#NiCo | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

amourtoken · 2 days ago

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Someone sent me this via ask and said I had to read it and OH GOD THEY WERE FUCKING RIGHT

haze

Nico Hischier x reader // 2k

stoner!nico smut. that’s about all. ngl I can’t decide if I love this or hate it but it’s getting posted anyways. devils 5-0 shutout let’s goooooo!

warnings: smut, 18+ minors do not interact, drug use, oral fem receiving

“Mmmmmm,” Nico rumbles out, his chest vibrating beneath your head.

You giggle lightly, rubbing your cheek against the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, as he runs a hand lightly up and down your back.

The room is dimly lit, nothing but the lamp next to the couch casting a soft glow over the two of you, seeping into the corners of the space. He’s warm underneath you, and the blanket is warm around you. The air is hazy, slightly fragrant with weed, and beneath you, Nico’s melting into the couch at the very first hit from the joint.

It’s long needed. Too much stress for the both of you in the past few weeks, too little time spent together like this. He’d been the one to suggest it, the one to roll the joint, the one to pull you down against him and keep you there while he lit it. Like you’d have tried to go anywhere.

He passes you the joint, and you lift your head slightly from his chest, avoiding burning a hole in his hoodie. You take a hit and mimic his hum from before. Above your head, Nico giggles.

“Yeah?” He teases, his hand cupping the back of your neck.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Needed this.”

He hums, again, threading his fingers through the hair at the nape of your neck. “Me too.”

He takes the joint from your fingers before he pulls you up for a kiss- you know why. You’re liable to get a little caught up in it, forget what you’re doing, and drop the joint somewhere inconvenient. Nico holds it away from the two of you and presses his lips to yours, hungrily, achingly slow already. He rumbles out another groan from somewhere deep in his chest, as his hand runs up and down your back. You get lost in it, lost in him.

He pulls away, takes another hit, and pulls you back in. The smoke floods your lungs, and you whine against his lips, already feeling looser and warmer and better. His hand slips lower, rucks up the hem of your hoodie, and he sighs against you at the feeling of your skin under his.

“So soft,” he mumbles against your lips.

You giggle, again, and pull back slightly. He chases you.

“Hey, my turn,” you whine, reaching for the joint.

You prop yourself up on your elbows above him as he hands it back to you. He’s watching with hooded, dark eyes, lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed pink. He looks good, like this. Soft and open and warm.

You take a deep inhale and then blow the smoke out, up into the air. He blinks, almost entranced, and then reaches up to cup your face in his hand. The next hit you take, he drags your lips back to his and takes it, too.

You can feel him getting hard against your hip, but he seems to be in no rush to do anything about it. Once you’ve had the realization, though, it’s all you can think about. So you let him take the joint back from your fingers, let him get distracted by a messy make out, and let your hand start to map a course from his chest downward. You keep your touch light, gentle, almost innocent.

Almost.

When you finally reach his cock, and cup him through his sweatpants, he keens, a loud groan leaving his lips. You pull away and find his eyes clenched shut, lips parted, cheeks red and splotchy. The blush is running down his neck, now, one of your favorite things. It disappears into the neckline of his hoodie, which you tug at to get access to his neck, sponging soft kisses against the scruff tinged skin there.

“Baby,” he gasps out, fidgeting beneath you. “Please.”

You slip your hand past the waistband of his sweatpants and smile against his jaw when you confirm your theory- he’s not wearing underwear. He’s painfully hard against your fingers, and he throbs when you wrap your hand around his cock, thumbing at the vein. You nip at his neck lightly and grin at the whine he lets out.

“Gimme,” you say, nodding at the joint in his hand.

His fingers shake when he holds it to your lips, and he lets out a wavering exhale while you inhale. Then you lean up and press your lips to his, and let the smoke pour into him as you start to stroke his cock.

The effect is immediate- he melts, beneath you, all his muscles going slack. It’s like he’s lost in it, barely able to kiss you back, too focused on the pleasure of it all. He lets out noises he doesn’t seem conscious of, a mix of breathy whines and deep bassy groans. Your favorite chorus. Between kisses, you watch his face, the way his dimples dig into his cheeks and the way his nose crinkles.

Somewhere in the middle of it, he shoves at his sweats with his hand and gets them halfway down his legs.

You feel more than hear him hiss against your lips as the cold air hits him. It only gives you more room to work, only lets you peek down to watch your own hand as you work him over. It feels a little like an out of body experience, like this. Like you’re just watching it all happen. Watching the precum dribbling against the head of his cock, watching your fingers trace the veins, watching the muscles in his thighs twitch. He’s close, you know he’s close. You can feel it buzzing in your own skin, too.

He comes with an almost wounded noise, something raw and open to it. You swallow the noises that follow as you work him through it, as he makes a mess of your hand and his own abdomen. You don’t mind, could never mind. He holds you close, arm banded against your back, fingers digging into your hip.

He floats, for a bit. You let him. You let go of his cock, gently, and bring your hand up. When you lick the mess off your own fingers, Nico groans, guttural and loud, and you look at him to find dark eyes drilling into yours. His lips are red and parted.

You clean him up with a tissue, and then you reach over him and grab the still smoldering joint from the ashtray, and he watches with rapt attention as you take one more hit. He takes it from you with a shaky hand, then, and does the same, before putting it back.

You lay there for a moment, your head against your hand on his chest. You can feel his thudding, rapid heartbeat. Can feel the rise and fall of him with every breath he takes. His skin is burning hot against yours where you can touch it. And you’re aching.

It’s like he knows. One second, you’re laid against his chest, and the next, you’re flat on your back on the couch, staring through the haze at the ceiling, and your sweatpants are sliding down your thighs and off-

“Off, off-“ you plead, shoving at the fabric with your own hands, too.

“I know,” he soothes, voice dark. “I’ve got you.”

You sigh, and then nod. Nico’s got you.

You let him work your panties off your hips, too. When you look up, he’s kneeling between your legs. You’re still clad in your hoodie, bare and exposed to him from the waist down. He scrapes his hand against his jaw, looking almost tortured.

“Baby,” he groans. He presses a hand to the crease of your hip.

“Nico, please,” you whine. It echoes around the room.

He traces your center with his thumb, first. Then two fingers, circling your clit and slipping downwards. He groans, pulls his hands away, holds his fingers up to the soft light. You grow warmer than before.

“You’re so wet,” he says. His other hand grips at your hip as he brings his glistening fingers to his mouth. “Mmmmm.”

“Nico-“ you gasp.

In seconds, he’s got his face between your thighs, buried there. He’s messy with it, letting himself get lost in the act. He’s noisy about it, too, his groans and mumbles the perfect symphony to the way you start to fall apart beneath him. You could get there from this alone, from his tongue and his lips against your pussy, from the way he looks up at you through his dark, tangled lashes, from the way you can feel him smiling and see his dimple.

And then he adds his fingers into the equation, and you lose track of it all.

Your orgasm comes in like a train, slow and steady and barreling ahead. Unstoppable. All you can do is lay there and feel it and let him take you there. He groans against you, like he can tell you’re close, and wraps his free arm around your thigh. Your heel digs into his back. You start to lose your breath, start to feel it buzzing across your skin, start to feel that knot tightening and tightening and tightening.

When you finally come, your eyes meet his eyes and stay there.

It feels like a tidal wave of pleasure, crashing over you. Like every nerve is screaming for him. Your hand ends up in his hair, holding his head close- he takes it happily, makes a mess of himself and you while he works your through it. When he finally pulls away, you’re panting for air, legs shaking, and the bottom half of his face glistens. Your heart skips a beat.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing his thumb against the soft skin of your hip, drifting dangerously towards your clit. “Gonna go again for me?”

You sigh, breathless, and let your head fall back against the couch cushions. “Yeah, but I want your cock, Nico.”

He lets out a stuttered breath and pushes upwards, kneeling between your legs. “Yeah. Please. Whatever you want, baby.”

You sneak a peek at him. He’s hard again, already. He reaches for your hand, brings it to press against his cock again.

“Need you,” he says.

You bite your lip and nod. “You have me.”

As he leans over you, caging you in with an arm on either side of your head, he adds, “you have me, too.”

The world melts away when he kisses you again. He’s quick to sheathe himself inside of you, groaning at the easy slide.

“Fuck, feel so good,” he groans, voice scraping against his throat. “Good girl.”

“For you,”’you say, wrapping your arms around his neck, feeling his shoulders shake. “All for you.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Fuck, baby, you keep squeezing me like this, m’not gonna last.”

Instead of saying anything, you just chase after his lips with yours, begging for another taste of him. He kisses you back, gladly, slips his tongue into your mouth. You start to shake under him, start to feel it deep in your core, and you can tell from the noises you swallow from his lips that he’s not far behind. With every roll of his hips, he splits you open a little more. You feel him everywhere.

You feel his cock start to twitch, and you let yourself fall over the edge, too, holding on for dear like as he makes a mess of you. You get lost in the haze.

When you come back around, he has you laid out with your back against his now bare chest. One arm is banded around your middle. The other disappears between your thighs, two fingers sweeping against your entrance. You whine, your hips pushing into the touch despite the sensitivity of it all.

“This is exactly what I needed,” he mumbles into your ear. “Why don’t you light that second joint, baby?”

There’s no end in sight, when he’s like this. But you can’t find a single thing to complain about.

…..

#Nico

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puckinghischier · 7 months ago

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Falling

Nico Hischier x fem!reader

summary: reader gets hurt and nico is worried about her

notes: y’all i ain’t gonna lie, i went through a bit of a rollercoaster while writing this. i loved it at first, then halfway through started hating it, then somehow started loving it again towards the end. so if it seems a little all over place i’m sorry. also i know very little about how a dislocated shoulder works, so just pretended i didn’t if i got anything wrong. i hope y’all enjoy it!! happy reading!! 🫶🏼

request: from my 400 follower celly - “A hears that B got hurt and rushes over in a panic to see if they are okay” where reader maybe gets in an accident or gets hurt in their sport (nothing major). Bonus points if you add “I can braid your hair for you- I mean, only if you want.”

[4.5k]

part 2

“Yeah, Mom, I’m fine. Nothing’s broken, just a nasty dislocation,” you attempt to calm your mother’s nerves, trying to unlock your apartment door with your good arm while balancing your phone between your cheek and shoulder. “They reset it for me and told me to follow up with my primary care on Monday. Gave me some pain meds and sent me on my way.”

“Well, what about until then? What if you need help? What about work? How will you drive?” she rapid fires questions at you.

“I’ll figure it out, don’t worry. Since it was a work-related injury, I’ll still get paid. And they’re paying all of the medical bills, so that’s all taken care of,” you make your way into your apartment, shutting the door with your foot behind you. “Everything else I’ll handle as it comes.”

She doesn’t seem satisfied with your answer, tsking into her phone, making you picture her trademark displeased headshake.

“What about Nico? Why don’t you stay with him until you’re back to 100%? I’m sure he’d be willing to help out,” she suggests, her tone switching from worried to suggestive.

You roll your eyes, knowing exactly where this conversation is headed.

“Mom, how many times do I have to tell you, Nico and I are just friends. We work together. Just because you think you saw him look at me a certain way when you were visiting doesn’t mean I have to call him every time something goes wrong,” you tell her, placing your bag on your kitchen table.

Ever since your mom came in a few months ago to visit, she’s been on your case about making a move on Nico, it all starting when she witnessed Nico helping you across the ice during a pre-game practice while trying to get some action shots.

You work as a photographer for the Devils, not realizing that being able to ice skate would have been a nice addition to your resume.

Your college advisor arranged the interview for you right before graduation. You had no previous knowledge of hockey, having come from a football family. You told your advisor this, but she insisted you didn’t have to know anything about a sport to be able to take good pictures of it.

During the interview, you made sure to inform your now boss that you didn’t know how to skate, hoping it wouldn’t be a problem. He assured you that you could take pictures from the stands or the players bench, the chance of you having to step onto the ice slim.

For the first few months of your job, it was smooth sailing. You were mostly taking pictures from the camera holes in the glass or being told to cover locker room and arrival pictures. You worked with one other photographer, a seasoned sports photography veteran named Phil. Phil was a New Jersey native, having grown up skating, so he took over the duties of any major action shots the director wanted from on the ice.

Unfortunately for you, Phil’s wife had convinced him to retire early, losing his help right before the league’s short Christmas break.

Seeing as they had just hired you, and it was the middle of the season, the hunt for a replacement for Phil was put on the backburner, more important team matters taking precedence.

You were forced to take over Phil’s duties, meaning you were now responsible for any on the ice shots. You had found a way to slowly scoot across the perimeter of the rink, staying out of the way while also getting the shots you needed.

Your system was working well until the morning of a gameday, having gotten permission from your boss to bring your mother along to this particular practice, wanting to show her all aspects of your job.

For this particular game, the players were especially focused on practicing their skills and running drills during morning skate. You were doing your typical shuffle while clutching the edge of the waist-high wall when someone came zooming past you, causing your feet to start sliding uncontrollably, not being able to find your footing on the slick ice.

You felt the moment you were about to fall, waiting for the impact of your butt on the cold ice, but it never came. You felt yourself fall into a body covered by plastic pads, gloved hands shooting out to grab your upper arms.

You looked up, seeing Nico smiling down at you in amusement.

“It’s a bit slippery out here, huh?” he jokes, making sure you’re standing steady on your feet before letting go of you.

“Well, we are standing on ice, so….” You trail off, grabbing onto the wooden ledge again, preventing another near fall.

Nico laughs, looking down and shuffling his skates back and forth.

“Well would you look at that? We are on ice ” He flashes a smile, looking back up at you.

You stick your tongue out at him, earning another chuckle from the team’s Captain.

“You know, most people use these great things called ice skates when they try to walk on ice,” he tells you, lifting one skate up for emphasis.

Rolling your eyes, you scoff out a “Oh wow, why didn’t I ever think of that?”

“Just some food for thought,” Nico shrugged as he placed his foot back down on the ice, skating in a little circle, as if to say “See, told you so.”

You let go of the ledge to cross your arms, forgetting that you needed the stability. When you try to shift your weight from one leg to the other, you lose your footing again, this time falling forward into Nico. You let the camera in your hands fall, grabbing onto his biceps to stay upright, thankful for the camera strap around your neck.

His hands shoot out to grab your forearms.

“You know the sad thing is, even with the skates, I’d still be as clumsy, considering I have absolutely no idea how to use them,” you tell him, the two of you still holding on to one another.

Nico shakes his head at you, placing one of your hands on his forearm, moving you from in front of him to beside of him.

He starts slowly skating towards the bench while you shuffle your feet along, putting all of your focus on keeping yourself upright until you reach your destination.

When you finally reach the bench, you step off of the ice and let out a breath of relief.

“Thanks, Cap. Would’ve hated to make a fool of myself out there while my mom’s watching,” you thank him, looking over to where your mom sits, a smile on her face.

Nico follows your gaze and waves to your mom, matching her smile.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we? What if she found out her daughter was a skating fraud?” he teases, leaning in to whisper the last two words.

“It’s her fault for never taking me to the rink my town would throw up once a year at Christmas. Who knows, maybe I would’ve been a skating prodigy if given the chance,” you shrug.

A mischievous smile makes its way onto his face. “I think we should put that theory to the test,” he tells you, causing your eyes to latch onto his.

“Come again?” You raise your eyebrows and tilt your chin down.

“I mean, I can’t have some photographer out on my ice during practices that can’t even stand up,” he keeps his tone light, making sure you know he’s just teasing, “So, I’m going to teach you how to skate, and see if you really would have been a skating prodigy.”

He skates off, winking before resuming his practice.

You don’t have a chance to speak to him again until after the game, when you get at text from an unknown number reading “Rink, tomorrow, 2pm. I’ll bring skates, just bring your prodigy skills.”

After that, you meet with Nico twice a week for skating lessons.

The two of you quickly form a friendship, Nico bringing you coffee on gamedays and you slipping him snacks on the bench during games. You even started inviting him over for dinner after your lessons, insisting the least you can do is feed him to repay him for preventing you from making a fool of yourself on the ice.

Today, however, you did make a fool of yourself on the ice.

You were standing behind the net, telling the players to skate towards you so you could get some shots for the team’s Instagram account by request of the social media manager.

Once you were pleased with the amount of shots you had gotten, you left your spot from behind the net, skating slowly towards the benches, still a little wobbly on your skates.

You were looking down at your camera, thinking of how you’ll have to get Nico out here after the game to get some shots, knowing he’s currently doing pre-game interviews in the locker room.

You weren’t paying the slightest bit of attention to the pucks littering the ice in front of you, skating right into one and losing your balance, holding your camera up with one arm while trying to catch yourself with the other.

You felt the way your shoulder shifted, crying out in pain as players turned and started rushing towards you on the ice.

The team doctor came out and told you he was pretty sure your shoulder was simply dislocated, but sent you to the hospital to make sure nothing’s broken.

The ER doctor confirmed your diagnosis, putting your shoulder back into place before pumping you full of pain meds and placing your arm into a sling.

Which leads you to where you are now, back at your apartment, explaining to your mother why Nico can’t be at your beck and call.

“Honey, when are you going to realize that boy is in love with you? I’m telling you, the way I saw him look at you that day I came to visit, the skating lessons and dinners,” she starts, giving you her typical speech when you tell her Nico is just a friend.

“Mom, it doesn’t matter what you think you saw, we’re seriously just friends. And he’s busy, his schedule is too hectic to spend his time babysitting me,” you interrupt her, not wanting to hear her Nico speech for the thousandth time, regretting ever telling her about the skating lessons.

She sighs into the phone.

“I’m just trying to help you, you know…” you hear your mother start, but you tune the rest of her words out, focusing on the three loud knocks on your front door.

Your head turns to your door, the unexpected noise causing you to jump, the sudden motion tipping your bag over, the contents spilling all of your kitchen floor.

“Honey, are you alright? What was that?” your mom halts her one-sided conversation, worry in her tone.

“Shit!” you exclaim, watching the container of memory cards fly open, the small squares sliding across the linoleum floor.

You forget about the sling on your arm, crouching down and trying to reach for the cards with your bad arm, a searing pain shooting through your shoulder at the movement.

Letting out a loud yelp, you bring your arm back to its resting positing in the sling.

“Y/N, what’s going on? Did you hurt yourself?” you barely hear your mother’s voice through the phone speaker, not being able to think about anything other than the throbbing pain in your shoulder.

You hear three more pounds on your front door, this time a voice following the knocks.

“Y/N! Open up!”

You groan, trying to stand up, too many people trying to get your attention at the moment.

“Honey, talk to me. Is someone in there with you? I heard another voice,” your mother asks you as you stand, making your way over towards your front door.

“Someone’s knocking on the door,” you grit through your teeth, trying to think about anything but the pain in your shoulder. “I dropped my bag and tried to pick something up with my bad arm. I’m fine. Just hurts,” you tell her, opening your door to see a frantic Nico standing there.

His wide eyes scan your body, stopping once they see the sling on your arm.

You notice his wet hair and lack of socks on his tennis shoe covered feet.

“Are you okay? They told me you had to be taken to the hospital before the game started, but no one knew what really happened,” he rushed out, looking up at your face.

“Hey, Mom, gotta go, Nico’s at my door,” you tell her, a little stunned that the object of your conversation just appeared, hanging up the phone before she could make any comments about it.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?” you ask him, pointing towards his feet, an amused smile on your face. The shock of seeing him at your door making you completely forget about the pain in your shoulder.

Nico looks down at his own feet, looking back up at you with red cheeks.

“Oh, uh, I couldn’t find my socks after the game and i couldn’t get you to answer your phone, so I rushed over to the hospital to see if you were still there, and they told me you left about an hour ago, so I hopped in my car and came over here to make sure you were okay,” he tells you, not meeting your eye.

You’re shocked at his confession, not expecting him to be so concerned about your impromptu trip to the hospital.

“Well, I’m here and still standing,” you awkwardly stand in your doorway, not knowing what else to say, thinking about how if you weren’t arguing with your mom over Nico on the phone, you might have gotten his calls.

“Yeah, I see that now,” he shoves his hands in the pocket of his hoodie.

The two of you stand there, not really knowing what to say to one another.

“Do you want to come in?” you ask him, moving out of the doorway to let him step into your apartment.

Nico shakes his head yes and walks past you, looking towards the mess on the floor in your kitchen.

“What happened here? Is this the crash I heard?” he asks you.

“Yeah, the bag fell and spilled everything. When I went to pick it up, I forgot and used my bad shoulder,” you gesture to your slinged arm.

Nico shakes his head at you, crouching down to pick up the camera disks all over the floor.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to-“

“Well you’re sure as hell not trying to pick them up again,” Nico interrupts you, standing and placing the now full box of disks on your table.

You roll your eyes at him, walking over towards your fridge.

“So, what exactly happened? Jack told me you hurt your shoulder?” he follows you over to your fridge, watching you scan its contents, or lack thereof.

“Well, I was looking at my camera and skated right into a bunch of pucks on the floor, then was too focused on saving the equipment instead of remembering how to fall properly,” you told him, remembering his words during your first skate lesson, telling you not to catch yourself if you fall on the ice.

“See, I told you to just let yourself fall. Never try to catch yourself,” he echoes his words in your thoughts.

“Yeah, well, it’s a lot easier said than done,” you deadpan, shutting your fridge door and looking at Nico.

Your stomach growls at that exact moment, making you groan at your lack of food in your fridge, not having eaten since before your accident.

“When was the last time you ate anything?” Nico asks you, looking down at your growling stomach.

“Uhhh, breakfast?” you recall.

Nico’s eyes widen. “It’s almost midnight. Did they really not feed you at the hospital?” he asks you.

“Considering they were busy doing x-rays and scans to make sure nothing was broken or torn, no,” you walk over to your cabinets, finding them also bare.

“Alright, go sit down and I’ll order us something to eat,” Nico shoos you out of the kitchen, walking over and opening the drawer where you keep all of your takeout menus.

You wonder how he knows where your menus are, forgetting for a moment that he’s over at your apartment at least twice a week after your skating lessons. Sometimes more, the occasional movie night making its way into your weekly routine.

“What do you want? Sushi? Chinese? Burgers?” he questions, flipping through your menus.

For some reason, your brain chooses this moment to register how much you enjoy the sight of Nico in your kitchen, looking through your takeout menus and offering to order you dinner.

You think back to all the times he’s helped you make dinner, laughter filling every moment of your time together. You think about how he always wear his pjs when he comes over for a movie night, bringing a different chocolate candy to put in the popcorn each time. You think about how he somehow learned your coffee order without you ever telling him, bringing you a coffee every morning, even at away games.

You think about your mother’s words, and how you didn’t even have to ask Nico to come over tonight, or to give you skating lessons. You think about how you never have to ask Nico to do anything he does for you – which is a lot, you’re realizing – he just does it. He does it because he wants to, because he’s kind and caring and wants to spend time with you.

“Hello? Earth to Y/N, what do you want for dinner?” Nico snaps you out of your sudden revelation.

“Sorry, spaced out for a second. Must be the pain meds,” you tell him, knowing that your mind isn’t the least bit impaired right now.

“Okay, go sit down, we need to get some food in you then,” he fishes his phone out of his pocket, mumbling out “Can’t believe they pumped you full of meds on an empty stomach.”

You make your way to your couch, sitting down and taking your shoes off, making yourself as comfortable as you can.

You remove a stray piece of hair that fell onto your face, knowing how awful it must look.

When you fell on the ice, the claw clip that was holding your hair in its up-do broke, causing it to fan out over the cold, wet ice. Once you got to the hospital, you were put in and out of so many different machines, you can only imagine the tangled, matted mess it is.

You get up and go to your bathroom, finding your brush and trying to comb it out. The task proving to be difficult with only one hand. The tangles keep pulling your head back and hurting your tender scalp, but you keep trying, whimpering each time the brush gets stuck on a particularly bad tangle.

You don’t even hear Nico approach your bathroom, just a sigh and “I told you to sit down,” before the brush is taken from your hand and you see Nico’s reflection behind you in the mirror.

Without another word, he proceeds to brush your hair for you, ensuring every tangle is gone before setting the brush on your sink.

The two of you make eye contact in the mirror, neither one wanting to break the silence during the surprisingly intimate moment.

You clear your throat, looking down after the silence got too intense, causing Nico to avert his eyes as well.

“I really wish i could wash my hair, but i know that’s a no go tonight,” you chuckle, wishing your bathroom was a little bit bigger in this moment.

“I can braid your hair for you,” Nico starts, staring at you in the mirror, watching your eyes snap up to meet his. “I mean, only if you want,” he stutters out.

“Really?” you ask him, a little stunned.

“Yeah. I used to help Nina with hers all the time when I was younger,” Nico mentions his older sister, grabbing your hair lightly and starting to section it off. “Anytime she would have a sleep over I would always weasel my way into the party. So one day, she made me sit in a braiding chain and learn how to braid her hair.”

You let out a giggle, picturing a smaller version of Nico sitting at the end of a line of girls, braiding their long hair.

“Then, Nina claimed I got so good at it she always wanted me to braid her hair before her volleyball matches, then her friends all started wanting me to do theirs, too,” he continues talking, nearly lulling you to sleep with the soft movements of his hands as you listen to him speak.

“I think that’s adorable,” you quietly speak, closing your eyes.

“What can I say? When a pretty girl needs her hair braided, who am I to keep my skills to myself?” he jokes, making you wonder if he meant you or his sister’s friends.

“I’m sure it’s any little boy’s dream to have an entire volleyball team at his mercy, all those pretty volleyball players begging him to play with their hair,” you tease him, handing him the hair tie that you always keep on your wrist.

“I don’t know, I think playing with a pretty photographer’s hair is better, if you ask me,” he ties the hair tie around the bottom of the braid, reaching up to pull the braid loose, making sure it’s not too tight.

You keep your eyes closed, knowing he can likely see the redness on your cheeks at his words.

“Alright, eyes open. Need to make sure you like my work,” he places his hands on your biceps, making sure to keep his touch feather light on your bad arm.

He turns you around so you’re facing him, holding a handheld mirror that was laying on your sink in front of your face, allowing you to see the reflection of the braid.

You’re shocked to see the flawless Dutch braid that cascades down your back.

“Nico, you’re like…really good at this,” you reach your good hand to the back of your head, running it down the braid.

“Told you, I had a lot of practice,” he shrugs, setting the mirror down.

You yawn, the relaxing nature of having your hair braided allowing you to realize how tired you are from the day’s events.

“Nuh-uh, gotta keep you awake until we get some food in you,” he tuts, taking his hands and patting your cheeks.

You groan, leaning into his palms that stay resting on your face.

“C’mon, let’s get you changed and on the couch,” he motions for you to leave the bathroom.

You walk to your room, Nico helping you carefully remove your sling before leaving and giving you some privacy.

You change into your pajamas, somehow managing to get your arm into an oversized Devils shirt you found at the bottom of your drawer.

Nico is standing outside of your door when you open it, helping you back into your sling.

He stands in front of you, staring at you with a look that you can’t decipher.

“Is…everything okay?” you question him, noticing his stare after adjusting your sling.

His eyes snap up to you, seemingly unaware that he was even staring at you in the first place.

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I just- is that my shirt?” he asks you, pointing to your pj shirt.

You look down at the oversized shirt, trying to think of where you got it.

It had just showed up in your laundry basket one day, assuming it was one they gave you when you got your job, but Nico’s question makes you think harder.

You realize, suddenly, you do remember where you got it.

During one of your post lesson dinners, Nico had spilled his drink all over his shirt. You offered to wash it for him after he changed to a shirt in his duffel.

You meant to take it back to him after you washed it, but forgot about it entirely, packing it away in your pajama drawer.

“Oh, crap, it is. Do you want it back, I can go change?” you ask him, worried he’s upset that you forgot to give it back.

“No…no it’s fine. Keep it. I have plenty,” he shakes his head, glancing down at it once more.

The two of you make your way to your couch, finding something to watch on tv when there’s a knock on the door, signaling the arrival of your food.

You start to stand to go get it, but Nico sternly tells you to stay put.

Rolling your eyes you sit back down, grabbing the remote and continuing to channel surf.

Nico’s gone for longer than you expect, causing you to sit up and turn back towards your kitchen, wondering what’s taking him so long.

You see him walking over to you, a tray full of food in his hands.

He had ordered from your favorite sushi place, figuring it would be the easiest for you to eat one handed.

As he sat down the tray on the coffee table in front of you, you realized what took him so long.

Nico had put a toothpick in each piece of your sushi, knowing using chopsticks with your non dominant hand would have been hard for you. He poured soy sauce into a small container, allowing you to simply pick up each toothpick and dip it in the sauce before popping it in your mouth.

He had also ordered you a bottle of cherry coke, which he knew was your favorite, and placed it on the tray with the lid unscrewed and a straw peeking out of the bottle next to a glass of ice, just incase you wanted it that way instead.

You looked up at him, feeling that funny feeling in your chest like you did earlier in your kitchen, blown away at how he always seems to think of everything he can to help you out, even when you’re not injured.

You must’ve been looking for longer than you realized, because he cocks his head at you, confusion present on his face.

“What?” he asks, not understanding what’s wrong. “Did you not want sushi? I thought you said it was always the one thing that could cheer you up?”

You shake your head at him. “No, sushi is perfect,” you tell him, a small smile on your face as you look up at him.

He smiles back for a few moments, then started scooting the coffee table towards you so you don’t have to reach to grab your food. He moves around the table to sit beside of you, the size of the small table causing him to sit so close to you that you can feel the warmness of his large thigh against yours.

You once again think about all of the things he’s done for you without you even having to ask. Now including coming over after a game—no doubt exhausted and sore—and taking care of you without even thinking twice. Braiding your hair and calling you pretty. Staring at you unintentionally wearing his t-shirt. Modifying your food so it’s easier for you to eat with one hand.

You sit there, staring at the man you fear you’re falling in love with, already planning out the apology text you’re going to have to send your mom.

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