never says sorry twice; at least never with you.

“Ummm, thanks to your friend who cancelled the tattoo appointment at the last minute” You open the lid of the pot and smell the aroma of fresh cooking. “Otherwise I would have been quite late.”

“What friend?”

“The one and only, who told you about my tattoo parlour, what was his name again? Geto. Getou-san.”

“You forget the name of a guy like that?” He hands you a glass of water. It is half-chilled. A peal of laughter echoes in the kitchen.

Satoru’s jaw relaxes, half in confusion and half in worry. He does not know why. “What?” he asks. You compose yourself and answer him. “You keep scolding me about my bad habits yet never fail to keep up with those.” You take a few sips of water, finally locking eyes with him. His mouth is half-parted trying to form any sort of defense to deflect the grave accusation you just made, that is, he is paying attention to the tiniest details even though they are deadly to both of you.

He has always told you how having cold water is bad for your health, especially when you just come home. He is not a great fan of having meals at any time of the day ordered online, nor your habit of smoking but if you were to lit a cigarette now he would slide an ashtray from somewhere. Satoru drinks the rest of the water from your glass and keeps it in the sink. People generally love this kind of attention but it becomes a little bit hopeful in cases like these and for you, it is just tightening the knots of rope that Satoru has weaved around you these past two months. You are not here to get his attention nor guide his deep-rooted attachment tendencies towards you; you are here because of the contract.

“I need to talk to you about something.” You say holding a cigarette in between your teeth and searching your pockets for the lighter.

“Can’t it wait?” Satoru gives you a lighter, plucking it from one of the pockets of his loose boxers holding the fire for you. His upper body is naked. Even if you have seen him naked enough times to get used to it still you find it distracting. You inhale one full elongated stream of tobacco saying, “Oh sure it can.” He slides an ashtray taking it out from one of the cupboards magically. You scratch your temple out of frustration because the thing is, Satoru Gojo does not smoke. He hates that burning bitter aroma of tobacco yet every room in this house has an ashtray and a lighter.

“You know what? I’ll just say it right now. It has been bugging me since yesterday.” You start and Satoru effortlessly drags you closer to his body, spreading your legs apart to stand in between them. “What the hell?” You screamingly gasp at such a sudden vicinity.

“Can’t it wait?” This time softer, voice husky but a whisper, a prayer. His toned muscular arms are now wrapped around your waist. “If you are really not tired, shall we go to the playroom or — he trails his hands from the column of your throat to your belly button and then plays with the hem of your skirt. His eyes follow and then halt.

“Playroom.” You earn an enquiring glance from him. He hums. You jump off the counter and tactfully slip from his arms walking towards the playroom. “Would you prefer me naked, clothed or— you turn to see if he is following you or not only to find he is standing there like a statue gawking at you and drinking you in. “Umm. . .Satoru,” you call and then a flash of teeth sparks from his mouth. He walks towards you, grabbing you by your upper arm he leans towards you having his head in the nook of your shoulder. His lips move. You can feel it. It opens with a pop. You think he is going to say something, maybe something lewd but instead, the soft skin of his lips touches the base of your earlobe.

“No. You look perfect in that dress.” A rasp, a horse whisper, like casting a spell he gently kisses your neck and withdraws. “I’ll be there in five minutes. You can go and wait for me.” You nod unable to look at him. Sometimes Satoru invades your bones and veins through the gaps that you did not even know existed in you.

“Look at me,” He orders, voice nothing mellowed like before. He notices you swallow before you turn your face to look at him. “Don’t tell me you thought I was gonna kiss you — on your lips —” he tugs at your hair curling one of the strands around his index finger “— you know that is totally off limits.”

Your pupils slide down onto his lips. “Of course not. I know you hate smokey kisses and breaths. Besides, I’m not very fond of breaking rules like you.” And you look up again at him to check his eyes. “Sir” you quip. Mmmmm. He definitely thought of kissing on the lips just now.

You enter the playroom and as you turn on the lights you notice a vibrator, a blue rope kept on the bed, and a giant teddy bear with red ropes tangled all over its body. He has been practicing. You sit on the edge of the bed and wait. You wait since that is all you have to do now, no changing of clothes or stripping them off. You remember that before coming here you went in your room to keep your belongings and get a quick bathroom refresh but the fact that you found the charger head warm is bugging you more than it should. You would not have known if you did not have to put your phone on charge. Plus, you never keep the switch on when the charger is not in use.

The door opens with a ‘clank’ and you jolt as you turn.

“God. It's just me, Eve.” Right Eve. Eve and Adam. Adam and Eve. He never fails to remind you of the embarrassing story of how you two met every time he is in the playroom with you. You watch him keep a ball gag and a few free love balls. He is gathering toys, moving from one end to the other so fast that you have not had the proper chance to see him and why would you not? He is fully dressed. He looks inexplicably elegant when dressed this neatly. He drags the table towards the bed where you are seated at arm's length of his.

“Now,” He starts grabbing your hands and guiding you beneath a specific lighting. You look up to notice various extensions and slots for hanging bondage. “Today I will not be using a blindfold on you.” He says and turns towards you. You tilt your head in shock and fear while his hands tie yours in the hanging bondage. In all previous plays, you kept your eyes closed with a blindfold. It is not against the rule of your contract to play without the blindfold but to think he would do it like this was beyond your calculations. You have added this rule, “Blindfold on” against his “No kiss on the lips.” rule but omitting such clause for the sake of play is not your hard limit, the emotional turmoil that comes after is enough to make you feel suffocated.

“I want you to know everything I do to you today since this is our last session. I’ve tried on myself first but you must know that, by now I know how to just touch you, how tight to make your ropes, and how hard to make each hit.” He continues explaining. Your hands are now hanging tied by the wrist. He takes a step backward standing with his hands tucked over his waist. “And I’ll only do what you have agreed to.”

“Any questions?” You nod and exclaim with a firm tone, “No, Ser Adam.” He cocks a brow and turns around. You watch him put a black mask over his eyes. Grabbing the prussian blue rope he starts to tie it around your upper body. It does not take him long to have you under the tangled form of beautiful knots. Your breaths have already started to become heavy. He puts the ball gag around your mouth as he speaks about another crucial point. “For today's session, I want you to maintain eye contact. I know it might be difficult for you to keep up at first because in our previous sessions, you requested to keep the mask on your eyes but today we are doing something different,” He takes two free love balls from the table.

“The ball of your gag is edible. Since you can’t use your safe word in this session, not while having a gag on your mouth. Just bite it and I’ll immediately stop.” He walks towards you close enough to let his breath fan over you. You look up. Curiosity courses through your veins and you lick the ball. It tastes sweet. Of course. “ However, if you eat it just out of curiosity, then I’ll have to punish you. And we both know you are not very fond of those,”

You can't help but smile at how he can read your thoughts. “I was late to the playroom because I went to change the ball to an edible one.” Now he is giving you an explanation of something that you did not need to know. Seeing your eyebrows pinch, Satoru asks, “So, shall we start?”

You nod. He sits down and removes your underwear. Lacy and white in colour. His gaze finds you telling you to get out of your underwear. You have no idea how perfect your outfit is for today’s play. He had bought a set of crop tops and a skirt for this specific play that he had in mind but seeing you walking in a knee-length medium skirt and off-shoulder top made his heart flutter. The skirt is too long for his taste but it will do. Besides, he can take it off anytime he wants.He stands up and puts your panty in his pocket and your eyes dilate at his act. You have come across certain forms of the behavioural pattern of several dommes. But sometimes, Satoru fits in that and sometimes, he breaks it. As the contract is coming to an end, he is breaking more than fitting into them.

He encircles you one time running his hands over your clothed body making you twist and turn your head in shivers of pleasure. Standing behind you he holds your waist, quite firmly and places one of his shoe-covered feet aligned with yours. He slips his foot in between the gap of your feet and spreading them apart he cups your vagina. “Oh don’t be so wet already. I have not even started it.” He runs his fingers through your folds a few times before extending them in front of your face to show you how turned on you are. Then, he holds two metal small balls in between his fingers. It was like a magic trick when he flicked his hands and those turned up. So, that is why the outfit, the mask.

“The same rules apply as before. I’ll put them inside your pussy and if you manage to keep them while I play with you, I reward you. If you do not, I — he pauses rolling the metal ball from up your nape down to your spine and then over your ass — “I get to fuck you.” he says pushing a ball into your hole. “I’ve four of them.” he whispered those words into your ear creating shivers down your spine. He changed the last part. In earlier sessions, he always said that he would punish you. Now, if you can not manage to hold up without dropping any of them he will fuck you, but if you can he will reward you, he said.

Satoru walks around you to face you. You look at him, at his eyes as he pushes the second ball into you. Taking out other love two balls out of his pocket, he sits down again and pushes them inside. He kisses your nipple while looking at you, retreats to gather saliva in his mouth, and then sucks off hard enough to leave a wet patch over your nipple. He repeats the same on the other nipple as you try to close your legs to keep those balls inside you.

“You are doing a great job. Impressive.” He praises as he ties another spreader bar to the ankle of your legs keeping them apart and making it hard for you to hold the balls inside you. “Oh do not look so displeased my Eve. . . The main trick is still up my sleeves.” He walks back toward the table and grabs the vibrator. Safeword was at the tip of your tongue and heart at the bottom of your throat. But you waited. The sound of vibration alone creates goosebumps on your skin but as he starts to touch it all over your body, you fail to keep up with your senses. Satoru watches your palms turn into fists, twist and curl as he places the vibrator over your belly and then onto your nipple again. He would love to see how you would keep up if he were to put the vibrator over your pussy. It would not hurt to try, would it now?

“Let me know if it's too much.” He whispers into your ear before dragging the vibrator over your spine and holding it onto your inner thighs. You whimper and squeal as your vision clouds. Squeezing your eyes shut, tears trickle down your cheeks. A smile spreads across Satoru’s face as you exceed his expectations. He increases the vibrating limit by one unit as he holds it over your wet pussy. Saliva has started to accumulate inside your mouth. It is so hard not to bite onto the ball and if you bite it too hard the shocks of pleasure will cease to flow. His mouth latches onto one of your nipples as he increases the vibrating limit again. Two more switches to go.

You arch your head backward, body squirms as he detaches his mouth. You can feel the metal balls slipping. They might drop if Satoru decides to remove the vibrator. He watches your lips, your eyes, your body, and all movements of pleasure that he is causing you right now. Dragging the vibrator up your vagina to your belly button he starts to suck against the column of your neck. His teeth sink into your skin at different spots giving birth to several bruises while he pushes the head of the vibrator inside your vagina. It is too much. You feel like you are going to explode or melt. Fuck, you do not even know which is it. The sound of the vibration fades, but the intensity does not rather it increases. Your eyes feel heavy, breaths irregular, and full of moans. You feel like you are going to faint but then you hear a voice, his voice.

“Bite the fruit.” You turn your head to meet his gaze. Blue crystal clear eyes meet your cloudy ones. You drop your head finding that your ankles are free from the spreader bar. “Bite it.” He demands as he pushes half of the vibrator inside you. All your senses are lithe, your teeth bite the ball into half and the other half is gobbled up by your dom. He pulls out the vibrator with a swing, throwing it on the ground making you cum. The balls fall one by one making noise as they hit the wooden floor but none of you seem to care as his lips wrap yours. His hands involuntarily find their way toward the hoops of the handcuffs so as to unbuckle them as his kiss intensifies. Tongue making its way, lips alternatively sucking and biting as he lets your arms fall. You curl them around his nape reciprocating his kiss with the same intensity. He takes you into his lap, your legs wrapping around his torso and that is when he realises what he has done.

“Y/N.” He pants vigorously, taking a seat on the bed with you on the lap. “I should not have done that.” He immediately starts to untie the knots of the shibari. You rest your head against his chest as he frees you from the knots. Satoru’s ears are warm, burning even. He kissed you. He fucking kissed you. The one rule that he should not have broken. You adjust your face at an angle to have your lips near his ears before you whisper, “Where is my reward?”

“What?”

“My reward?” you say backing up a bit to meet his gaze and laying your hand in front of him. “My reward.” He is so confused right now. Of course, he has every right to be.

When Satoru puts two plus two, he protests, “You dropped the balls. Technically, I have the right to fuck you. Like now.” Sure the idea of him being inside you is tempting but not as much as him realising he broke one crucial rule.

“That was after you asked me to bite the fruit, the ball, and then took the other half in your mouth and then started kissing me— he put his hand over your mouth seeing you speak in one breath.

“Okay. okay. I get it.” He notices your hands. They are bruised, and so is your neck. Shame kicks in his body. He pulls up your top a bit and sees the marks of the knot as well as the ropes. He thought it was too tight. “You need a nice bath.” He lets you stand on your feet. There is a theory going on in his head. If you choose to ignore the kiss, the violation of rules then you may have secretly violated some other rules and if you are bothered by it, you will retort the second time or maybe not. There is one way to find out. Satoru roughly holds your chin brushing his thumb over your lips. You close your eyes caving into his touch. The way you close your eyes, feel his touch, bloom like a lotus to absorb him like sunlight makes him wanna kiss you, absorb you whole, invade you so deeply, fill every corner with his scent that you find it hard to breathe.

“Can I kiss you now?”

You open your eyes, bite his thumb, suck at it, and then pull out with a pop, “No” exhaling a heavy breath. You turn on your feet and start to walk towards the exit feeling your heart crack at such sincere fruitless attraction. But Gojo Satoru is not someone who will let anyone walk out on him, even if it is you, his eve. He quickly catches up to you and takes you onto his lap so as to carry you toward the bathroom.

“Oh, good god. What gives? I can walk by myself.” You retort yet your hand curls around his nape. Your nails scratch his undercut as he carries you to the bathroom with a stoic expression. As you two reach the bathroom, you notice everything is already prepared. “I’ll come back in a few minutes.”

You discard your clothes as his footsteps fade away. He is not acting strange per se ignoring his act of affection was not a good idea after all. He created his own set of rules and broke one of them. He has every right to be the expectation of the rule he creates. After all, a priest who preaches purity is never pure; a god who gets punished is no god, either an abandoned god or the devil; Things always take the form of a cycle like a snake eating its tail. You do not get what was the reason behind his unacceptance of such an act. So, what if he kissed you? So, what if he likes you? It is not the end of the world. You are not going to punish him. Moreover, it will eventually pass. You hear Satoru humming on the other side of the curtain. He turns on the jazz music making you highly regret what you are going to say. It was a bad idea not to let him know beforehand via a text and you are neck-deep in trouble. You have never violated his terms or his personal space and so you have no idea how he would react if you were to do something to threaten his ideals, play with them.

Little did you know that you already did the day he walked into your tattoo parlour.

“I need to talk to you,” Your voice gets buried under the jazz music along with the low hum of Satoru. He was standing near the sink washing his face, and hands. There is a set of clothes on the rack, perhaps for him. You are neck-deep in the bathtub. He has prepared everything for you, just the way you like it. Everything is as usual like any other weekend except your dom is not sitting by the bathtub, sparing an ear to your moonshine talks like he does. He is definitely avoiding you. The partition of curtains that separates the bathing area from the rest of the giant bathroom only permits you to see a hazy figure of your dom. You sit upright to lean against the bathtub. Clearing your throat you suggest the same idea again, louder this time. “Satoru, I need to talk to you.”

From the hazy figure, you could conjecture that he was brushing his teeth. You waited until his response came trying to muster up courage and gather your thoughts. “Yeah, I’m listening,” Satoru responds from the other side of the veil.

“Can’t you just come here and sit with me? Like you usually do. . .” Even with the jazz music and the sound of running tap water, you could hear the click of his tongue, perhaps out of annoyance or perhaps out of repentance. Both are dangerous. Satoru feeling either of them is dangerous because a man like him ends up in a spiral of anger when those primal emotions leave the body, and stain the heart.

“I’d love to do that,” Satoru starts, closing the tap water, and putting the brush and toothpaste in their respective place. “But it's quite late and I’m hungry, so how about we talk while we eat? Plus, tomorrow I have an early morning.”

“It’s Sunday tomorrow.” You get out of the bathtub and stand just behind the partition. Satoru runs his middle finger upon his forehead from one temple to the other biting his bottom lip. He can not face you, not like this. He has violated the terms. He has violated himself, violated you — he has violated so many things. “It is. I know,” he mutters, voice full of haste. You see him walking towards the exit and something tells you it is now or never. So, you are really not bothered about the kiss at all.

“Satoru, I’m leaving.” You gulp as you watch the tall man turn around. So, you try to clarify your thoughts more and give them a voice. “I’m leaving Tokyo in two days. I got the scholarship for my Phd so . . .” There was a pin-drop silence between you and him. The edge of the curtain is now wet and wrinkled from your grip. You have faced many tense situations before but this one hit all the open, raw, unprotected parts of you. There was a sudden draw of curtains and when you looked up Satoru was standing holding the metal bar of the curtains, hovering above you. The lipstick marks along with the hickeys on the column of his throat are still there. He did not wash them. His eyes were assessing you, checking if you were playing some sort of prank to see if he gets worried about you. You have done it before, why not now? Many who came before tried some nasty tricks, broke some important rules, or found a loophole in certain rules that in turn violated others or used a safeword as an offensive one rather than a defensive measure. So, Satoru Gojo is used to this tactic.

Nah, you are not lying. You have never lied to him, always been so honest to him that it made him uneasy at times. “And here I was thinking, where is the catch? After all, all perfect things come to an end.”

“Okay, do you want me to help with that? Like packing or . . .” His voice trailed off, so did his eyes. You wrapped the curtain around yourself doing a spin and nodded. He bit his inner lip holding his smile. “Okay. I’ll prepare dinner. Get dressed and dry yourself properly otherwise, you’ll catch a cold. ” He exclaimed, rubbing his thumb over your cheeks, eyes lingering over your lips momentarily. He leaves the bathroom as you watch him go.

You have always been afraid of him. Maybe because he was older than you or maybe it was because of his political connections, historical background, and the power that he holds at his fingertips. For instance, if he wanted he could cancel the scholarship, but he would not go that far would he? You were aware that you should have informed him earlier, at least a week ago but back then the results were not out. . . who are you consoling? What has already been done can never be undone, what has already been said can never be taken back— like an arrow shot in the forest. It is lost forever.

note: special thanks to my dearest cele aka Celestia ( @dearestgojo ) for constantly listening to my ideas, talking me through them, and beta-reading this when I finished it. I was so confused and worried about Satoru’s characterization here. She helped me a lot with that. I wouldn't have been able to write this fic without her help actually.

Whether this will turn into a series or stay like this alone depends on ya’ll. If I get a positive response I’ll consider posting the other parts after writing it. I don't have a very healthy experience of posting series works in Tumblr. Most of them are posted on my ao3. So, let's see what I have in the store.

also tagging @orchid3a @akiniku @semisgroupie @gojoest @lalunanymph

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mariariley · 8 months

Note

omg thank you bb!

so i was thinking, what if the reader (aka us) brings simon to a family cook out? let’s say your mom has been dying to meet him anyways—& not only that, you notice that spaced out look on his whenever the team starts talking about their family members when it’s time to go back home.

and you’re kinda nervous because your family can be a chaotic mess, esp at cookouts. and while you both are there at the cookout, you can’t help but to notice how he barely leaves your side, almost stuck to you like some sort of adhesive!

likeeeeee! imagine your younger cousins running up to him, asking if he could help them fix their nerf guns because they keep jamming the bullets.

or how your aunties keep giving him flirty looks…and your grandma may or may not have made a comment about letting ‘him put a baby in you.’ and on the drive back to your place, you start apologizing for how embarrassing and chaotic they were and he can’t help but to smile to himself because he enjoyed every part of it <33

I told the person they can fill my inbox with as many ideas as they want :)

masterlist || have a request/ask? Here are the rules <3

MY FAMILY IS LIKE THIS ISTG 😭

Aunties would admire his muscles and height, his tattoos as well and “oh my gaaaawd he’s in the militaryyy” aka special forces but they see no difference.

Grandmas too but in the “You’d be a great lookin’ father” way. They would squeeze his muscles nonchalantly I swear. They would definitely start the “bearing children” subject a little too many times.

At some point Simon would have to tell them he doesn’t want kids mostly considering his job to which they’d wave their hands and laugh.

Uncles and grandpas would admire him as a patriot and ask him bunch of military and weapon related questions considering most of them served the army as well. Tbh he would enjoy talking to them about it.

Cousins (and younger siblings if you have any) would sit down and listen to him talk about his missions. He would add some unrealistic stuff that didn’t really happen just so he would make it more entertaining for them. He would show them a scar and tell them how he fought a lion or something lmao. They’d be like:

“WOOOOAH! You fought a tiger AND a lion at the same time!?”

“With bare hands.”

“WITH BARE HANDS!? WOOOOOAH!”

I love the nerf gun part you mentioned. He would definitely end up playing with them for some time. He would teach them how to hold the guns and aim properly lmao. The game would end with him being “shot and defeated” by the kids. Simon laying on the floor pretending he’s dead while the kids are dying from laughter at his goofy death sounds mimicking.

Simon would eat like never before, he would praise your mom’s cooking.

When you’d apologize on your way back home he’d definitely tell you he enjoyed it and that he would come again.

Divider owners already tagged in my previous posts, I don’t want to spam them 🖤

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #mw2 simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #mw2 ghost #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost headcanons #cod ghost #ghost #cod simon ghost riley #call of duty x reader #call of duty headcanons #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #cod mw2 x you

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auroravictorium · 1 year

Text

labyrinth (k.b.)

Oh, I'm falling in love.

Summary: kaz and reader spend a peaceful evening in his room, enjoying each other's company.

Pairing(s): kaz x fem!reader (established relationship)

Word Count: ~2.2k

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, kaz working through his touch aversion, brief allusion to near-death

Genre: fluff!

Author's Note: i promised fluff, and i am here to deliver <3 ENJOY! btw six of crows requests are OPEN! feel free to drop any angst, fluff, or headcanon requests in my asks :))

The sensation of his fingers on the sensitive skin of your inner arm nearly made you shiver, but you forced yourself to remain still as he started to trace your tattoo next. He ran his fingertips over the feathers of the crow, its legs as it perched on the rim of the cup, the vines crawling around the stem and up the side. Your eyes remained trained on his face, though he refused to look at you as he fought against the tide threatening to pull him under.

"Breathe," you gently reminded Kaz as he traced his bare fingertips along the veins in your arm. You watched as he forced himself to take a deep breath in, hold it, and breathe out.

You sat together on his tiny bed, shoved in the corner of the Slat's attic almost as an afterthought. Letting your mind wander as Kaz let his fingers do the same along your arm and hand, you wondered if Kaz realized he needed to sleep; either he was meticulous about making the bed every morning, or he hadn't spent a minute of his time as leader of the Dregs with his eyes shut.

"What are you thinking about?" Kaz asked softly. He only ever used that voice around you, and it appeared more and more often as he fought to become more vulnerable around you. He figured you deserved it; he didn't want you to spend a day of your relationship regretting choosing him, especially if it could end with a Dime Lion finally getting their hands on you. Two months had passed after your name was handed straight to Pekka Rollins and a bounty for your capture and destruction was placed on your head with the intent of intimidating Kaz into bowing to the supposed might of the Dime Lions. He thought about his rage that morning nearly every day. Nothing motivated his urge to fight his demons and grow closer to you more than his fear of losing you.

"About how you make your bed like a member of the Kerch navy," you answered, leading him off the violent path his thoughts started to head down. He was grateful for that, and he forced another breath of air into his lungs to calm himself down.

"Is that so?" Kaz traced his fingers over the lines on your palm, and a shiver ran down your spine. His lips twitched upward at the reaction.

"Very much so." You scanned his face, from the creases in his forehead as he explored your skin to the focus in his blue eyes, down to the purse of his lips. "Perhaps you'll consider adding Sealegs to your long list of aliases."

Kaz broke into a small smile and finally met your gaze. "I prefer land, but I'll let you know if I develop an inclination otherwise." He dropped your right hand and went for the left, pushing up your sleeve and starting his investigation again. The terror that usually consumed him was bearable as he felt your pulse thrum against his fingertips.

You smiled as he turned your hand this way and that, leaving no mark, vein, or scar untraced. Kaz was nothing if not meticulous as he pushed himself toward being able to bear your touch. "How are you feeling?" you asked, daring to turn your hand in his grasp and loosely curling your fingers around his index finger. You brushed your thumb over a thin, silvery scar he had there, and you wondered how he'd gotten it.

He looked down at your hands, appreciating the subtle test. Instead of pulling his hand away, he laced your fingers together. He held your twined hands in his free one. "It's not bad," he told you quietly. "Not easy, but not difficult." Not as hard as kissing you for the first time had been, though he wanted to try again now and see if the feeling had changed.

"That's good." You squeezed his hand, hoping it told him how proud you were of him. He'd been somewhat open with you about wanting to push himself and push back against the trauma of what he'd been through. He hadn't told you what that was exactly, but you didn't press. It wasn't your place, and he hadn't pushed you to share what drove you to Ketterdam either. There was a silent agreement that your pasts would remain undiscussed, and it was something you were all too happy to agree to.

Kaz pulled his hand away from yours, and you figured he was done for the day until he started to remove his coat. Your brows furrowed as he neatly folded it up and set it at the foot of his bed with military precision, then rolled up his sleeves and held his arms out to you. "It's not the same," he said, seeing the confusion in your gaze. His voice was uneven from nerves, and he pushed away the urge to pull his gloves and coat back on. He could do this. He was determined to. "Being touched and touching someone else."

You nodded slowly and hesitantly reached out. "One at a time," you told him. He lowered his left arm but kept his right arm stiffly extended. "Breathe," you reminded him. He nodded curtly and watched as you held his hand and slowly started tracing his tattoo with your fingertips.

The ink of the crow and cup stood out starkly against his pale skin, and you noted that his tattoo was more detailed than yours. He'd added more thorns to the vines circling the cup, partly filled with what was supposed to be wine. As you reached the crow's beak and the skin of his inner elbow, Kaz exhaled slowly. He flexed his fingers but allowed you to continue. You reached the crook of his arm and spotted another patch of ink peeking out beneath where he'd rolled his shirt up.

You brushed your thumb over the fragment of the mystery tattoo then ran your fingertips back down his arm, making sure to trace every scar like he had with you. Once his right arm was finished, you switched to his left and repeated the process. To your delight, he had a freckle on the inside of his wrist that you probably spent too long admiring. There was something about Kaz having a freckle that made you smile.

Kaz didn't realize he was smiling with you until you pulled your hands away and looked up at him. As the two of you looked at each other, really looked, heat rushed to your face as you realized that in the past eight months, you had fallen for the Bastard of the Barrel. With every smile he shared with you, you fell all over again. Every flutter of your stomach and pound of your heart in your ears since you'd told him that you'd chosen him, danger and all, confirmed it. A sudden fear that he didn't feel the same struck you, and the fluttering in your stomach slowed with anxiety.

"What is it?" Kaz asked quietly, noticing your smile fade. You didn't seem unhappy, but something had clearly shifted on your face. Did you realize that this was the reality of being with him? Celebrating touches that should be easy?

You considered not telling him. Maybe this wasn't the time, or it was too soon or sudden. But Kaz had fought so hard to be open with you that you owed him the same. The vulnerability should go both ways.

"I told you after Pekka got my name that I chose you," you whispered. Kaz stiffened, his mind getting ahead of him, and you gently squeezed his wrist. You weren't going anywhere, not like he was probably thinking. Shit, that was a terrible way to start this. "You told me I chose to stop running, not the danger of being associated with you."

Kaz nodded slowly, unsure where you were going with this. For once, he couldn't puzzle something together, especially when you were consciously or subconsciously being hard to read. Why were you telling him this?

"I don't regret choosing you for a second," you told him, meeting his gaze. You tried to muster your confidence, though you struggled to keep your breathing steady and your eyes on his. "I've never been able to say that about anyone before. It's never been right." Right time, right place, right person. But you're right. You always have been. "But this is right. You feel right. And I love every piece of you, whole, bruised, and scarred."

The silence that followed your confession was scarier than saying you loved him, and you had to remind yourself to breathe this time. Kaz was so still and quiet that you could have mistaken him for a statue, and you were terrified as you waited for him to say something. Anything.

You slowly withdrew your hands from his arm, giving him space, and your heart sank to your stomach as Kaz didn't respond to the loss of your touch. "Kaz?" you whispered. "Can you say something? Please?" Your voice cracked on the last word, and you didn't realize that your eyes had started burning until you had to blink to keep your emotions at bay. I shouldn't have said anything. It was too soon.

Kaz finally thawed and met your gaze, and you let out a slow breath in relief. He was silent for a moment, tracing a finger along the inside of his wrist where he would usually pull on his glove. "I thought you were leaving," Kaz admitted, and his voice was rougher than you expected. He caught your hand and laced your fingers together. He took a few deep breaths; suddenly, even the slightest touch seemed like too much. He didn't have long before he'd need to put his gloves back on. "I will say it," he said quietly. "I swear it. I need time. I know that's-"

Your shoulders relaxed at his words, and you offered him a small smile as relief flooded your chest. "It's enough," you said, cutting him off before he could concern himself with whether that was alright with you. Of course it was. You brushed your thumb over his knuckles before pulling your hand away and offering his gloves to him. "It's more than enough. Your pace, Kaz."

He nodded. Before he put his gloves on, he lifted your hand to his mouth and brushed a soft kiss along your knuckles. "Thank you," he whispered, his lips ghosting against your skin. He pulled his gloves back on but did leave his coat off, letting you admire how his forearms tensed and relaxed as he flexed his fingers. Kaz raised his brow at your not-so-subtle look. "What?"

"Are you sure you're not considering a career in the navy? I think you'd make a fine sailor."

Kaz scowled, but his eyes sparkled with amusement as he leaned back and grabbed a book from his nightstand. He passed it to you, though you saw him briefly consider tossing it at you and letting you try to catch it. "You're a bigger flirt than Jesper."

"Nobody is a bigger flirt than Jesper," you answered as you made yourself comfortable at the foot of his bed while he leaned against the headboard.

Kaz smirked and opened his own book. "Except for you."

"Read your book, Sealegs."

A stiff pillow hit you in the back of the head, and you dropped your book. It thudded to the ground, and you turned around, raising a brow at Kaz innocently reading his book on the True Sea. Your hand twitched toward the pillow. His face was in its usual frown, but his eyes glimmered with a challenge that you were all too happy to accept.

You grabbed the pillow and smacked him with it once, knocking his own book away, then hit him again in the face for good measure. The book lodged somewhere between the mattress and the wall, and satisfaction burned through you as Kaz spluttered and grabbed at the pillow. You slipped off the bed, giggling, and danced out of reach as he wrenched the pillow from your hands and tried to strike you with it. You grinned, content with how the tension in the air had loosened, leaving you both feeling much more carefree.

Failing to reach you while sitting on the bed, Kaz launched the pillow at you. He felt content with his aim until you darted across the room toward the door.

You narrowly made it through before the pillow hit the doorframe, and your laughter echoed down the hall as you went toward your own bedroom to get ready for bed. There was a smug skip in your step as you moved down the stairs and rounded the corner to make it to your room. You'd return to tell Kaz goodnight, but until then, you'd let him stew in his loss of the pillow fight he'd started.

TAGLIST: @tonberry-yoda, @b3kk3r-by-br3kk3r, @futurecorps3 (welcome to the taglist!)

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