#writing on your skin

[nonebinary-leftbeef]

DEVASTATING the lyric you've been mishearing is better than the real one

[rayveneyed]

nanami kento is the kind of man that makes people swoon without even realising it.

he's the kind of man to walk into a luxury store after work, suit jacket folded over one arm and a bouquet of flowers in the other -- his blonde hair still mostly perfect from the high-end pomade he uses. he scours the shelves, frowning to himself, while the attendants whisper and giggle amongst themselves near the tills -- an argument over who will be the one to talk to him, because he's intimidatingly pretty.

("just look at him," one whispers. "he's definitely buying something for a girlfriend."

"a wife," another disagrees. "c'mon. he's giving husband vibes."

someone hums. "but i can't see a wedding band."

"his mother, maybe?" says one other. "oh, i love when guys come in shopping for their mother."

"nobody's mother is getting a bouquet of a hundred red roses--")

eventually, one of them is volunteered as a sacrifice -- smiling and sweet as all attendants should be, she clears her throat. the others, crowded around the till, watch the exchange closely. "excuse me, sir. is there anything we could help you with today?"

her mouth is dry and her hands are clammy -- and when he fixes her with those narrow, burning eyes, her throat bobs.

"ah, yes." and his voice is deep and gravelly and drawling, and her stomach turns. she can only imagine what her coworkers are thinking -- hell, she can only imagine what she's thinking. her mind has stopped short. "my girlfriend likes this brand quite a bit. i thought i'd pick her up something..."

disappointment brews in her stomach -- and it's stupid, she knows it's stupid, because obviously a guy like that is taken. and -- she glances down at the roses -- obviously he treats her super fucking well. of course he does, because why wouldn't he? "oh, perfect! do you have anything in mind?"

"well, actually..."

he ends up buying one of the priciest gift boxes available -- fancy body care and perfume laid out in their signature boxes, decorated with ribbon and dried lavender -- no argument, no fight. he doesn't look for something cheaper, doesn't try to haggle or remove something to decrease the price. he adds, and adds, and adds -- and when she mentions a special offer at the till, a little add on for an extra 2000 yen, he accepts it readily. he inserts a black card into the card machine (of course, a black card), takes the beautifully wrapped bag, and thanks the girls for their services -- and just as he's leaving, his phone rings.

of course he answers the phone with hello, darling. of course he begins to ask his girlfriend about her day, the girls think with some amount of annoyance -- of course. maybe the curse of retail isn't entitled assholes expecting you to wait on hand and foot for them -- maybe it's the handsome men coming in to splurge on their girlfriends while you're painfully single and working for pennies.

[snufkins-boot]

Dc x Do prompt: co-parenting but one party doesn’t know it’s co-parenting

So when Damian first became Robin he would purposefully hide injuries, thinking it was a sign of weakness. So he was bleeding out and then just some… guy?? Walks up and is like ‘hey kid you’re bleeding, you want me to bandage that?’ And at first Damian says no but then the guy says that he won’t tell anyone… and well.

So Danny moved to Gotham with a de-aged Dan and Ellie and just found some kid bleeding on his roof. So he bandaged the kid up and keeps the door unlocked so he can leave when he wants.

Side effect: this kid will also come through the open door. Even when Bruce returns Damian will go to Danny when he’s injured or upset because unlike Drake and Grayson, Danny has no judgement to anything he says. You could tell Danny you killed someone and he’d just say ‘real’.

Dan and Ellie also love him and have been attempting to learn to sword fight from Damian with those styrofoam swords you get out of flying tiger for a fiver.

Does Bruce know? Probably not at first. And then he finds out, and then it’s the grumpy grunts because his son trusts this guy more than him and he’s a little butt hurt. So he tried to replace Danny and Damian isn’t having it and will still go to Danny.

Anyway this is just a long way to say Danny and Bruce kiss 👍

[panevanbuckley]

soulmate au where your soulmate's thoughts appear on your skin except your soulmate has adhd and your body becomes a living canvas of nonsensical, never-ending, constantly entertaining trails of thought

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

Overindulgent father Astarion who tells his children they’re allergic to any kind of jewellery that isn’t made of the highest grade Dwarven crafted gold. 

It’s not even because Astarion might have a certain aversion to silver, no, he just raises his children to have standards, thank you very much. 

And it doesn’t end with shiny things, oh no… 

The Ancunín brood is known to be dressed in perfectly woven cotton, silk and soft leather clothes, no matter the occasion.

They’re seen playing with expensive toys, reading artfully illustrated books that certainly belong behind thick glass, not in children’s sticky hands. 

There’s even talk that one of the children is not as naturally inclined to music as his parents claim him to be, surely his lyre must be enchanted—the instrument certainly looks extravagant enough! 

And then there’s always this air of effortless haughtiness surrounding the Ancunín children whenever their nannies and servants are parading them through town as if they were perfect little dolls; objects to show off the wealth their parents acquired in quite the mysterious ways. 

So, it’s no secret that Astarion and Tav are pampering their children—some might say they’re even spoiling them rotten. 

And maybe they are, especially Astarion.

But he doesn’t see why he should raise them any other way, nor does he want to.  

When it comes to his children, Astarion has his own standards, and as long as Tav agrees with him nothing really matters. 

Because, these people, they don’t know anything about the Ancuníns. 

They don’t know that it’s not unusual for Astarion to wash out dirt and mud and strawberry stains from comically small finery, leaving behind only the memories of a day spent playing in the garden, chasing after ducks, picking flowers, lazing in the sun…

That any holes and tears the children’s clothes might suffer are quickly mended, making them look as good as new in no time. 

Nor do they know that Astarion doesn’t mind fashioning a brand new dress to match that of a favourite doll, either. Or to embroider a pretty vest with the likeness of that stray cat the children seem to adore, although their father would rather they don’t touch the mangy animal. 

No, those people know nothing at all...

“Not tired!” Astarion’s youngest cries; the vehement denial of her father’s earlier accusation is cut short by a telltale yawn.

The room still smells of fragrant lavender oil and peaches even when the bath water has already grown tepid, just one or two degrees above what Astarion would consider too cold to be enjoyable. 

Amused, he raises an eyebrow at the protesting toddler before he lifts her out of the copper bathtub with little effort. 

By now, he knows every step of this game.

“Tut-tut, my dear child, what did mama and I say?” Astarion kneels, quickly wrapping a soft towel around the child to keep her warm. “We only tell lies outside of this house.”

Unfazed by her father’s gentle scolding, the girl crosses her arms that haven’t yet lost their puppy fat across her chest, reminding Astarion a little too much of a very displeased Tav. 

Suppressing a sigh, he leans back to consider the pouting child, wondering what could possibly be upsetting her this time—the list is growing longer by the day, after all. 

“What’s the matter, dear?” Astarion asks gently, hoping it’s something easily fixable as it’s growing rather late. 

“Want apple!”

Decades ago, Astarion might’ve rolled his eyes—he knows exactly which stupid apple the child wants, it’s been haunting him all day—but once he started to treat his children’s problems as if they were his own, his life has grown somewhat easier. 

“Why, let’s get an apple on our way to bed, then. Would that be alright, Your Highness?” 

The girl promptly nods her head, allowing Astarion to pat her hair dry before dressing her in a clean night dress. 

She rests her cheek against her father’s shoulder as he carries her first to the kitchen to grab a fragrant apple and a knife, then to her bedroom where they settle on the cosy window seat, just like they do every night.

Soft moonlight is pouring through the windows; the child giggles at the way the knife’s blade is catching the silver light as Astarion peels and cuts the apple into even pieces.

“Here you go,” he finally says, giving the slice of apple one last examining look before surrendering it to the impatient little hands reaching for it. “A sweet treat for my little sweet. Doesn’t it taste so much better when we don’t eat it off the floor, darling?” And when it’s not crawling with ants…

The appeased toddler nibbles at the juicy fruit as Astarion carefully combs through her still-damp curls. 

Her hair’s getting long, he notices, knowing that taking care of it will become more time-consuming each day. 

Once, Astarion would’ve thought this task tedious, brushing out hair that’s not his own, oiling and braiding it for no other reason than knowing his children enjoy him doing it. 

But that’s why he loves doing it in the first place, he supposes.

Astarion can tell by his toddler’s heartbeat that sleep is about to claim her. 

The half-eaten slice of apple is still clutched in her little fist as he cradles the child to his chest, slowly rising from the window seat to put her to bed. 

He’s just about to lay the child down that the fruit drops to the floor, his daughter’s tiny hand clutching at his shirt instead.

“Thank you, papa,” she mumbles, more asleep than awake.

Astarion pauses.

He breathes in the clean, yet unique scent of the little girl that is forever engraved in his brain, the same way he knows under which exact constellation she was born. When she took her first steps, what her first word was. Soon, he will have to memorise her favourite colour, and what she likes to eat when dirty apples won’t be that appealing anymore. 

By now, Astarion knows this game by heart, knows that with every year that passes, he has something new to learn about his children.

And sometimes he wonders what it’s like to grow up with clean bed sheets and full bellies. Sleep filled with naught but warmth and happy memories. Ever open doors and tears that are dried by tender kisses. Living in a house where mistakes and anger are welcomed, safe. 

He wonders what it’s like for his children to know that their father’s love comes without conditions. Not now and not ever. 

Sitting down on the bed, Astarion holds his youngest a little closer to his chest, unwilling to let go of her, yet. 

He’s often accused of spoiling his children when most people can only just grasp the very surface of his love for them, the bare minimum of what he feels for his one and only, precious family. 

These baseless accusations are as unimportant to Astarion as the people voicing them.

He’s raising his children to have standards, wants them to take their father’s love for granted, to accept nothing less but pure devotion.

It’s the only way Astarion knows how to love them, the only way that comes most naturally to him. 

Astarion looks down at his little girl, now fast asleep, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. 

After all these years—all these children—he’s still in awe watching them sleep in his arms as if no harm in the world could ever befall them.

And it won’t—not if Astarion can help it. 

“No, thank you, my heart,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against the crown of the toddler’s head. 

When it comes to his children, Astarion holds himself to the highest standard.

[julijbee]

girlbossing too close to the sun.

[muffinlance]

Do you get the impression the live action is treating us like utter morons?? Like I thought that making it aimed at an older audience would open the doors for more subtle story telling, but no, they're just using monologues to tell us eveything! Like in the second episode Katara's like 'oh his power isn't that he's the avatar, it's that he ~connects~ to people'. Girl we're not idiots we can see that!! And the first episode with Aang's goddawful 'I don't want this responsibility' monologue

THIS, YES. The word that keeps coming to mind is definitely "subtlety". The show for literal children? Had it. The remake for adults? Not so much.

[labotor]

"I'll keep your secret, DiMA."

[sydnikov]

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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[blushweddinggowns]

It turned out, it was much easier to get Nancy Wheeler on board with car theft after a good night’s sleep. And a long conversation about how no, they didn’t have any other options. Plus, what was some auto theft in comparison to clearing their names of murder?

“Whose car would we even steal?” Nancy asked after Eddie got her officially on board. 

“I already got that figured out,” Eddie said easily, his eyes already on his neighbors RV through the window. They were already outside, like clockwork, taking the neighborhood watch. 

Perfect.

“You all just follow me,” Eddie said as he led them outside, “And be very, very quiet.”

They all listened, surprisingly enough. They even managed to keep silent as they snuck inside, no one making a peep until he started hot-wiring. He hadn’t been involved with car theft since he was in middle school, but he was guessing it was like riding a bike. 

Apparently, it was.

“What is he doing?” Dustin asked, peering over Steve’s shoulder to watch Eddie work. 

Steve pushed him back with a hand in the face, tutting at him, “Nothing that you need to be looking at. Go sit down.”

Eddie finally got the spark he was looking for, the engine roaring to life. Eddie didn’t waste anytime driving off, completely ready to ignore the panicked yelling he heard outside, calling after them. 

“Did we just steal their house?” Lucas asked as Eddie hit the gas, scandalized like the good citizen he was. 

“We’ll give it back!” Eddie called back to him. 

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Steve casually added. He leaned in to kiss Eddie’s cheek, “Great idea, baby.”

Eddie preened a little as he drove, listening in as the others came up with the next steps.

“So, whose going in?” Nancy asked as they went, “Because I think at this point, Max is the only one who’s not actively being hunted.”

“She can't buy guns!” Steve said, “She's 15-”

“I have a fake ID,” Max interrupted, already putting her hand out, “Just give me the money.”

Eddie could feel Steve’s eyes boring into the side of his head but he kept his eyes on the road.

“Eddie,” Steve said slowly, faux sweetness in his voice, “Why does she have a fake ID?”

“Because she's my favorite?” Eddie tried, still refusing to look at him.

from the next chapter of this fic

[littlemousejelly]

you make me wanna (make me wanna give it all to you)

relationship: Kara Zor-El/Lena Luthor

rating: E

word count: 7.2k

Summary:

She slips her hand between Lena’s legs—still at a publicly appropriate height—and gently draws an aimless pattern along the inside of her thigh.

The hitch of Lena’s breath sounds like a thunderclap to Kara and she stiffens, fingers stilling as her ears heat up.

She thinks maybe she shouldn’t keep touching her while they’re in a room full of other people.

OR

Kara's maybe more than a little obsessed with Lena in thigh-high stockings.

(read on ao3)

Kara really doesn’t think she’s super obsessed with how Lena dresses or anything.

Okay, sure, sometimes Lena will wear something that makes this molten-hot feeling pool in her belly, filling her up with such a sweet, melty ache that she wants nothing more than to rush home and fill Lena up until she falls apart just as sweet and melty.

But it's not like she's got an obsession.

It's just that Lena’s so ridiculously pretty that Kara has a revelatory, earth-shaking, breath-taking moment of that can’t be right every time she sees her. Which, again, has nothing to do with being obsessed with the clothes Lena wears, no. It's all because Lena is that pretty.

Case in point, the fact that just the other day, Lena opens the door for her—

(And this is an aside, but relevant: It’s the door to Kara’s own apartment, and more importantly, she opens the door from the inside. Because Kara had given her a key the month before, since Lena’s welcome whenever! And they haven’t talked about taking the next step and living together yet, but sometimes it feels like they already are?)

—wearing black leggings and Kara’s well-loved, gray National City University sweater (her favorite thing to steal and wear, and not-so-secretly Kara’s favorite thing to see her in). The thick glasses she trades her contacts for once she’s in for the night are perched on her nose, her hair is in a messy bun, and her lower lip is caught between her perfect teeth before she smiles a million-watt smile, even though it’s just Kara.

The hamster in Kara’s brain stalls out and gets flung around its wheel. Kara loses all brain function and just stares at Lena because, well, that can't be right. How does someone just look like that?

“Baby,” Lena says, an amused twinkle in her eye. "You’re gonna catch flies if you don’t pick your jaw up off the floor.”

It takes a couple long seconds before Kara’s brain hamster starts running again, but once it does, she nods quickly, shuts her mouth, and steps into their apartment.

And then she doesn’t really stop moving in, barely pausing to take her shoes off. She just toes off one shoe and then the other as she continues forward to wrap Lena up in her arms and press her into the couch cushions.

And maybe that isn’t the best defense for Kara not obsessing over Lena’s clothes since Kara really likes seeing Lena in that sweater, but it’s- it’s not about the sweater. It’s about the fact that it’s Lena wearing it, looking soft and warm and pretty.

It’s always about how unbelievably pretty Lena is.

So when Kara picks Lena up for a movie date on a rare occasion where she isn't already at Kara’s apartment and the penthouse elevator doors open to reveal Lena wearing a dark gray, off-the-shoulder sweater French-tucked into denim cut-offs and black thigh-high stockings, she crushes her phone to dust.

Not because of the way the stocking fabric seems to cling like spidersilk to Lena’s thighs. Not because of the sliver of skin that's visible in the gap between stocking and shorts and how it makes Kara want to run her tongue along Lena's legs and slowly peel them off.

It's none of those things, honest. She could be wearing a potato sack and Kara would still lose her mind because she’s just that devastatingly gorgeous.

“Buhhh,” Kara says, before she starts to step off the elevator, intent on pressing Lena against the nearest surface to touch her lovely thighs—and maybe some other things too—but Lena stops her with a hand on her chest.

She tuts, then says, “I know that look, Kara, and you are not getting off this elevator. Movie, remember? At the theater you love because it’s got reclining seats and actual food you can order?”

Kara frowns because Lena’s thighs are right there and the couch and kitchen counter are also right there, and they've got a half hour of previews before the movie starts so they might manage to not be (too) late… but then she sighs because, damn it, she does love that theater. And she actually enjoys watching previews.

Lena smiles when she sees the result of her internal debate settle on her face.

“That’s what I thought," she says, stepping into the elevator. “Come on, you horndog, take me to the movies.”

And before Kara can even open her mouth to let out an affronted noise at being called a horndog, Lena leans up to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth and Kara forgets why she was feeling affronted in the first place.

“We also need to get you a new phone, I see,” Lena says, staring at the phone guts on the floor.

Kara flushes and wipes the remnants of shattered phone dust off her hand before reaching out to intertwine their fingers.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, squeezing her hand and nodding at Lena's socks. “I wasn’t expecting those.”

"My legs?"

"Wh— No. Your, uh. Those, thigh... sock… things," Kara finishes weakly before noticing the twinkle of laughter in Lena's eyes. "Oh. You're pulling my leg."

"Just a bit, sorry," Lena says, sounding absolutely not-sorry.

"You!" Kara pivots and wraps her arms around Lena's waist to pull her close, blowing a raspberry into her neck just as she digs her fingers into her sides and starts tickling her.

Lena shrieks with laughter and attempts to squirm away but Kara holds her fast, keeping her revenge-tickle up for a little longer before granting her reprieve. She drops her hands to mold them to Lena's hips and nuzzles affectionately at her neck with a contented hum.

"Love you," she says, muffled by the way she's got her nose and mouth squished against Lena's skin.

"Love you," Lena returns softly, reaching up to scratch lightly at her scalp.

Kara leans into her hand, enjoying the feeling of her fingers in her hair, but then Lena's shoulders start shaking with laughter.

"What?" Kara asks, pulling her head back to look at Lena. "What's so funny?"

"We didn't push the button," she says, gently rapping her knuckles against Kara's head and reaching out to press the button for the lobby. "We've been standing in a stationary elevator."

Kara barks out a short laugh as the elevator finally starts its descent. "Okay, well I was distracted. What's your excuse?"

"I was distracted by you being distracted!"

"You can't play that card, that's the one I played. You're just copying my answer!"

Lena sticks her tongue out at her and the swell of affection Kara feels is so strong that she has no choice but to dip forward to kiss her cheek, grinning so hard that the kiss is more teeth than lip. She pulls away after and throws an arm around her shoulders.

"You excited for the movie? I've heard good things. Lots of arm, which I'm sure you'll enjoy," Kara says, bumping her hip against Lena's.

Lena doesn't rise to the bait, however, and leans into her harder, wrapping her arms around Kara's waist.

"I'm just happy we get to go out together today," she says after a moment in one of her softest, sweetest voices. "It feels like we've both been so busy lately and I've missed you."

And that's just—

"Not fair," Kara blurts, before she can stop it from slipping out.

Lena can't just admit that while she’s wearing what she's wearing and expect Kara to not be incredibly affected by it, to not want to just say to hell with the movie and stay in and cuddle and kiss and touch a lot. Kara's only alien.

"What's not fair?" Lena asks, brow furrowed.

"It's— You can't say something that sweet, looking that good. It's not fair. I'm trying to take you on a date but you're making it hard for me to not push you up against the nearest surface," Kara pouts.

Lena hums in thought.

"Is that so… Thigh-highs, huh?” she muses quietly.

And maybe Kara should have recognized the tone of her voice. It's the one she uses when she's happened across something incredibly interesting and is secreting the knowledge away for later, the one usually accompanied by a cat-that-got-the-cream glitter in her eye, but Kara doesn't notice it because she's subtly trying to admire Lena’s legs.

In fact, she doesn't notice a lot of things.

Like how Lena adjusts her thigh-highs deliberately slowly when she gets out of the car, slipping her thumbs just under the elastic to smooth out the band, fingers splaying and brushing across soft fabric as she drags her thumbs until they meet behind her thigh and then back around again. (Which ultimately brings Kara's attention back to the way they cling, and her hands twitch involuntarily as she imagines slipping her own thumbs under the elastic to tease the skin underneath.)

Like how Lena keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs when they lean back in their reclined seat. (And it’s not even that big a deal, but her thighs keep squishing together and they look so soft.)

Like how Lena pillows her head on Kara’s shoulder and slings her stockinged legs across Kara's lap when they inevitably cuddle up together, an open invitation for Kara to touch them. (So touch she does, trailing her fingers indulgently over and over along the tempting sliver of skin that had captivated her before.)

Needless to say, Kara is distracted during the movie. Distracted to the point she doesn't even order food. Lena’s soft noises and the slightly elevated rate of her pulse as Kara touches her thighs are much more interesting to listen to than whatever’s being said on-screen, her thighs much more interesting to touch than theater food.

She does her best to keep the touching family-friendly, never veering too high and mostly keeping her fingers to the top and outside of her thighs, but can’t help but stray a little towards the end of the movie. She slips her hand between Lena’s legs—still at a publicly appropriate height—and gently draws an aimless pattern along the inside of her thigh.

The hitch of Lena’s breath sounds like a thunderclap to Kara and she stiffens, fingers stilling as her ears heat up.

She thinks maybe she shouldn’t keep touching her while they’re in a room full of other people.

But then Lena shuffles and squeezes her thighs together, effectively trapping Kara’s hand where it is, with the added bonus of providing a little pressure between her legs. At least, that’s what Kara presumes since she lets out a quiet whine and leans into her harder. And she’s not about to be inappropriate with Lena in a movie theater, but… there’s nothing wrong with a little teasing, right?

Clearly not, as Lena squirms again and reaches out to stroke at the skin of Kara’s forearm, relaxing her thighs so Kara can move her hand again.

“Keep going,” she murmurs, voice quiet even though the loud movie theater audio makes her inaudible to anyone else.

Kara hears her loud and clear.

She starts tracing little swirls along Lena's inner thigh again, hyperfocused on the way each stroke coaxes out a slightly different noise. After a while, she grows bold, slipping her fingers just under the elastic of Lena's thigh-highs then dragging them up until she can slide them beneath the hem of her shorts.

Lena makes a sound low in her throat and her fingers press into Kara's forearm, not painfully, but with enough pressure to spur her on.

And, here’s the thing: Kara really isn’t touching Lena with sexual intent. She’s just a tactile person and loves the feel of Lena’s skin under her fingertips, and Lena has stated on more than one occasion how she doesn’t mind it, that she actually finds it incredibly comforting when Kara touches her absent-mindedly. So this isn’t— Kara isn’t running her fingers all over Lena’s thighs because she’s trying to turn either of them on.

(Especially not in a movie theater.)

But she can’t deny that that’s exactly what’s happening to her right now. She feels restless. Tingly, sparking heat lances through her body as Lena squirms and sighs against her, all because she's lightly trailing her fingers over the skin of her thighs.

Lena squeezes her legs together again briefly, and bites at her lower lip.

“Is the movie over yet?” she mutters, before subtly rolling her hips up as much as she can with the way her legs are angled over Kara’s thighs, causing Kara’s fingers to slip the slightest bit higher.

"Yeah," Kara says, not even looking at the movie screen. She hasn't paid attention to the movie at all, really, not since Lena put her legs in Kara's lap and let her touch them.

"It totally isn't," Lena says breathily, mouth quirking up. She shifts again, sitting up slightly so she can comfortably nuzzle into Kara's neck, and the press of Lena's soft lips against the skin of her neck has her jerking her hips up with a stifled groan.

"It isn't," she agrees, voice strained as she grips at Lena's thigh and struggles to keep from bucking again. "But it should be. Are movies usually this long? They shouldn't be this long. The movie should be over. It's illegal to keep us here like this."

And apparently that's funny, because Lena muffles her laugh into her neck, sort of. That's what Kara thinks she does? It's like she was gonna lick up her neck but got sidetracked when Kara said something amazingly witty, because what she does instead is open her mouth and press her tongue against her, slippery wet, and laugh just like that. Her breath gusts out in warm little puffs around her tongue and a shiver runs up Kara's back. An insistent throb starts up between her legs, and Lena knows that her neck is a weak spot, so the fact that she's doing that is very illegal.

Lena takes pity on her when she whines unhappily and pulls her tongue back into her mouth before rubbing her smile against her neck apologetically.

"There's… nothing actually keeping us here, you know," Lena says. "We can go anytime we want, if we so choose."

Kara’s hand twitches where she’s resting it against Lena’s thigh.

“We could, couldn’t we?” she says, but then she shakes her head because, Nope, no. She refuses to be the couple that walks out of what's probably a really good movie because they couldn't go two hours without touching each other.

Lena tilts her head up to kiss just under her jaw, sensing her resolve.

“But we’re not going to,” she supplies.

“Nah,” Kara says, turning to press her lips gently to Lena’s forehead. “This is a date, and I’m a gentleman."

The irony of that statement is not lost on them, what with the hand she still has between Lena's thighs, but Kara keeps her hand still and they manage to behave for the rest of the movie.

—

"Wow, what a movie!" Kara says, swinging Lena's hand exuberantly as they exit the theater half an hour later.

"I have absolutely no clue what happened," Lena admits.

"Neither do I!" Kara says happily, taking the opportunity granted by the upswing of their joined hands to press a kiss to Lena’s thumb. “I’m starving, let’s get something to eat.”

Lena rolls her eyes good-naturedly and allows herself to be led back to the car.

—

"I thought- I thought we were going to stop somewhere to eat?" Lena asks breathlessly, back arching.

"Mm, yeah," Kara says, popping her head up from where she'd been sucking a hickey to the side of Lena's breast. She continues plucking at the hard nipple of her other breast, tugging lightly at her piercing as she admires how attractive Lena looks with her bra and sweater rucked high on her chest, ribs expanding with every gasping breath she takes, dark red hickeys splotching across her flushed skin. Beautiful.

She dips her head to lick out against one of the purpling bruises, almost forgetting herself in the taste and feel of Lena's skin again before she tears herself away and pats her on the nipple.

"Chop chop!" she says lightly, patting the other nipple for symmetry's sake. "Put your clothes on, baby. I'm hungry."

"Oh my god…" Lena says, wrestling her bra and sweater back down as she sits up and nudges Kara upright. "Did you just pat my nipples?"

"Sure did! They’re my favorite. The absolute loveliest."

Lena sighs a long-suffering sigh and puts her hands on the shoulders of the front seats to haul herself into the passenger seat. Kara lets out a pleased noise, enjoying the way Lena’s thighs look flexing against her stockings as she moves back into the front of the car, then follows suit, giving Lena a quick peck on the lips before relocating her car keys and starting the ignition.

“Okay, food for realsies this time,” she says brightly, placing her hand high on Lena’s thigh.

Lena’s breath hitches and Kara decides that they’re getting fast food.

—

Lena smacks Kara’s hands away and Kara whines unhappily.

“No,” Lena says. "You’re not touching me with burger hands. Wash those first.”

Kara frowns bigly. She can feel how big and frowny it is, the corners of her mouth dragging down towards the ground like they’re physically weighed down by her disappointment and sadness, and she hopes Lena feels at least a little sorry for putting such a big frown on her face.

“But Lenaaa,” she tries.

“No ‘buts’, Kara,” Lena retorts, batting Kara’s wandering hands away again.

“I would've behaved,” Kara grumbles, pouting as she gets up off the couch to go wash her hands and throw their wrappers away. “Just wanted to kiss you a little.”

She can hear Lena snort from the living room, even over the sound of running water and her furious hand-scrubbing.

“It’s never just ‘kissing a little’, baby. We both know that.”

Kara grins. It’s not her fault Lena is so sensitive and makes the absolute sweetest noises for her.

She dries her hands and zips back out, plopping down on the couch with her hands out for Lena to inspect.

“I’m clean, I’m clean I’m clean I’m clean, can I please kiss you now?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.

Lena pretends to consider, but Kara can see the twinkle in her eye that means she’s already won. Even still, she turns Kara’s hands this way and that, taking her fingers between her own and stroking up and down their length with an appreciative sound, rubbing at the delicate webbing between them, trying and failing to bite back a smile as Kara goes quiet quiet at her indulgent ministrations.

“Okay, yeah,” she eventually breathes, when Kara swears Lena must be able to feel her pulse in her fingertips. “You can kiss me.”

Kara surges forward, linking their fingers together and pulling Lena’s arms above her head as she pushes her back into the couch cushions.

Lena lets out a surprised squeak, but Kara can see her pupils dilating as she licks wet wet wet at her red lips.

Kara leans in, stopping just before they touch. “I’m gonna kiss you now,” she whispers, feeling the phantom brush of Lena’s lips against hers.

“Mhm,” Lena breathes, thighs squeezing together. "Yes, please."

Kara smiles and closes the last bit of distance between them, sighing happily when she finally feels Lena's lips under hers, feels the tiny, shuddering breath she lets out as she sweetly parts her lips for Kara to lick in.

It always makes Kara feel like a million fireflies are lighting up inside her when she kisses Lena, like all the love she's got amalgamates and brightens her up from the inside out, until she feels like all that giddy, loving light is escaping from her pores. Even sitting out in the sun for a couple hours doesn’t make her feel as brilliant as one kiss from Lena does.

Kara slides her tongue slowly, wetly, against Lena's and her answering throaty moan makes Kara's head spin so hard her hips shudder helplessly downwards. But that only makes Lena jerk against the way Kara’s hands are keeping hers pinned to the cushions and roll her hips up and suck at Kara’s tongue like a lollipop.

Kara groans and humps into her again, and again, trying to keep her head from flying off, trying to not be really, embarrassingly close already even though they’re both still fully dressed and all Lena’s doing is sucking on her tongue.

But the pressure and wet suction of Lena’s mouth; the slick slide of her tongue; the little, hungry noises she makes as she tugs and tugs and tugs like she’s trying to take Kara as deep as she can to show how devoted she is, how ready she is, how good she is—

It all drives Kara absolutely wild because she's just so perfect.

Kara pulls away with a gasp, pressing their foreheads together, breath mingling hot and damp in the space between them, hips still mindlessly rocking down to meet Lena’s as she pants.

“H- hold on, sorry,” she says, flushing when it comes out way more breathless than she intends.

Lena nods patiently, turning her head and nuzzling at Kara’s cheek while she waits for her to calm down.

“You’re not even the one who got felt up at the theater, baby,” she muses quietly.

Kara nods, because, yeah, she’s not wrong about that. But, god.

She breathes in through her nose and holds it for three beats, attempting to Calm Down even as she makes no effort to actually stop the way she's grinding into Lena.

Eventually, once she can think past the pleasure slinging low in her hips, she tilts her head to fit their lips together again in a soft brush of lip against lip. It's a chaste kiss, but Kara still sinks into it, releasing one of Lena's hands to palm at her breast.

Lena eagerly arches under her and Kara swallows the breathy sound she makes, resolving to get her act together. Lena's been so, so good—so patient even with Kara's hands all over her—and she deserves to feel good twenty minutes ago. So, she brushes her thumb across Lena's breast, feeling for her nipple through her sweater and bra and humming happily when she finds the ball bearings of her piercing.

Lena lets out a desperate little noise, legs falling open as much as the couch allows. Kara smiles against her lips, sliding her hand further down until she can press the heel of her palm up between her legs.

Lena's foot drops to the floor with a soft thump and she uses the leverage to roll her hips into Kara's hand with a quiet whimper.

"Please," she whispers and Kara feels her neck grow hot.

"Okay, baby."

She unbuttons Lena's shorts and slowly drags the zipper down, listening for the hitch in her breathing.

Lena doesn't disappoint—she never disappoints—breath stuttering out when Kara eases her hand down the front of her shorts and presses two fingers up against the damp fabric of her underwear.

"Cute," Kara murmurs, and Lena squirms beneath her, cheeks flushed, back arching to push her breast more fully into Kara's palm. It's so lovely—Lena's so lovely—that Kara has no choice but to stroke along the patch of wet for a while longer, just to draw it out, before finally pulling away to slip her hand back down past the waistband of her underwear and rub the pads of her fingers directly over Lena's swollen clit.

Lena whines, teeth sinking into a kiss-bruised lip, pleading eyes flitting over Kara's face, searching, entreating.

Kara circles Lena's clit a couple more times before pushing lower, fingertips nudging at her entrance and drenching in her excitement, lifting her other hand to cup her cheek.

Lena releases her lower lip with a shaky sigh and Kara skims her thumb over it.

"Kara," Lena says, all air, lips brushing at her thumb, hips jogging up into her other hand, and Kara just grins because she knows. Slips her thumb past parted lips, rocks in in in until she's filled Lena up with two fingers in her cunt and a thumb in her mouth, until Lena's eyes are rolling back as she shudders and clenches and sucks.

"Fuck, you're good," Kara rasps, and Lena tightens around the fingers inside her, whimpering around the thumb pressing at her tongue.

Kara leans in to pepper Lena's face with tiny kisses. "Let me know when you're ready," she mumbles, nosing at a warm cheek.

Lena immediately lifts her hips to meet her hand, tongue slicking wet and greedy against her thumb, letting Kara know she's ready ready.

The breath gusts right out of her when Kara pulls her fingers out and thrusts back in again, a shuddering gasp tearing from her throat as she eagerly takes the stretch. She's hot and eager, and the insistent tug of her cunt every time Kara presses in and bumps at her throbbing clit reveals just how close she is already, just how long she's been patiently waiting on the razor's edge for Kara to take care of her.

"You've been so good, haven't you?" Kara asks.

Lena clenches hard, teeth closing around Kara's thumb. "Please," she whimpers, although it sounds more like 'leazhe with her mouth filled as it is.

"You've been such a good girl for me, haven't you?" Kara says again, punctuating her words by thrusting with extra force.

"Kara—"

"I want to hear it from your lips, baby." Kara leans in to kiss the corner of her mouth, then speaks her next words into her flushed cheek. "I want you to tell me how good you've been while I'm filling you up."

"Fuck," Lena gasps, eyes glassy, back arching higher with every hint of pressure against her clit. "'ve been so good for you. Please, please— I've been a good girl. Been good. I—"

She chokes off with a whine when Kara curls her fingers on a particularly heavy thrust, palm mashing against her clit.

"Yeah, you have," Kara agrees. "You're always so sweet."

A sympathetic shiver ripples through her when Lena recklessly jerks her hips up again, trying to get closer, to take her fingers deeper.

“Bet you'll sound extra sweet when you come for me."

Lena lets out a desperate, hiccuping moan. Then, with her tongue dragging against the thumb in her mouth, it only takes a few more deep strokes for her to fall apart on Kara's fingers, thighs clamping tight and cunt clenching rhythmically as her teeth dig into Kara's thumb.

"There you go, baby. You did so well," Kara murmurs, leaning in and pressing her smile to Lena's sweat-damp temple when she tightens around her fingers. "You're perfect."

She waits for Lena's breathing to even out and for the clenching of her body to slow to light flutters before she frees her thumb and eases her fingers out, prompting a quiet hitching breath. She wipes them on her underwear as best she can with the awkward angle then pulls her hand out of her shorts.

Lena's cheeks are flushed, her hair's all over the place, her nose and forehead are shiny with exertion, and she's beautiful.

"I love you," Kara says, kissing the tip of Lena's sweaty nose.

"Mm," Lena hums drowsily. "Love you, too."

"Gonna fall asleep on me?" Kara asks, nudging her smile against the apple of her cheek.

"Under you, yeah."

Kara laughs and snags a blanket off the arm of the couch behind Lena's head. She throws it over them, then carefully drapes herself over Lena, smiling when she snakes her arms up to wrap low around her waist.

"Who needs a weighted blankie when you've got Supergirl," Kara says.

Lena huffs out a quiet laugh and squeezes her tight.

---

Kara sort of forgets about how much she loves seeing Lena in thigh-high stockings.

Lena looks good in anything—and in absolutely nothing, of course—so after that first time, Kara doesn't think about the thigh-highs. It's always lingering there in the back of her mind, but it's just not something she actually, truly, really stops to think about.

It isn't, until it is.

She walks into her bedroom after work on an otherwise ordinary Thursday evening and finds Lena surrounded by lit candles, lying prone in the middle of her bed. Her legs are bent at the knee with her feet up in the air and she's completely naked except for the candy apple-red of her thigh-high stockings.

Kara almost walks right out again, half-convinced she's just walked into the wrong apartment, half-convinced she's fallen asleep at the office and is now having a sex dream.

"Uh, hello?" she says around a dry throat, as good a greeting as any.

Lena smirks at her and licks her lips.

"Hello," she returns. "I've been waiting for you to get back."

"Yeah?"

Lena rolls her eyes, propping her chin up on her palm.

"Yes, baby. I'm lying in bed naked for you. Are you gonna come do something about it?"

Kara stumbles a step further into the bedroom.

"What… what's the occasion?"

Lena pauses, pretending to consider, then drops her hand down on top of the other and presses her cheek to her flat arms.

"Nothing," she says simply, a girlish giggle hiding in her voice. "Just wanted to do something fun on a— What day is it?"

Kara swallows hard and lifts her wrist to look down at her very-analog watch.

"It's…"

Her watch face only tells her it's some time after six so she racks her brain and tries to remember which day the little green marker on her calendar had been under.

"Thursday?" she mostly-guesses.

"Just wanted to do something fun on a Thursday," Lena amends, eyes sparkling with laughter.

Kara drops her messenger bag on the ground and takes another couple of steps until she's standing right next to the bed. She reaches down to tug her button-up out of its tuck. "What did you have in mind?"

"Thought maybe you could put your cock on and I could ride you," Lena says.

Kara goes stock still, fingers going limp around the handful of cotton-blend fabric bunched in her hand, shirt still mostly tucked. The sound of Lena’s voice—lilting and lovely as she says something so filthy that the tips of her ears heat up—makes her shiver with preemptive excitement.

"Okay, yeah," she breathes, redirecting her attention towards undoing her belt.

"Great," Lena says, sitting up and revealing the harness lying next to her, already fitted with a sizable dick. Kara bites the inside of her cheek to hide her smile.

Her wonderful, gorgeous, brilliant, ever-prepared girlfriend.

"C'mere, baby," Lena murmurs, and Kara realizes that her fingers have stalled out again, the extra leather length of her belt looping goofily out of her pants where it's still tucked into her belt loops.

She lets her hands drop limply to her sides, then chews at her lower lip as she watches Lena slowly undo her belt, feeling each tug and yank as Lena nimbly loosens her belt like a teasing stroke against her clit. By the time Lena's fingering the button of her pants with one hand and sliding the zipper down with the other, Kara's already breathing hard, nostrils flaring as she tries to keep her hips from swaying forward into her hands.

Lena only smiles, red lips curling dangerously.

Kara shivers, suddenly noticing just how close her mouth is to her—

"What’re you thinking about, Kara?" Lena asks suddenly, and Kara snaps her eyes up to meet hers, blinking quickly.

"Nothing!"

Lena slides a warm palm up the inside of her thigh until her thumb is nudging lightly between Kara's legs.

"So, not thinking about fucking my mouth?" she asks, voice innocent. It's a direct contrast to the way she rubs her knuckle up against her and Kara almost doubles over.

"Jesus, Lena," she wheezes, and Lena laughs and pulls her hand away.

"I'll behave," Lena says, though they both know she won't. "Now hurry up and take your pants off so I can make you feel good."

Kara stops dallying. She undoes the button on her chinos, shoves them down, and steps out of them. She's about to push her underwear down too when Lena lets out an appreciative sound. She lifts Kara's button-up and has her hold it out of the way, hands finding their way back to her hips and smoothing over her dinosaur-print boxer briefs.

"These're cute," she murmurs. "Soft."

And then she leans forward and nuzzles indulgently at the front of them, hands squeezing at Kara's ass.

Kara's hips shudder reflexively and she bites back a groan, almost certain she can feel the way Lena's rubbing her smile against the front of her boxer briefs.

"H-hey," she doesn't stutter. "Baby…"

Lena simply hums, hands squeezing one last time before sliding up so her fingers can slip just below the band of her underwear. She moves dangerously from nuzzling to hot, open-mouthed kisses and Kara whines, hips pressing forward, blinking hard.

"Hhhey," she tries again, fist clenching around her shirt.

"Hi, hello, hey," Lena says sweetly, smiling up at her. And then she yanks her boxer briefs down and dips in to take her into her mouth, tongue hot and slick against Kara's twitching clit.

"Fuck," Kara gasps, free hand twisting into Lena's soft hair. "Oh fuck."

Lena slides her hands up to cup the back of Kara's thighs and keep her close.

"You’re so hard for me," she mumbles before she goes right back to sucking at her, and Kara feels her soul trying to escape.

She lets her indulge for as long as she can handle it, but the moment the ball of heat in her belly goes from gooey and pliable to a stiff, tensing thing, she has to pull away from Lena's mouth, hips shuddering.

"Sorry," she says, sifting her fingers through the hair at Lena's temple as she tries to ignore the throbbing between her legs. "Sorry, I'm sensitive. Close."

Lena looks up at her with eyes swallowed by pupil, lips and chin and cheeks smeared with wetness. She licks her lips with a pleased noise.

"You wanna come?" she asks, and the sound of her voice, scratchy with want, sends heat dancing up Kara's spine. She barely stifles a needy whine.

"Yeah," she manages. "Yeah, I really wanna. But not like this."

Lena's pretty gray-green eyes flick up to meet hers again and she nods, backing off. She reaches for the harness and passes it to her before leaning back on her hands to watch her step out of the boxers bunched at her ankles and into the harness, eyes flashing appreciatively as she tightens the straps.

The base nudges against her ever so slightly, but more than anything, the solid weight of her cock bobbing between her legs feeling comfortable and sexy and right has Kara swallowing hard.

"All good?" Lena asks, reaching out and gently running a finger along her length.

Kara bites her lip, not quite managing to muffle her moan when she feels that light touch, a shock of pleasure sparking through her. Her hips sway forward, instinctively chasing it, but it’s almost too good fucking into the air like that and she has to suck in a sharp breath and straighten up again.

After another deep bracing breath, Kara nods and crawls onto the bed. She immediately attempts to push Lena down and straddle her, but Lena gently stops her with a hand to her shoulder.

She smiles, red lips curving up.

"I'm on top," she says, voice low as she urges Kara down instead. "I'm riding, remember?"

Kara flops back against the pillows and remembers all right.

Lena straddles her easily, doesn't give her time to breathe, or think, just wraps her fingers around her cock and guides it until the tip of it is sliding between her legs to nudge at her clit.

"Fuck," Lena breathes, and Kara nods in agreement, trying not to buck.

And then Lena drags it back, fits the head to her entrance, and slowly drops onto her.

The first few inches sink in and Kara nearly breaks from the sound of Lena's breath catching high and fluttery in her throat. She forcibly tears her eyes away from the way Lena's thighs are trembling—the way her quads are subtly tensing and relaxing against red fabric as she works to take her—and stares instead at the way her lower lip glistens as she gasps, at the way her pretty eyes go glassy as she pants and slides her hands up under Kara's shirt to brace against her abs.

"Take your time, baby," Kara mumbles. "As slow as you n—"

Lena abruptly rolls her hips down, taking Kara’s entire cock and her breath away with it. She's hot, silken, wanting, and Kara doesn't know if she's ever been more in love.

Lena whimpers, fingers spasming against Kara's abs. She rolls her hips again, slow and shuddery, clit peeking out red and already swollen and begging to be touched.

Kara muffles a groan, ignoring the tension building in her stomach to settle her thumb over it and rub.

Lena jerks with a hitching gasp, pressing down harder into her lap, and Kara almost laughs at her eagerness. She slides her other hand up over the near-sheer fabric of Lena’s stockings, thumbing encouragingly at her inner thigh.

“Good?” she asks, knowing full well what the answer is and wanting to hear it anyway.

Lena whines, flushed all down her chest, which draws Kara’s attention to how adorably hard her nipples are. She lets her gaze linger, admiring the simple beauty of the silver ball bearings nestled to either side of stiff dusky nipples.

“It’s good,” Lena chokes out, thighs flexing as she lifts up and slides back down with a sound so wet it makes Kara’s ears hot. It’s all she can do to keep her thumb working over her clit. “You feel so fucking good like this.”

And then she starts to ride, thigh-highs red as sin and clinging to her soft thighs as she bounces on Kara’s lap, fingers splayed on her stomach for balance as she arches her back and drops her hips harder and harder with every stroke, breath escaping in tiny mewling gasps. She only sounds like that when she’s close, when she feels so good the noises slip right out of her.

Kara groans, the sound of Lena enjoying herself heightening the pleasure she feels.

“Oh god,” she grunts, eyelids fluttering shut when Lena drops and swivels her hips in a figure-eight that almost makes her lose control.

Blunt nails suddenly dig into the skin of her stomach and Lena lets out a disapproving noise, slowing down. “Open your eyes,” she says, voice low but demanding.

Kara forces her eyes open.

“Watch me,” Lena says. “Watch how I take you.”

"Fuck,” Kara whispers, goosebumps rushing to cover her arms.

Lena’s lips curl up dangerously and she picks up the pace again. She doesn’t give Kara a chance to rest, to pull herself together, to back up from the edge she’s so close to tumbling over. Just settles right back into a steady groove.

So Kara watches—dangerously close to coming—as Lena circles her hips in more figure-eights, as she pulls up and leaves a slick, wet trail on her cock before pushing down, cunt lewdly spreading to accommodate her girth.

It's dizzying, mind-melting, to hear and feel and watch Lena fucking herself.

"You're so— you're so pretty, baby," Kara says hoarsely.

Lena drops into her lap with a whine and this time it's too much and too good. The pressure between her legs finally tips over the edge of manageable.

"Fuck," Kara grits out behind clenched teeth, vision blurring, hot pleasure beginning to spill from the full reservoir in her belly. "Gonna come."

Lena moans, clit twitching against Kara's thumb, which has somehow, magically, more-or-less stayed put this whole time.

"Want you to come," she gasps, rocking in Kara's lap now, keeping her fully inside as she eagerly presses her clit to Kara's thumb. "Feels so good, want you to come."

She's so sweet, so perfect as she grinds down. Kara barely manages to nod before she spasms, body shuddering, back arching so hard she lifts Lena up a few inches as she bucks.

The way she drives her hips up to chase that blissful pressure seems to be enough for Lena, too. She lets out a breathy whimper and comes shortly after Kara does, clenching so tight around her cock that she doesn't budge from her lap even as Kara's hips jerk up.

It's euphoric—addicting—and it takes several shaky moments for Kara to regain all her senses, though she keeps slowly and mindlessly fucking into her just to prolong their pleasure.

Lena's arms give out and she collapses onto Kara with a small moan, languidly rolling her hips down as the change in angle shifts the way Kara rests inside her.

"God," Lena rasps where she's tucking her sweaty face to Kara's neck. "Oh my god."

Kara manages to let out a concurring sound, stroking her fingers up and down Lena's sides and enjoying the feeling of her soft warmth permeating her shirt. Her button-up and bra will have to come off eventually, but for now she just wants to lie here, floppy and weak post-orgasm, with her beautiful girlfriend breathing hard on top of her.

"You really like me in these, huh?" Lena pants.

"Sure do. Happy fucking Thursday to me," Kara mumbles, sliding one hand down to squeeze at Lena's ass.

"Mm, god, yeah," Lena says, bringing her own hand up to scratch gently at Kara's scalp.

They lay in contented silence for several minutes, long enough for Kara to start fading into a sated half-doze even with underwire digging into her skin, before she shakes off the sleepy and kisses Lena's head.

"I should shower," she says when Lena lets out a disgruntled noise to tell her she's moving too much.

Lena huffs a sigh but pushes herself upright as Kara sits up with her, causing her dick to shift inside of her again. Lena's breath catches and she bites at her lower lip.

Suddenly, separating for a shower sounds like a very not-good idea to Kara. In a maneuver that she's proud of herself for pulling off, Kara scoots towards the end of the bed with Lena on her lap and stands up. Lena squeaks, wrapping her legs around her waist as Kara smiles gleefully.

"What are you doing?" Lena asks breathlessly, eyes glittering.

"Like I said, need to shower," Kara says, heading off to the bathroom with her cock still buried inside Lena, already thinking about how nicely her moans will echo.

"Wanna see how good these thigh-highs will look on you when they’re wet, pretty baby."

—

Turns out the thigh-highs, like Lena, look absolutely delectable when wet.

—

It doesn't come as a surprise when Lena finally, officially moves into Kara's apartment with a whole drawer full of thigh-high socks.

[willowser]

every single day i think about the influence touya would have had on shouto as an older brother.

he has to take him everywhere he goes, so they're always jamming to the same hardcore music in touya's shitty car. shouto, obviously, develops a taste for the same bands, same songs. shouto is also in the ride-along to buy cigarettes and beer at midnight, and touya threatens his whole entire life if he tells rei, but shouto would never because he likes going too much.

shouto 100% would attempt to kick the ass of anyone that talked shit to his brother. little string bean, doesn't matter, this little boy is throwing HANDS for touya, and touya very much has the attitude of "no one can fuck with my little brother but me". whenever shouto gets in trouble for doing something he shouldn't be doing, touya is always taking the fall for him, no questions asked. shouto lies for touya like it's second nature.

shouto wants an earring because of touya, and touya probably GIVES the piercing to him, which makes enji blow a gasket. touya learns to play the drums and then shouto wants to, too — though he ends up being better than touya and touya promptly quits after that. touya teaches him to drive. shouto gets drunk for the first time with touya BECAUSE touya wants to be there to take care of him. they hate each other, they get into fist fights all the time, rolling around the house as fuyumi screams at both of them. they're best friends. they understand each other more than anyone else ever could.

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

the most Dog ever. or. dog shaped Thing ever

[conscydraws]

Order 38. Undelivered.

[wandaverse]

goddess!wanda and human!reader who worships every inch of her body and is entirely at her service, breathe if you agree

[thebigbadbatswife]

Ulterior Motives

Pairings - Batman x Fem!Reader

Summary - You’re starting to suspect the only reason Batman keeps pushing your buttons is so that you will end up underneath him.

Warnings - 18+ content, smut, hate sex, rough sex, protected sex, vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, arguments.

A/N - Merry Christmas! While this is not an xmas fic it is an xmas present for all of you who have been patiently waiting for the third part of Under Your Skin! I hope you all enjoy! 💜

Taglist - At end of fic. If you would like to be added or removed, please message me.

Word Count - 2.4k

You gasped loudly as Batman thrusted up into you. He had you up against the wall. One of his hands was hooked underneath one of your legs, holding it up and giving him better access to you. While the other hand held your wrists, restraining your hands behind your back.

The two of you were on the Watchtower, in your designated quarters. Every member of the Justice League was assigned their own as they were a great place to crash after a long mission. As it turned out, they were also great for impromptu after mission sex. 

You couldn’t remember the argument that had led to it this time. Not really.  All thought of it had fizzled and popped from your head from the moment he had you up against the wall.

It was so stupid! You had never met anyone who made your blood boil and made you so incredibly wet at the same time. One minute you wanted to send him out of the airlock, the next you wanted him bending you over a table while he fucked you hard. It was so infuriating!

Was how he viewed you similar?

Did it even matter?

You moaned loudly as the head of his cock continuously hit that sweet spot deep inside of you. As far as you knew, the Watchtower was empty of anyone who could potentially overhear. And even if it wasn’t, after an incident involving Green Arrow and Black Canary, all private quarters had been soundproofed.

The breath was stolen from your lungs by a particularly hard thrust. He released the grip he had on your wrists and his hand came up and gently wrapped around your throat. Out of instinct, your hand covered his. You turned your head to the side and he leaned in. The kiss was a clash of tongue and teeth, a fight for dominance neither of you were willing to lose.

His pace remained relentless and you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to your peak. Your free hand slipped between your legs and you began to rub your clit.

“Fuck,” you gasped out, breaking the kiss. You were so, so close. Just a little more and you would be up on cloud nine. “I’m going to…”

“Then cum,” he growled.

He applied some pressure to your throat. Not enough to cut off your oxygen, but enough to add to the intensity of your orgasm. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as pleasure burned through your body. He gave a few more thrusts before he reached his own climax, with a deep groan. 

Batman released the grip he had on your throat and leg, but continued to hold your shaking body close to his, making sure that you didn’t fall. After sex, as you both came down from your highs, was really the only time that you weren’t at each other’s throats. The two of you were almost civil.

Once you had stopped shaking and you were stable on your feet, he pulled out of you and moved away from you.

You looked over your shoulder at him. He had his back to you, giving you a good look at the scars that covered him. There were a lot of them, jagged across the entire expanse of his back. There was certainly far more than any one person should have. Sure, you had felt them when he had you beneath him and your hands had found purchase there, but seeing them was a completely different story.

You couldn’t help, but wonder how many of them had come close to killing him. You knew that it was a morbid thought, but you imagined that it was likely the same thought many others had had when they first laid eyes on his scars.

The only part of his body that appeared to be relatively untouched was his ass and it was a damn fine ass. You might hate his guts, but you could still appreciate his assets and you certainly wouldn’t mind sinking your teeth into that one.

You were beginning to ache again. You could really do with another round.

You moved away from the wall and toward your bed. You flopped onto it, onto your back. You could feel Batman’s eyes on you, watching you intently as your hand glided down your body. You gasped softly at how sensitive you were, as you began to play with your clit.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to get over here and fuck me? Or is the great Batman only good enough for one round?” you taunted.

That snapped him from whatever he had been thinking. Once he had discarded the used condom for a fresh one, he was on you again. You moaned loudly as he entered you, up to the hilt, in a single thrust. His hands came behind your knees and pushed your legs up by your head. Thankfully you were flexible, otherwise you were certain you would’ve been very uncomfortable.

The pace he set was punishing and all you could do was grip the covers as he pounded into you. You had asked if he was going to fuck you and he was certainly delivering.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he growled in your ear, making your pussy clench around his cock. “Me fucking you sensless?” 

The only response you could muster was a long drawn out moan of his name.

“You sound so much better moaning my name,” he groaned.

Any response that you could have come up with was lost as the feeling of his cock moving inside of you, hitting that sweet spot, had your brain turning to mush. How was it possible he could make you feel so good?

Your orgasm took you by surprise, your back arching as your eyes rolled back into your head. The bed began to squeak from the force of his thrusts, as he showed no signs of stopping. You went from one orgasm to the next, quickly losing count of how many times he made you come.

Batman stilled, burying himself deep within you, as he groaned. He released your legs, letting them fall back to the bed before he pulled out of you and collapsed next to you, breathing heavily.

You felt boneless and your eyelids were quickly growing heavy. You were so exhausted and falling asleep so quickly that you didn’t register the gentle way he moved you up the bed, to the pillows, and under the covers.

When you woke up, it took you a moment to remember where you were and what had taken place, before you had fallen asleep. Though sore in certain places, you felt great. At least Batman was good for something.

You were about to roll onto your back and stretch, when you realised that there was a calloused hand resting on your hip. He was still here? You had expected him to leave the second the two of you were finished.

You remained relaxed and continued to fein sleep. You knew the second you moved he would stop and you were curious as to what he was doing. His fingers and thumb were running random circles against your skin, occasionally tracing one of the scars that decorated your body. It felt… nice. That was the only way you could think to describe it.

It ended as quickly as it began however and you felt the bed move as he got up. You could hear him moving around the room, no doubt collecting up the pieces of his suit that were strewn across the room. You knew when he had finished dressing by the loud click of his utility belt. You listened to the muffled sound of his heavy boots as he walked across the carpet and toward the door. You heard the door open and there was a pause, like he was… hesitating? No, that wasn’t right. Whatever made him stop, it didn’t stop him for long and soon enough the door shut and you were alone.

You rolled onto your back, looking in the direction of the door. What the hell had that been about?

The next couple of arguments you remembered, but not for the arguments themselves, but rather what they had led to. Which had been you on top of him doing your best to keep quiet so that no one would discover the two of you.

As you laid in the dark, alone, completely relaxed from your orgasm, you thought about the most recent argument. Now that the heat of the moment was over and you were calm, you realised just how stupid his reason for starting it had been. In fact, most recent arguments with him had been over the stupidest of things.

That was when it hit you, he was starting these fights simply so that he could get you alone and have sex with you. How had you not seen it before? No wonder so many of them had started to feel forced.

That made you angry, at both yourself and him. Yourself because you couldn’t believe you had fallen for it and at him because was he truly that incapable of expressing what actually he wanted so he had to rile you up instead? It was bullshit and you were so completely done. Next time an argument broke out between you, you were going to call him out on it.

“What the hell is your problem?” you yelled. “Seriously, it doesn’t matter what I do, whether I follow your orders to a T or I take charge when others are otherwise indisposed, none of it is good enough!” 

The two of you were up on a rooftop in Star City, having helped out Black Canary and Green Arrow with several of the escaped supervillains.

“At first I thought it was because you wanted to make sure that I was cut out for this, but now”— you shook your head —“now I think it’s because you want me to quit. I mean, that’s it right? For whatever reason you’ve decided I’m no longer good enough and now you’re doing everything you can to make sure that I do!”

Batman shook his head. “None of this is about you,” he snapped. “Every day millions of lives depend on us to keep them safe, but not everyone is capable of dealing with the burden. So if me making sure you can deal with it is me pushing you to quit, then maybe you never should have joined the League in the first place!”

Your fists clenched and the sudden urge to deck him filled you. You knew no one would blame you if you did, but you fought the urge. Besides, he had likely already read your body language and would easily catch your fist before it came anywhere close to his face. You took a deep breath and unclenched your fists.

“You're so full of shit. If you had originally thought for even a second that I was incapable I never would have set foot on the Watchtower! And don’t you dare try to lie to me because multiple people have told me as much!”

You took several steps toward him. Batman towered over you, like he did with practically everyone, but you weren’t afraid of him. At the end of the day, like you, he was only human. Just a man in a suit who was so emotionally repressed it was almost laughable.

“And I’m done with your constant nitpicking of the smallest detail just so you can rile me up and fuck me. So next time you want to fuck, you’re going to have to ask nicely.”

You didn’t wait for a response. Instead you spun around on your heels and marched off. You knew what his game was and you refused to play it anymore.

Weeks later you found yourself in the Watchtower’s kitchen, sitting at the table with a nearly empty glass of water in front of you. Your body was bruised and battered, much like the rest of the Justice League. Luthor had given it his all, but, like always, it hadn’t come close to being enough and he was back behind bars. Not that he would be there for long. Men like him never were.

The rest of the League weren’t about, having returned to their homes or quarters to rest. You wouldn’t mind going home yourself, having some greasy fast food followed by a bubble bath and then crawling into bed for a long sleep. The only thing stopping you was the fact you would have to walk past the laboratory that you knew Batman was in.

Ever since that night in Star City, you and him had not shared any words with each other unless it was right before, during or right after a mission. Not even any angry words. You both had actually been somewhat civil. You thought the lack of fighting would make you feel better, relieved even, but instead you found yourself more irritated than before. It wasn’t the arguments you missed however, but rather what had started to follow them in recent months. Your body ached for his and no matter how you went about relieving the ache nothing came close to satisfying you quite like he did.

You wondered if he was feeling the same way. Not that it mattered if he did. Neither of you would ever actually admit it after all. Both of you were far too proud and stubborn.

You downed the rest of your water before you began to slowly get up from your chair. You were going to have to walk past the laboratory sooner or later so it might as well be now. You hissed in pain as the leg you had injured protested against you. Using the table, you steadied yourself. You knew that the following morning was going to suck.

Reaching the zeta tubes had been easier than you had thought it would be, your injured leg not hindering you as much as you thought it might. 

You input your details into the console and selected your destination. You were about to hit the enter button when the feeling of eyes on you had you looking away from the screen to check behind you.

Standing in the doorway was Batman. What the hell did he want? You mentally shook your head. No, you really didn’t care right now. You had takeout menus and a bubble bath waiting for you. You looked away and hit the enter button.

“I’m really not interested, Batman,” you told him before stepping away from the console and into the blinding light of the active zeta tube, leaving him alone on the Watchtower.

*

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