#ink's fics

[wanderinginksplot]

Kix + Competence

After a rocky meeting, you try to avoid Kix and the attraction of his competence. It doesn't work out.

Kix x gn!reader (no use of 'y/n' and no pronouns). Romantic.

Word Count: 3,200

Warnings: feelings of intimidation, mentions of trooper genetic manipulation, nervousness, some awkwardness.

---

"Alright, that finishes up the bulk of today's briefing," Captain Rex announced. "Any other business?"

"Yeah, why are we having a briefing when we're so deep in unoccupied space that a Seppie would be a welcome sight?" one of the nearby troopers asked rhetorically, his voice pitched low enough that only the trooper beside him - and you - could hear.

It wasn't a bad point. The briefing had mostly been made up of minor points about the ship's maintenance and small alterations to the mission… only the declassified pieces, of course. The captain was welcome to have as many meetings as he wanted, but you were curious why you had to attend.

You were a last-minute addition to the Resolute, pulled in to fill a position that had been vacated due to an unfortunate combination of injuries, deaths, and transfers. The job as a radar technician was one you excelled at, and your supervisor had immediately recommended you to fill the temporary vacancy. Your competitive streak had preened at the recognition of your skills, even if they sent you to a dangerous position far from home.

The fact that you had no family and few friends was probably part of the reason for your new assignment, but you were trying not to think about that.

In any case, silence reigned in the hangar bay after the captain had asked his question and you were ready for the meeting to end, but the captain nodded to one of the troopers.

As the man in question stepped forward, your heart gave a heaving thud and you did your best to look somewhere else.

Kix was the 501st's medic, the one assigned to keep the men safe and treat any injuries that may occur in the field. He was an efficient worker, an unflinching professional, and extremely competent in every respect.

That was the problem. 

Your first interaction with the medic had been less than ideal. You had been brand new to the Resolute and interacting with some troopers for the first time when you had asked how they spent down time on the cruiser. They had mentioned a few things, but seemed especially excited about competitions in the blaster ranges. As always, the mention of a chance to excel had piqued your interest and you had excitedly mentioned that you were a good shot. 

“Who knows?” you had joked. “I might even end up beating some of you!”

They had laughed, but Kix - standing nearby - hadn’t. “Doubtful. Troopers are bred from the genes up to be better than nat-borns at anything combat-related. Shooting, running, strategy, detonators…”

With the horrible sensation of prior interest that had now curdled in your stomach, you offered a curt nod and walked away. 

Kix’s bluntness hadn’t been a surprise, especially since he was a medic, but it paired poorly with a shocking revelation you had about yourself: you liked him. 

You hadn’t known how thrilling you found competence until you had joined the GAR… and even then, you encountered very few examples of it. But on the Resolute, Kix was the one who had drawn your attention. At first that was mostly due to irritation, but it had soon turned to reluctant admiration. He was attractive even beyond his bearing and you could see yourself in a relationship with him - hells, you had imagined it often enough - but your assignment was probably temporary and it seemed like a bad idea. 

So, as the self-assured, competitive technician you considered yourself, you put all your energy toward avoiding Kix any time there was a chance of sharing a space.

It really didn’t work very well. You always found yourself in situations where Kix was present. Even worse, he always seemed to be doing something that showed how intensely good he was at being a medic or influencing his brothers or any number of things he had been trained to do. It was frustrating.

At the front of the room, Kix had only just started to speak. Despite your determination not to stare at- ahem, watch him, his voice commanded your attention and you found your gaze locked on him anyway.

“As most of the veteran troopers on this ship know, you are expected to meet basic safety standards to serve aboard a space-faring vessel, especially in times of war. Every being on this ship must hold certain certifications concerning those standards.” Kix glanced around the room. “I know we have a few newcomers on the Resolute, so consider this your briefing: you need to attend a class and an assessment. Dates and times for those are posted on the ship’s information boards and outside of the medbay.”

This wasn’t the first you had heard about safety standards and certifications. You had even known they were required for serving on ships. However, you had always assumed you were exempt since you were only a specialist brought on for a temporary assignment. Apparently, that wasn’t the case.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, you reasoned. Kix probably wouldn’t be there. Why would a medic supervise safety regulatory compliance? …okay, you could guess why. But he had other work to do.

Your hopes were instantly dashed when Kix finished, “I’ll be personally supervising every training and assessment. If you don’t complete your full certification by the end of the week, you’ll be subject to disciplinary action.”

“What if we’re already certified but wanna come hang out with our favorite medic?” a voice called from the front of the group. 

Kix rolled his eyes, but a grin flashed over his face as he said, “Jesse, you can go ahead and let your certification expire. I don’t think anyone is comfortable with the idea of you trying to save their life.”

A loud scoff and some raucous laughter was the only answer to that… at least until Captain Rex announced, “Dismissed.”

You were slow to join the crowd of troopers drifting toward the doors back into the main body of the Resolute. Even just that split-second smirk on the handsome medic’s face had been enough to throw your heart into a pounding rhythm. 

How were you ever going to survive a full class with him and still learn enough to pass the assessment? You certainly didn’t want to be found lacking, even in a temporary assignment. And especially since you knew Kix had such a low opinion of nat-borns already.

Two days later, you hadn’t found an answer, but you were in the class. It wasn’t the last one offered, but it was the only one that worked with your schedule. Infuriatingly, Kix had been around even more often since the briefing. Any time you were somewhere for more than an hour or two, he would be there as well. The reasons were always different and valid: working on a project, checking on someone who had sustained an injury on the last mission, following up with people who had taken their assessments. 

When you finally walked into the class, you were relieved to find that it seemed to be a module-based course. There were workstations set around the room, each with a datapad lying on the desk. 

“Welcome,” a voice greeted warmly. You knew who the voice belonged to, and a polite - if mildly pained - smile was already stretched over your face by the time you turned. “Let me explain how the class is going to work.”

You nodded, glancing around the room as an excuse to avoid his eyes. You were worried what they would see in yours. “I would appreciate that. I’m a little lost.”

“Well, we’re going to start with a short holovid on the datapads,” Kix told you, gesturing to the waiting row of workstations. “It’ll walk you through some basic safety and first aid information. Then, when you’ve finished the video, you’ll come to the back area.”

You hadn’t seen the small, half-curtained area until Kix pointed it out, and then your nerves were thrumming with tension. 

“To demonstrate the skills there, I assume?” you checked. When Kix nodded, you asked, “And is this a test situation or a collaborative effort?”

“More the former than the latter,” Kix told you. “That works better for you, since you’re the only one who signed up for this particular time slot.”

The signups had indicated that you would need one to two hours to complete the full course. Just your luck that time would be spent completely alone with the 501st’s handsome medic.

“I’m sure you have other things to do,” you said in a desperate attempt to get out of this for a little longer. “I can sign up for a different course with other people in it. Just let me know what day and time.”

This was the only course that worked with your schedule, but surely you could be excused from your job to be certified in order to continue performing said job? That sounded like something you could convince your supervisor to allow. 

But Kix was already shaking his head. “You’re already here and I’ve had this time set aside since you signed up. Go ahead and grab a datapad. The holofilm is already queued up. Let me know when you’re done and we’ll move on to the second half of things.”

You weren’t sure what you had expected to see in the holofilm - maybe CPR or basic first aid - but you were met with a diagram of a Venator-class star destroyer. 

An LY-77 droid began speaking about the build of the ship, what each floor held, and where the major mechanical components were housed. You held a top-secret security clearance as part of the requirements for your job, but this was still intensely well-guarded information. Honestly, you weren’t sure you were supposed to be seeing it at all, but it was interesting enough to hold your attention. 

The droid talked you through emergency plans, evacuation routes, and the location of medical kits. Then the holovid delved deeper into the specifics of what you could find in the medkits and how each piece should be used. That was where things started to get more complex. The medkits were meant to help with anything from trips and falls to depressurization. 

Just as you were starting to feel bitter at Kix for describing the holovid as ‘short’, it ended. That would have been good, but it left you with the realization that you had to go spend time one-on-one with the medic. 

When you walked toward the curtained area, you found Kix sitting at his desk seemingly engrossed in filling out forms. You cleared your throat softly. “Kix? I’m done with the holovid.”

Kix immediately stowed his datapad in a drawer and stood. “Good. Any questions?” 

You shook your head and he gestured you toward the curtained area. When you stepped through, you found a realistic mannequin lying on the bed with a medkit on the table beside it. It seemed to be a generically humanoid medical mannequin, though someone had drawn the outline of a chestplate across the torso, along with some lines that looked suspiciously like Hardcase’s tattoos.

“We’re going to run through some questions and test how well you remember the different topics covered in the holovid,” Kix told you. 

Despite the nervousness screaming through your system, you passed the majority of the test without making a mistake. Luckily, the internal organization of a Venator-class star destroyer was fairly logical, which made it easier to follow. Questions about emergency situations had captured your attention, so you had retained more than you might have, otherwise.

“Okay, great job,” Kix congratulated. “Let’s move on to the practical portion. Go ahead and open the kit.”

That sounded simple enough - and it should have been - but the medkit had latches unlike anything you had ever seen before. Dimly, you remembered the holovid mentioning that the medkits were tamper-proof, with latches designed to be operated only by sentients. You weren’t sure whether the sentient-operated design was one you endorsed, especially since you couldn’t manage to pry them open, even as a sentient yourself. 

“They’re sent-op latches,” Kix reminded you. 

You gritted your teeth in an effort to hold back a biting retort. “I realize that. I’m just having trouble opening them.”

“The holovid showed you how to open them.”

The underlying meaning being that you should remember how to use the latches. Or that you hadn’t been paying attention. Both of those conclusions frustrated you because, despite paying attention, you didn’t remember how to operate the latches. 

“I don’t have a perfect memory, not like you do,” you countered. Your irritation made the factual statement sound snappish. Kix frowned and you shook your head, regret spiking in your chest. Just because you thought he was condescending didn’t mean you could be rude. “I didn’t mean it like that…”

“Do you need something to eat?” 

The sudden change in topic made you stare. “Wh-what?” 

“Your hands are shaking,” Kix pointed out, already bustling to a nearby cabinet. Before you could get more than two words into your explanation, he was back and pressing a small packet of crackers into your hands… Which, you had to admit, were noticeably shaking.

“Are you feeling okay?” he continued. “Eat and I’ll get you something to drink. I think I’ve got some juice around here. I haven’t seen anything noteworthy in your medical records, but we can run some tests-”

“Kix, I’m fine,” you interrupted. “I’m nervous, not sick.”

He pulled up short, squinting at you. “Nervous? Why are you nervous?”

“Well, I’m not sure…” you drawled slowly, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Maybe it’s because I’m being tested on a half-learned set of procedures by a hyper-competent medical officer?”

“You shouldn’t be nervous,” Kix assured you. 

You rolled your eyes. “Kix, put yourself in my position. You wouldn’t be nervous if you were me?”

“I’m already nervous.”

You would have taken it as a joke, a dry little comment meant to either put you down slightly or attempt to put you at ease (failure though it would be). However, the surprised and regretful look on Kix’s face told you that wasn’t the case. 

“You’re nervous?” you asked, feeling stunned. “Why would you be nervous?”

“It’s not- That isn’t-” Kix cut himself off with a sharp sigh and an impatient turn, like he had other things he needed to do. But now that you knew what to look for, you saw past the cool, professional facade. He really was on-edge. “You aren’t an easy person to get to know.”

If the galaxy had given you a thousand guesses, that wouldn’t have been among them. “Get to know me? I don’t understand.”

Another sigh. “You know the men talk amongst themselves, right?”

“Yes, I know,” you told him with a shrug. You had seen the troopers gossip in the mess hall, on the bridge, in hallways… anywhere, really. “They aren’t exactly subtle.”

“Of course not,” Kix agreed, shaking his head in exasperation and mild amusement. “But you may not know that they have plenty to say about you.”

You winced. “Anything I need to explain?”

Kix frowned for a moment in confusion, then barked out a laugh. “No, nothing concerning. They say good things about you. Really good things, actually. Mostly that you’re hardworking and trustworthy and funny. And there’s the- Well, the… You know you’re good-looking, right?”

Now it was your turn to give a sharp laugh. “Pretty rich coming from the best-looking trooper in the GAR.”

Any embarrassment you may have felt at saying that directly to Kix’s face was negated by the fact that you had heard the comment parroted word-for-word at least two dozen times since you had first stepped aboard the Resolute. 

And you made sure your tone showed that, too. 

Kix grinned anyway, as cocky as you would have expected if the compliment had been given by you alone. “Flattery won’t make me forget the rest of the assessment, but you’re welcome to keep trying.”

“Don’t get too excited,” you warned him, watching his expression stay exactly the same despite it. “I also think you’re rude and condescending.”

Finally a reaction - Kix grimaced slightly. “Because of the genetic superiority comment?”

“Yes.” If the confirmation came out flat and a little dry, it was still better than anything else that may have escaped you.

“Yeah, Denal told me I karked that one up pretty badly,” he admitted, looking a little sheepish. “I’ve wanted to make it up to you, but I was trying to let you make the first move and you never acknowledge me.”

That made you frown in realization. “Wait, is that why you’re always hanging around? Trying to get me to talk to you?”

Now Kix was frowning, too. “Yes? Why else would I do it?”

“Honestly, I thought you were showing off,” you replied. “You always seemed to be doing something to prove how great a soldier you are or how skilled you are at being the 501st’s medic.”

Kix ducked his head, handsome face reddening slightly. “Well, if I was going to be around anyway, I thought it might help if you thought I was good at my job.”

“That’s never been in question,” you countered, feeling exasperated. “Anyone can see you’re good at your job, Kix. But all it made me feel was intimidation.”

And attraction, a traitorous little voice reminded, not incorrectly. You pushed it away, but not soon enough. Whatever Kix had read in your expression, it was enough to give him a look that was almost gleeful.

“What was that?”

“I didn’t say anything,” you denied.

“No, but you didn’t have to.” Kix took a step toward you, putting himself squarely in touching distance. You got the distinct feeling it was meant to be for your benefit. “Come on, tell me what that face was about.”

The resulting argument was short, but longer than was worth it. Eventually, you sighed. “Like I said, you’re a good-looking man. Can we move on?”

“On one condition.”

You frowned at the cryptic answer. “And that is?”

“Spend some time with me,” he requested. “Just dinner here on the ship. Any time you want before we get back to Coruscant. And then it’s up to you - if you want to keep seeing each other, say the word and I’ll plan a better date planetside. What do you think?”

The pause you took to think it over was about twice the time you actually needed, but it was soothing the remains of your irritation to see him start looking nervous. At last, you took pity on him. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” Kix said, gracing you with a small but sincere smile that spread over his handsome face. That smile turned into a grin the next moment as he nodded toward your hands. “I still need you to open that medkit, though.”

Your groan was loud and mostly theatrical, interrupted by Kix’s laugh and broken by your own.

---

Author's Note - I feel like I've written very few fics featuring Kix (other than Nobody Listens to Kix), so I wanted to write one. Thanks for reading. I hope you liked it!

You can find other works on my masterlist or sign up for my taglist here!

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[somedaylazysomeday]

An Emissary of the (Goblin) King

Your quiet life as a teacher falls apart when a student wishes you away. Eventually, Jareth has to decide what to do with you.

Jareth x fem!reader (no use of 'y/n')

*This was written for a request in which the reader was supposed to be plus-sized. As such, there are a few scattered references to weight and body shape.

**Not related to my other Labyrinth works.

Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 6,800

Warnings: themes of being forgotten, slight loss of identity, bar flirting, slight harassment, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, creampie.

Masterlist

---

When you had gotten wished away in your thirties, you were… perturbed. 

After all, you had been long past the days of fairy tales and make-believe. Magic was a lovely story element for children, a way to encourage their imaginations and allow them to dream of the impossible. But it wasn’t real. 

At least, that had been your theory between the ages of ten and thirty-something. Then, one of your second-grade students in the after-school tutoring session had gotten upset with you. You had told him that he couldn’t have a second helping of snacks unless he agreed to work on his math problems with you. He had been struggling with subtraction in particular, but was so energetic that it was difficult for him to focus. 

You hadn’t really been able to blame him - it was after school hours and the sun was beginning to set, throwing beams of blazing orange light from beneath a carpet of dark purple clouds. It was the perfect counterpoint to the playfully spooky Halloween decorations you had put up around the room. 

Anyway, when you had insisted that your student sit down and focus on his math sheet before you let him have another handful of gummy worms, he had pouted his tiny face. With an impressive amount of venom for a six-year-old, he said, “Well, I wish the goblins would take you away right now.”

You were still wearing an indulgent smile when you appeared in the straw-strewn throne room with an anticlimactic pop!

The Goblin King was lounging on his uncomfortable-looking throne, watching you with his own indulgent smile. “Wished away by a child, were you? Pity. He likely meant nothing by it, but… well, what’s said is said. I doubt he will opt to run the labyrinth, but let us see if he calls.”

Operating under the idea that you had fallen and given yourself a rather nasty concussion, you simply nodded and took a seat on the cleanest section of the stone floor you could find. It was quiet in the throne room, though you could hear the unmistakable sounds of distant chaos.

It had started small - brushing a piece of straw from the stone slab next to you. It fell into the pit and that made you feel a little better. Then you pushed the straw from the next stone, and the next until the section around you was clear. Then you started using your feet to push the straw down the stairs until it was gathered in a neat pile at the bottom. 

“Would you like a broom?” the man with the wild hair asked. You were cautious when you faced him, but he simply looked amused. 

“And a dustpan, if you don’t mind.”

He shook his head. “Unnecessary.”

You hadn’t bothered asking what that meant. Instead, you applied yourself to neatening the throne room, working from the edges and sweeping all the debris toward the pit in the center of the room. Even the brown dots - ones you hoped were mud but suspected were some kind of dried fecal matter - lifted easily enough under the stiff bristles of the broom. 

At last, the room was clean and you swiped your forearm across your perspiring face. You didn’t know how the pit was going to get clean, but you were going to be miffed if the answer was ‘you’. 

When you caught movement from the corner of your eye, you jumped. You hadn’t forgotten the room’s other occupant - how could you? - but he moved with such impossible silence that you couldn’t track him with hearing alone. 

The man came to stand beside you and you took the chance to study him subtly. He looked… strange.

You shook yourself, reflexively berating yourself for the unkind thought, but you hadn’t been wrong. His face was narrow, flaring out at the cheekbones. His eyes were mismatched, but not in a heterochromatic way. No, one of his eyes was bluish-green while the other was simply black, as if it were entirely pupil. 

His hair was long and straight, though cut at various lengths that left it tapering from his  head down. Like a shag haircut on steroids. You were a little jealous and had vaguely started wondering whether you would be able to pull off the style when he turned. You realized just how tall he was. 

His mismatched stare was heavy and intense, and you redirected your attention as soon as possible. You opted to look at the pit instead, to take in the pile of straw and droppings, but it was gone. 

“What happened to the straw?” you asked, bewildered by the empty pit in front of you.

He smirked, lips twisting with an amusement that didn’t reach his eyes. “I discarded it, of course.”

“No, you didn’t,” you contradicted. “I’ve been standing there the whole time.”

“I used magic,” he clarified.

“Magic isn’t real.” 

The man’s eyes widened, then narrowed at you. “Have you not yet realized that you’re in a different place than you were when you were wished away?” 

“You said that earlier,” you remembered. “‘Wished away’. What do you mean?”

“At last, the typical questions,” he sighed. “Admittedly, far later than they are usually asked. Allow me to explain.”

The explanation that followed had been interesting, if mildly ludicrous: the man was actually a fae named Jareth. He collected lost and wished away items, though the only ones of them people cared enough to chase down were living things. He guarded the Labyrinth, collected the living things that appeared in the Underground - mostly children and pets, as he had explained - and allowed the wishers to run the Labyrinth if they wanted their disappeared item back. 

It could have been a far shorter explanation if you hadn’t been far more convinced by your concussion theory. 

In the end, Jareth had gotten tired of listening to your counterarguments and had sent you to ask Hoggle the rest of your questions. Hoggle had answered your questions… eventually. With a lot of complaining and work between giving those answers. You didn’t mind - work was something to keep you from running in circles in your own thoughts, and you learned a lot about the Labyrinth and the Underground simply by following Hoggle around. 

Jareth didn’t call you back to the throne room for nearly a week. 

“It seems as though your wisher is not going to run for you,” he said, taking on an expression he may have thought looked pitying. “He is at home with his mother, playing and eating and sleeping quite well without another thought of you. Quite the heroic youth."

“He’s six!” you reminded, mildly outraged at Jareth’s censure. “Even if he had offered, I wouldn’t want him running your labyrinth. It’s a death trap.”

Jareth’s expression had flattened at your insult, his mismatched eyes glittering with irritation. “Whether he would have run or not is irrelevant in the end. The real question is: what is to be done with you?”

“I…” You disliked asking questions you already knew the answers to, but there was nothing to be gained by playing things cool. “Could I go back home?”

“No.”

The blunt answer, though exactly what you had expected, still made you wilt. 

Jareth, for all that he made you nervous, didn’t look cruel about it. In a voice that was kinder than you had hoped, he said, “Even if I would agree to send you home, it would be impossible. You have been here too long. You have eaten and drank from the Underground. A single bite, a single sip… those could be reasoned with. Enough to influence a dream, forge a connection. But anything more? You are of this place now, more one of us than one of them.”

You wanted to argue, but something in your chest agreed, some nameless tangle of a thing recognizing that everyone and everything you had known were ‘them’. And you were not. 

Not anymore.

You had expected to be eaten by the Firies or thrown into the Bog or at least turned into a goblin, but Jareth had given you a different job: you were to be his hands and eyes in the human world.

“After all, no one will wish their belongings to me if they are ignorant of my existence,” he had told you. “You will spread information. Books and legends, stories told by firelight and in dark rooms as their occupants drift to sleep.”

And that was your task, had been for an eternity before you thought to check what year it was at all. People didn’t recognize you when you went to the human world, not even if you happened upon someone you had once known. That was fortunately rare, and became more so as the years faded. You didn’t seem to age, not the way you had. Perhaps there was an extra strand of silver in your hair or an aching joint where there never had been before, but it was uncommon. 

Oh, you looked the same as you always had. You could verify that any time you were on the surface. Just then, for instance, you were standing outside of a bar and could see yourself in the shine of the old-fashioned, gilt-edged windows. You were generously curved as you had been before, your face the same shape. 

If you stared too long, though, you could catch something strange in your face, in the way you walked. Nothing overt, of course, but something that made you look… sharp. Wild. It drew some attention when someone watched you for too long. The mask of your humanity - what remained of it, anyway - fell away with exposure. From there, it could go either way. Sometimes, humans fled like prey before a predator. Other times, they hit on you. 

Had humanity always been like this? So willing to run into danger? You didn’t think so, but it was getting difficult to remember. 

Either way, you had barely sat down at the bar and ordered a glass of wine before someone slid onto the barstool beside you. To be fair, you couldn’t be too upset about it. You had been searching for company.

“I’ll pay for that,” the man announced to the bartender. The bartender didn’t look like she could have cared less, but she managed a nod. “So, what’s your name?”

“I’m much more interested in learning yours,” you deflected. 

The stranger beamed at that and you smiled back. If you had your way, he wouldn’t learn your name. Even if he did, he would forget it before the day ended and you would never see him again. You would feel guilty about that, but you needed him for temporary relief from your body’s needs, nothing more. 

He could never be anything more. 

You pushed all of that from your mind and focused on your partner for the evening. He was handsome, the type of person you dated before you were wished away. It was getting harder to remember those days. 

The man’s personality was a little intense, but that tended to ease back a bit after someone realized that you weren’t going to disappear from them… yet.

Two drinks in, you had offered a smile that was almost genuine and were getting ready to suggest a change in location when your chest vibrated.

That wasn’t quite the right way to phrase it, but it was a difficult sensation to describe. It felt as though your ribcage and all of the organs it protected shook in tandem. The closest you had ever come to pinpointing the sensation was to compare it to the ringing of a gong, though thankfully, without the noise of the actual strike. 

The sensation was a warning that the Goblin King wanted you back in the Underground. It would happen more often the longer you ignored the summons, and would eventually grow painful. 

You rarely let it continue that long.

“I have to go,” you told your potential partner, standing abruptly from the stool and handing your credit card to the bartender. “Drinks are on me.”

At least, you assumed it was a credit card. It had no numbers or identification on it and you certainly didn’t have any money, but you had never had trouble paying for anything with it. Jareth had given it to you with minimal explanation. 

“Hang on-” the man protested, catching at your arm. You looked at his hand, then at him. Some of your strangeness must have shown through, since he slowly withdrew. He wasn’t wary enough, since he continued to speak. “What happened? I thought this was going somewhere.”

“It was,” you agreed simply, accepting your card from the bartender and scrawling a series of loops on the receipt she slid toward you. “Now it’s not.”

Fortunately for your almost-partner for the evening, he thought better of trying to physically stop you again and you left the bar unaccosted. 

Transportation to the Underground was rarely as dramatic as it had been that first time. Instead of a sudden, jarring switch in location, it happened as a slow fade. In this instance, you were walking and your surroundings seemed to blur slightly. When you could see clearly once more, you were in the Goblin King's throne room. 

Your forward motion hadn’t stopped, but it was far more risky to keep walking with the goblins thronging around your feet. You looked down at the group currently blocking your way and said, “Excuse me.”

The goblins - who had apparently been occupied in some kind of chicken-based game, shrieked and tumbled to either side. You continued toward the throne. 

For his part, Jareth was pretending he hadn’t noticed you yet. Instead, he was sprawled across his throne and studying the riding crop he had resting across his knees. Most observers would believe he was pensive, utterly lost in thought, but you knew better. Jareth loved to be watched, and if he could convince you that you had chosen to look without any prompting from him, so much the better. 

“You summoned me, sir?” you asked, reaching the base of the throne and offering a small incline of your head. 

Jareth glanced over, managing to look surprised, curious, and haughty. “Yes, I want a report on your progress.”

“Do you mind if I dismiss your subjects?” 

“As if you do not number among them?” Jareth tested, a corner of his mouth quirking upward knowingly. When you simply maintained eye contact, he gave a slight nod. “Very well, if it would please you.”

With effort, you managed not to shake your head at him. You were well able to focus even with the din of goblins around you, but Jareth took any respite he could get from them. 

“Can you all go downstairs for a while?” you asked, directing the question to the room at large. “I need to speak with the king.”

“You’s is speaking to him now,” one squeaky goblin pointed out, sounding sullen. 

Before the others could agree, you quickly cut in and diverted them. “You’re right, I am. But we need to talk about some very boring stuff and we need the room to be quiet. If you want to stay, you can’t make any noise. In fact, you could even help clean the throne room…”

You didn’t have a chance to say anything else, the goblins rushed out of the room in a panicked tide. You smirked at the receding wave of excitable, temperamental creatures. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since you had taught six and seven year-olds, but the goblins weren’t so different from human children. 

When you turned around, Jareth was sitting on the throne like it was a chair rather than a fainting couch. One of his eyebrows was raised and he looked impressed despite himself. “Someday, you must help me gain such mastery over my subjects.”

“Impossible,” you told him flatly. “They’re too focused on impressing you.”

“That has always been my burden to bear,” the Goblin King drawled, preening slightly as you tried not to roll your eyes. 

Jareth was the king. If you were to be technical about it, he was your king. He had left you alive when he didn’t need to. Even more than that, the nature of the job he had given you meant you had certain powers. The Goblin King did not bestow those lightly. You felt like you owed him at least basic respect, if not anything more subservient.

Besides, Jareth had enough people - well, goblins - trying to respond to his every need. You liked to think that he enjoyed the bits of personality you were willing to share with him. 

Rather than voice any of that aloud, you gave a shallow nod. "But you summoned me for a purpose. What do you need?" 

With the amusement still dancing across his fine features, Jareth tilted his head at you. "The work I gave you has never taken so long. I wanted an update on your progress." 

"My…" For the first time since you had found yourself in this strange land, you were thrown off by Jareth. He had never given any deadlines for your work, never ordered you to be done by a specific time. In fact, the opposite had been true. On the rare occasions that you worried about how long something took, Jareth was the first to remind you that he - and, by extension, you - had all the time that would ever exist. 

You managed to scrape together a semblance of competence. "An update. Yes. I can- That is, the work you gave me is complete. I distributed the books, set up special showings of the film, and orchestrated the release of some photographs." 

"All of that has been done?" Jareth checked. When you nodded, he gave you a stern look. "Then why did you not return to me immediately?"

As if on cue, something low in your stomach gave a heaving, disgruntled throb. You had never been overly desire-driven when you were fully human, and you blamed that for your current awkwardness - sex had never been common enough for you to grow blunt about your need for it. But you still had that need, and your body’s complaints were almost enough to drown out the weight of Jareth’s stare. Almost.

“I was in the middle of a different task,” you replied, trying to make it sound as bland as possible. Jareth’s attention span was stronger than that of his subjects, but he still made a concerted effort to avoid boring subjects. “Nothing of importance.”

Jareth studied his hands. “No, I imagine there is not much of importance in a dirty tavern.”

You froze. Not that you had been moving very much before, but every muscle locked down in response to the pointed revelation that Jareth could and did know where you went when you were Aboveground. “I-”

“You?” Jareth repeated mockingly. “Yes, you. You allowed a human to ply you with alcohol, then to paw at you. Though I suspect, given the tone of your conversation, that is far more innocent than what you would have done if I had not summoned you back here.”

“But how-”

Your question cut off abruptly when Jareth made a noise of impatience, tapping his cheekbone twice, just below his human eye.

“You watch me?” you demanded, surprise turning swiftly to anger and embarrassment. “Why?”

Jareth treated the question as literal rather than rhetorical, musing for a moment before he answered. “At first, to see if you intended to flee. It would not have worked, but it is always amusing to see humans try. Then, to be certain that you were performing your tasks to my standards. And finally…” The smile on Jareth’s face was indolent, with more than a hint of mischief. “Simply because I can.”

Glaring at an omnipotent fae king was probably not the wisest thing you could do, but your fury made you bold. “And have you watched me during my personal time before?”

Jareth let his head loll toward you for the best view of his self-satisfaction. “Yes.”

With a barely stifled noise of outrage, you spun with every intention of storming out of the room. Unfortunately for you, the powers Jareth had allotted you were nothing compared to his own. Without a sound or a motion from him, Jareth ordered the heavy doors to swing closed and there was nothing you could do to force them open once more. 

“I do not see why you are so offended,” Jareth told you, conversational tone coming from nearer than his throne. “I am well aware that humans have needs.”

“Then why interrupt me…” Your hissed demand had caught in your throat when you turned to find Jareth much closer than anticipated. The Goblin King twisted his head slightly to one side, matching the smirk that twisted his lips. You cleared your throat. “Why interrupt me when you know I’m occupied? Like you said, I have needs. It doesn’t help anyone if I’m too busy to meet them.”

“You are missing the most obvious solution,” Jareth informed you, spreading his hands to either side. “I can help meet those needs.”

“You?” you repeated skeptically. 

Jareth’s arms dropped and he looked almost offended. “And why not me?”

It may have been a rhetorical question, but you gave it as much thought as he had to your earlier question about his reasoning. “Well, you don’t seem like you would be interested. You don’t usually do things unless you have something to gain.”

“Have I not struck you as altruistic?” he asked. You shook your head, opting for honesty above tact. “Good. You are right, I don’t perform favors out of something as naïve as kindness. I have much to gain from this offer.”

“Like what?” you asked. The suspicion in your voice was so thick as to be almost comical, but Jareth didn’t seem offended.

“Pleasure,” he answered simply. “Do you want to meet your needs now? Or will you wait until the next time you have a spare moment to be disappointed by some human in a bar?”

You thought about waiting, you really did. Jareth was cocky enough without giving him access to something as personal as your pleasure. But you were growing close to desperation. That could make you more likely to be careless in Aboveground, something you weren’t willing to risk.

“You’re right,” you said. “It is the most obvious solution.”

The only thing that saved you from the self-congratulatory smile that slid across Jareth’s face was the fact that you erased it with your lips a moment later.

The Goblin King’s teeth were sharp. It had been one of the first things you noticed when you met him so long ago, but you were still a little shocked to be confronted by that sharpness when you slipped your tongue between his lips. 

Jareth’s surprise rivaled your own, though for different reasons. For half a moment, he seemed taken aback by your ardor, but he recovered and took control of the kiss before you could get used to the taste of him. He was like the sweetest wine, and you were instantly addicted.

A hand latched around your jaw kept your head positioned just where Jareth wanted it, and he swept through you like a hurricane. It was all you could do to keep up with him, but you were the first one to succumb to wandering hands. 

His clothes were always so decadent, and you had been waiting a long time to see if they felt as lovely as they looked. You were delighted to say that they did - textures sliding and dancing beneath your fingertips - but you were more focused on what you felt under those clothes.

The heat of Jareth’s skin was immense even through his clothing, enough to pull an answering sensation of heat from you. Every item of clothing you removed from him ratcheted the temperature further up until you felt like there was fire under your skin. 

Halfway through removing Jareth’s ostentatious cape, you pulled away to deposit it safely on his throne. It wouldn’t do to have it trampled by goblins or, worse, land in chicken excrement. 

Jareth muttered complaints for every moment you were away from him, pulling you impatiently closer the moment you were in arm’s reach. “I don’t know why you did that. I intend for that throne to be our next destination.”

You cast an assessing glance toward the door. It looked heavily barred, and you hadn’t been able to budge it, but there was a distinct possibility… “Fine with me, as long as you’re sure we won’t be interrupted. I don’t want to toss any of your subjects from the window of your throne room.”

“The door is locked,” he assured you, ducking his head to press wet kisses down your neck before blowing gently across his handiwork. 

With a shiver at the abrupt shift in temperature, you nodded. “And no goblin has ever managed to circumvent a locked door before.”

Jareth paused, clearly intent on undoing your shirt, but gave a marvelously exasperated groan. “Fine.”

Your triumph was cut off by an abrupt shriek as Jareth pulled you into his arms so strongly that your feet left the floor. “Jareth! What are you doing?”

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this, pet,” he replied, pouting. “I’m not wasting any more time.”

And then he was striding toward a section of the throne room that looked distinctly… soft around the edges, and you recognized it as a portal. All of that was secondary, of course, to the ever-present awareness of being held in Jareth’s arms. 

As someone with a proud set of curves, you could count on one hand the number of times you’d been lifted by a lover. That was a shame, since being carried was something of a weakness for you, especially when you weren’t worried about being dropped. And nothing in Jareth’s expression or posture warned that he was about to run out of strength. 

You were still basking in the sensation as Jareth stepped through the portal and into a room that was nearly as large as the throne room. The major differences were that there was no pit and that the place of the throne was occupied by the largest bed you had ever seen. 

A smile stretched across your face as Jareth set you down on that large bed, and he frowned at you. “What is amusing you?”

“This bed is enormous,” you explained. “Yet I’ve never seen you with anyone.”

“I’ve had a partner here on numerous occasions,” he told you haughtily. “Perhaps you have not seen them because you are so busy finding partners among the humans.”

“Perhaps,” you agreed readily enough. “Or perhaps it has been such a long time that your last partner and I missed each other.”

“That…” Jareth’s lips pursed, “...is possible.”

You didn’t necessarily remember closing your eyes while you laughed at that, but you must have. When you opened them once more, Jareth was looming over you. “Pleased as I am to provide amusement, there are other noises I would rather pull from you.”

Your breath caught at the rough admission. Jareth’s face descended before you could scrape up a response, and then you were too concerned with meeting the intoxicating rhythm of his mouth against yours. 

The next thing you knew, you were resting more securely on the bed with Jareth holding himself above you. Both of you were fully naked and you had no idea how you had gotten that way. Most likely, he had used his magic to remove your clothing, but it was possible that you had been too thoroughly distracted by his kisses to worry about something as minor as what his hands were doing. 

In any case, you were reveling in the way your hands could roam over him without encountering any barriers. Jareth’s body was pale, muscles dancing subtly under his skin. That paleness was marked with occasional scars - silvery marks that spoke of injuries from long ago. You couldn’t see much of him below the mid-torso since he was pressed so tightly to you, but you could feel the delicious length of him, hot and hard against your thigh. 

When Jareth finally pulled away, he only went far enough to make eye contact without either of you crossing your eyes. “I want to taste you. Is that acceptable to you?”

“You’re the king,” you reminded him with a sardonic smile. 

Jareth’s jaw flexed and his mismatched eyes narrowed. “Precisely. Which is why I expect an honest answer when I ask a question. Do you want this?”

“Yes.” The confirmation was a little breathless, but Jareth’s reply had been unexpected for someone who placed such an emphasis on retaining control. “Yes, I do.”

“Good,” he told you with a nod. 

His patronizing tone might have set your teeth on edge, but Jareth accompanied it with a praising stroke down the length of your body. His fingertips trailed fire from your collarbone, over one breast, across the swell of your stomach, and down to the part of you that was aching for him. At the same time, he slid down until his face was even with your hips and you could hardly keep still with the anticipation filling you. 

With your knees already parted around him, Jareth had only to wedge his shoulders between your thighs to gain full access to your core. The sudden exposure to the air of the room sent a chill through the parts of you that were burning the hottest, but the coolness only heightened the sensations. 

Jareth didn’t give you any warning, any time to brace. Instead, he ducked his head suddenly, swiping the flat of his tongue from the bottom of your slit to the very top. He paused for a moment while you made a sound of startled pleasure, his lips quirking. 

“Delicious,” he told you. “I wonder if you’re even sweeter inside?”

Before you could offer any reply, Jareth apparently decided to see for himself. One of your legs was tossed over his shoulder while he pinned the other to the bed. That was the only thing that kept you from trying to strangle him with your thighs when he began to torment you in earnest. 

Those plush lips and wicked tongue explored every part of you, wringing pleasure from you like it was something precious he could save for later. 

An elegant finger pushed into your core, pressing into the heat and slickness of you without a bit of difficulty. Your muscles spasmed so dramatically that it forced you to sit up - or, more accurate, to try. Jareth’s arm across your hips kept you pinned to the bed, leaving you to writhe, squeeze your legs around him, and cry out your pleasure loud enough for the entire castle to hear. The hand pressing you into the softness of the mattress strummed fingers across your hip.

With an expression that felt wild with pleasure, you stared down between your own thighs and clenched even harder around that finger. Your eyes had met Jareth’s mismatched gaze where it peeked over the roundness of your tummy. Mischief glimmered on what you could see of his face, and there was a clear sense of enjoyment in his bearing. 

That eye contact sent an electric thrill through you, and you were gone. Your head kicked back against the pillow and you seemed to leave your body for an eternity, shattering into infinite pieces under the onslaught of pleasure Jareth was using to assault you.You may have made a noise - probably had, if you were judging from your experience so far - but you couldn’t hear it over the way your ears rang with the sound of your mind shattering. 

When you finally settled back into your body again, it felt too small to possibly contain everything you had felt. Jareth was applying long, luxurious licks to your core, sweeping over the entirety of your slit and it was all you could do to push him away. 

Jareth gave you a moment to collect your breath, but soon enough, he was peering down at you with no small amount of pride on his strange face. “Will you recover?”

You were a bit embarrassed by the strength of your reaction to him, but you managed a smile and a nod. “Guess I needed that more than I thought. It’s been a while.”

The fae tilted his head to the side, a hint of a smile showing the white points of his teeth. “My dear, do you honestly believe I have lived so long without learning to draw pleasure from someone? Your state of arousal has little to do with it.”

The post-orgasmic glow kept you from mustering the scoff that deserved. After delivering a sad little huff, you told him, “Humble as ever, Goblin King.”

“I would so hate to leave you with an inaccurate idea of my skill,” Jareth drawled. “I would be happy to provide further proof at your earliest convenience.”

Your breath caught in your throat, leading to an embarrassing cough. On the positive side, that cough gave you a moment to internally puzzle through that. Was Jareth volunteering to do this again sometime? He was technically your boss and your king, and thus a romantic connection you had never experienced before, but you couldn’t honestly say you wouldn’t be with him again. Even ignoring the pleasure - difficult as that was - you… really wouldn’t mind repeating this experience. 

“Uh, okay,” you said elegantly. 

Jareth simply smiled at you, but something about his intent gaze warned that he understood your thoughts as clearly as he did his own. Still, all he said aloud was, “Did that satisfy you, pet? Or would you perhaps like to continue?” 

Before you could fight it, your gaze dropped to the apex of his thighs. He was visibly hard and ready for you, his body betraying an eagerness that was totally hidden in his expression. Despite his state of arousal, Jareth was still giving you the option to be done with him. As he was known for his lack of tact, you recognized and appreciated the effort Jareth was putting into making you comfortable. 

And what better way was there to show your appreciation than to offer some relief?

“I think I might need a little more,” you told him, playing coy. You even added a demure drop of your gaze, though you could see him through your lashes. 

That was how you watched when Jareth’s expression sharpened, though his voice stayed careless. “I don’t believe in offering partial respite. I shall see this task through until it is complete.”

The smile that fought to spread across your face was only stifled by the way Jareth caught at your ankle and pulled you further down the bed. He surged upward at the same time until you were firmly beneath him. The fae dotted your face, jaw, and neck with kisses as he settled heavily on top of you. Your legs parted automatically to wrap around his waist and draw him closer, but you were taken aback when the length of him pressed against your still-sensitive core.

You were still surfing the wave of heightened sensation when you felt the tip of Jareth’s length notch into your opening. 

Jareth’s fingers trailed from your forehead down to your jaw, turning your head until he could peer into your face. “Are you ready for me, pet?”

“Yes,” you agreed eagerly. “Please…”

“Don’t beg, sweet thing,” he instructed. “You never need to beg for me.”

And then he was driving into you - robbing you of any ability to process that.

Jareth had seemed to have an average build below the waist, as you had expected from his elegant physique and slender limbs. Still, he felt earth-shattering as he eased inside of you, enough to take your breath away even considering how wet you were with the remains of your earlier orgasm. 

You were utterly still as he pressed in, locked in place by the amount of concentration you had fixed on the feeling of him. But the first time he withdrew from the depths of you, every part of you writhed beneath him. Your hands grasped, your toes curled, your head tilted in an attempt to ease the groan that fought for release from your throat. 

Jareth swallowed that groan, dipping down easily to sweep through your mouth just as thoroughly as he had the first time. He plundered you greedily, feeding on the sounds you made for him as his hips danced closer and away, closer and away. 

Infuriatingly, he kept you - and himself - poised on the edge of orgasm for an eternity, slowing whenever either of you came too close to the precipice. Jareth chased pleasure eagerly, though, tormenting you with fingers and lips to push you higher without allowing you the relief of release.

“Jareth, please,” you begged as his hips slowed once more.

He arched a brow at you. “Yes, pet? What do you need?”

“I-” You gave a hoarse gasp as a deliberate twist of his hips left the length of him brushing against your g-spot. It was followed by a noise of frustration when his pace slowed to a fraction of what it had been. “Please, I need to come.”

His smile was so sudden that it looked almost fierce. “My dear, why did you not tell me earlier?”

A retort sprang to your lips, but it died there as he shifted infinitesimally inside of you. That minor change had devastating effects on the angle of his thrusts inside of you, which picked up speed until it was all you could do not to drown in him. 

Your body tightened around his as it had done so many times before, but he didn’t slow this time. Instead, his lips caught yours as his thumb strummed your clit.

That kiss was only broken when your orgasm hit you like a train, kicking your head back and dropping your mouth open so you could cry out from the incredible intensity of the pleasure that filled you. Your limbs curled around Jareth, constricting to keep him pressed against you as tightly as possible.

On his side of things, Jareth didn’t seem inclined to fight his imprisonment. His hips pistoned between your trembling thighs, burying himself in you over and over until - finally - his rhythm faltered. 

Those sharp teeth were bared in a snarl as he pushed himself as deeply as he could get. The warmth of his release flooded you. 

When the frantic pulses of his hips slowed, Jareth let himself drop on top of you. His weight was on you for a fraction of a second before he twisted to pull you on top of him instead. Since he was still buried in your core, the motion left you in the grip of an aftershock, but you recovered enough to move off of him. 

Jareth’s eyes were closed, but his hands lashed out to keep you from moving as soon as you started to. “I don’t know where you think you’re going, pet, but you are mistaken.”

“I’m just rolling off of you, Jareth,” you told him, exasperated. “If I crush you, it’ll be regicide and I can’t imagine a goblin trial is pleasant.”

“It isn’t,” he agreed, eyes still closed. “But mostly because they show an inability to focus on a single issue for more than seconds at a time. And as for being crushed by you… Not only is it an impossibility, but it sounds rather pleasant.”

“Jareth…” you sighed. 

That made him open his mismatched eyes and you were startled to see the changes in them. The blue-green of his human eye was expanding both toward the pupil and over the white sclera. The pupil-less darkness of his fae eye was doing the same, slowly working out until the entire orb of his eye was dark. 

When Jareth finally spoke, it was with a smile that showed his sharp teeth. “Did you know there is a difference in the way you say my name now?”

You paused, scanning over his face for a moment before you asked, “And what does that mean?”

Jareth didn’t immediately answer you, but his smile didn’t fade during the stretch of quiet. At long last, he said, “It means that things have changed between us. It means that I encourage you to seek to satisfy your needs in my bed. And it means that I chose the perfect person to serve as my emissary in the human world.”

That was significantly less worrisome than what you thought he would say. In fact, it was even… sweet. “I certainly never thought I would end up here, but I can’t say that I regret it.”

“Faint praise,” Jareth said dryly. “But praise nonetheless. We shall see whether we can further improve your outlook on your place in my kingdom.”

“I look forward to that,” you admitted, relaxing slightly into him. 

Jareth’s arms tightened around you, drawing you even closer. “As do I.”

---

Author's Note - Thanks for reading! I'm not officially accepting requests, but someone sent this one in and it caught my interest enough to help me break through some writer's block.

Happy Halloween!

I don't offer a taglist for spicy fics, but you can find other works on my masterlist.

[wanderinginksplot-writes]

Blog Announcement

Good afternoon! I haven't posted in a while and just wanted to give a quick update:

I am working on new chapters of existing fanfics, a few one-shots, and (as always) Rambles. I hope to start posting on a regular basis soon.

Currently, I am working on:

Gar Cyare - Yep, it's coming off of hiatus! I'm in the middle of plotting the rest of the story. I hope to have new chapters for you by mid-April or early May.

Refuge - I still need to reread this one and nail down the plot. Or, alternately, to decide that it doesn't really need an overarching plot and keep it as a fun little writing project. I haven't decided which yet.

Voices Carry - This one is definitely still in 'fun little writing project' territory! I might figure out an actual plot for it eventually, but right now, it's helping me explore the Nulls a little more closely.

One-Shots - I have a few of these I'm toying with. None that were requested, sadly, but my brain kicks out ideas occasionally that are too interesting for me to ignore.

Requests are still closed, though I occasionally put out a call for ideas for a specific character. Especially since I have a few masterlist entries for characters with only one fic and it bothers me. Keep an eye out for those if you're interested!

And, of course, this is my writing sideblog. There are no taglists. Other than occasional updates like this one, I will only post my fics on here, or reblog the occasional comment-reblog. I will tag everything with the story name and the main characters. Assuming tumblr's search function works (lol), you can find other chapters through the tags, through my masterlist, or using the internal navigation tools on every chapter.

Thank you all for your patience! I look forward to posting more regularly here!

[juniemunie]

Its the kids turn!! ⸜(˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝

i put way too much effort in this

Don't worry they're still FAR from the conventional nuclear family lmao

PJ is by @/7goodangel

Gradient is by @/askcomboclub

Template by @/unu-nunu-art

Error and Fresh by @/loverofpiggies

Ink by @/comyet

Design notes under!

Design Notes for PJ:

-Error patches up the tears on his scarf! Very nice of him to do.

-All the art materials he has stashed on his belt are for food. He likes to snack on em often.

-Because of Error's..."tolerance" of him, he has more strings that he can use. He's got enough to form legs.

-Fresh gifts him magical ink durable Heely shoes! Instead of shedding footprints all over the place, he can instead heely/skate around and leave behind lines. He's creative on using it during battles. He would never admit it, but he appreciates the gift.

Design Notes for Gradient:

-I based his outfit off ye old web aesthetics like Cyber Grunge,,, I really liked the big pants look on him.

-I placed his scarf on his neck to match with his family, but also to match Template's scarf hehe, a little sign of his influence.

-You can't see it but his laptop bag has a ton of pins and merch of random dated internet references.

-His shoes looking old design Ink's shoes were complete accident but I liked it enough to keep anyway. Maybe Ink gave it to him and he spiced it up!

[inkedmyths]

One of the hard parts about being a writer with a vivid imagination is that there are So Many Ideas, and they fall into so many categories, such as

Fics I want to write

Fics I want to read

There is just One Scene and I could write it but it would be waaaay more cool if I had all the build up to the scene but unfortunately. I can only figure out the Scene

I keep changing my mind. Where am I going with this

This has been done a million times before. But. Hear me out

I will 100% Never Write This. This is just my Emotional Support Idea no one can ever know about bc it makes sense only to me

Would be better as a comic...

This will be my magnum opus if I can just get my 50 pages of ideas into a coherent narrative

All I have are vibes

And, of course

WIP I started and haven't updated in 2 years and oh god its beEN TWO YEARS???

[inkbybambi]

dbf!john price shotgunning his cigar with you —

words: 5.2k rating: e warnings: smoking (cigarette/cigar), age gap, shotgunning, pet names and praises (darling, good girl, pretty girl), handjob, blowjob/deepthroating, cunnilingus, fingering, price is a consent king, panty stealing. please let me know if i missed something! notes: oh my god, this is pure filth. as always, minors dni as this work and my blog are 18+. dbf!trope makes my brain go fuzzy. enjoy!

he finds you in the bathroom, blowing smoke out the open window, half-empty pack of cigarettes by your side on the counter you're perched on, lighter tucked inside.

you're frazzled as he opens the door — as is he, assuming no one would be in the bathroom.

it's a habit you picked up from too many nights out with friends. you don't like how it tastes, but it's comforting and familiar and so you seek it out when overwhelmed or nervous.

and you are.

captain john price, your dad's best friend since before you were born.

he came over unexpectedly — or, unexpectedly to you, your father seems to have been anticipating him.

he's dressed down in civilian clothes — you've mournfully never been able to see him when he's in his gear — but he looks like a god damn greek god. he's so fucking attractive, you're convinced it's ruining your life.

boys have asked you out, here and there. but none of them have that beautiful mustache or eyes that crinkle in the corner when they smile or the ability to look fucking delicious puffing on a cigar.

you want to devour him.

you need to.

"sorry, love," and you have to suppress the shiver that crawls down your spine at the pet name. "didn't realize anyone was in here."

he lingers in the doorway, before stepping in and closing the door behind him, going to wash his hands.

"i could've had my panties down," you say back.

jesus fucking christ, what's wrong with you?

he seems to be biting back a smile, turning off the water and drying his hands. his eyes catch yours, glittering in the light, darker than before.

"wouldn't that have been a sight," he muses, pulling a cigar from his coat.

you swallow and shift as you feel arousal leak out, panties growing wetter by the second. you bring the cigarette back to your lips with a shaky hand, barely inhaling before you're coughing out the smoke, tears pricking your eyes at the sting.

he tilts his head as he regards you. you're beginning to feel like prey.

"may i?" he asks, nodding his head towards where the lighter is tucked into the pack, as he slips the tip of the fat cigar between his lips and fuck, you want to see his mouth against your pussy, licking into you and smearing your cum all over his stupid, attractive mustache and —

"s-sure," you squeak, fumbling for the lighter and holding it out to him.

he looks downright predatory as he steps into your space, slotting himself between your slightly parted legs, forcing them open so he stands between them easier.

he's so fucking close.

"go on, then," he says, a bit muffled, rolling the cigar with his teeth to settle it in the middle of his mouth, dark eyes never leaving yours.

you put the mostly-smoked cigarette between your teeth and use both hands to flick the lighter.

it takes an embarrassing amount of times before you get a steady flame going. a large hand wraps around your wrist as he holds the lighter steady, bringing the tip of the cigar down to light it.

you watch, enchanted, the tip glowing red. he leans back, one of his hands falling to settle on your knee as he uses the other to hold the cigar, taking it out to blow the smoke to the side.

"it's a nasty habit," he says, cigar back in his mouth as he pulls the dying cigarette from your mouth, the butt tinged with your lipstick.

"you're one to talk," you say, slowly and carefully bringing your fingers up to slip through his belt loops, pulling him that much closer.

he moves willingly.

"you ever smoke a cigar?" his voice is deeper, rougher.

you look to him, doe-eyed and glassy, voice soft.

"no, never."

he makes a noise of thought low in his throat and it goes straight to your cunt. if he presses just a bit closer, your hips would be flush together.

his hand — warm and comforting — slides up the base of your throat to hold your jaw, fingers pressing into the hinge.

"open up, darling," he murmurs. your mind goes blank, white noise in your ears and static in your head. you immediately open your mouth, and he makes another noise in his throat. it sounds like approval.

"good girl," he says — purrs — and you know he feels the way you swallow at the pet name, the praise. he crowds in that much closer and you feel the outline of his cock, half-hard, in his pants. you inhale through your nose, fingers tightening in his belt loop.

he inhales the cigar deeply, the tip burning a bright red, orange, yellow, and he pulls away and keeps his mouth sealed. he holds the cigar to the side, as not to burn you with any falling embers, moving to slant his lips over yours. he blows the smoke into your mouth, tongue pressing against yours for only a moment before he's pulling away, closing your mouth.

he nods towards the window after he deems that you've held it for long enough, and you blow out a small trickle of smoke. heat licks at the base of your spine.

"how's it taste?"

fuck if you know, too busy remembering the feel of his lips against yours, the way you felt his cock harden as he licked into your mouth. but the taste lingering on your tongue is heady — earthy and spicy and like something you abso-fucking-lutely should not be doing.

"i don't know," you whisper, other hand going to his waist to cling to him, legs tightening around his hips. "better," you add on, eyes dark and needy as you press into him.

he feels the heat of your cunt through your panties, the way you're sopping into the cotton. you're wearing a dress, one that shows off the tantalizing line of your collarbones, the dip of your sternum to your breasts, a slit in the side that shows a flash of your thigh when you walk.

he wants to fucking destroy you. sink his teeth into every available inch of your soft, sweet flesh. he wants to make the mark so deep that it bruises for days, possibly scars. he wants to know what your skin tastes like, especially between your thighs. wants to hear the way you cry and whine and beg for him, and he would give in so easily.

a man of his caliber, steadfast in the chaos of war and operations, thinking on his feet and willing to do whatever it takes to come out on top — he's brought to his knees at the prospect of having you, pressing you into his bed every morning and leaving you pliant and satisfied. the pleasure lingering just long enough to tide you over throughout the day until he gets home and gets to fuck you again, bury himself in your wet heat and watch as his cum spills from your puffy pussy, all slick from his mouth and spend.

he hums in this throat, bringing the cigar back to his lips to do it again. you straighten up that much more, eager as your eyes flit to his mouth, mouth already open in anticipation. he'd laugh at your eagerness if he wasn't so hard.

he moves his hand to wrap around your throat, watching as your eyes darken from the pressure. his mouth is on yours once more. you paw and grip at his shirt, as he moves to cradle the nape of your neck. he tilts your head to the side to seal your mouths together.

all pretense is dropped.

the cigar falls forgotten into the basin of the sink, a growl in john's throat as his free hand goes to your waist, fingers pressing in enough to bruise. he licks deeper into your mouth, your brain going fuzzy from the slick heat of his tongue dragging against yours.

he bites and nips at your lips, soothing it over with his tongue, and you dare to do it back, eyes fluttering open as you capture his bottom lip with your teeth, biting ever-so-slightly.

his eyes are nearly black.

trailing his mouth down the curve of your jaw, he situates you enough to pull your dress up to bunch around your hips. a pathetic whine leaves your throat as he pushes you away enough to pull the straps of your dress down, exposing your breasts to his eager mouth.

"so fuckin' beautiful," he pants against your collar, your head tipping back to give him better access.

you reach for his belt, cock pressing hard against his zipper. an animalistic sound reverberates through him as the clink of his belt echoes through the bathroom, the only other sound buried among sharp, short breaths and groans.

"darling — " he starts, moving as if to draw your hands away. a noise of protest stops his movement, as he pulls back to look at you, trying to clear his mind enough to talk.

"you don't have to," he says, voice wrecked but so, so soft.

your fingers continue their path, belt unbuckled, deft movements opening the button and carefully pulling the zipper down over the prominent bulge.

"but i want to," you whisper back. you'd give him anything he wanted, if he asked.

he takes a good, long moment to study you, palms surprisingly soft as they cup your face, looking for any signs of hesitation. the sincerity shines through so clearly in your eyes, bottom lip trapped beneath your teeth as your fingers dance around the waistband of his boxers.

you'll stop if he wants you to. you’ve never been with someone who’s cared so much about your comfort, but his eyes  are warm and a smile pulls at his lips, and your heart thumps a little harder between your ribs.

you lean up enough to drag your mouth over his jaw, kissing the tip of his chin, his beard tickling your lips. "please?"

he swallows hard, exhales through his nose before his fingers thread through your hair and pulls you in for a heated kiss, more teeth and tongue than before.

"go on, darling," he mumbles against your cheek, and he feels the smile that stretches on your lips as you push his boxers down enough to free his cock. you look down with rapt attention as your fingers curl over his length, thick enough that you can't touch the tips of your fingers together. he's hot in your palm, and he's so fucking big. your pussy clenches at the thought of him inside you.

"yeah?" he asks against your jaw, seeing your hand around him. his tip leaks pre-cum, and you drag your hand up to draw your thumb over the slit, watching as it spreads.

"yeah," you reply, dazed, unable to stop touching him.

he grips your hand to pull you off, chuckling at the pathetic noise you whine out, his name dripping in a tone that makes him ache. he doesn't say anything, and you lock eyes as he laves his tongue in a stripe over your palm, damp as he brings it back to wrap around him.

you pump your hand, adjusting your grip a few times until his breath hitches, burrowing into your neck and grazing his teeth along the column of your throat. you tilt your head to press your lips to the side of his head, gripping him more firmly and starting a rhythm of steady strokes.

"'ve thought about this," he confesses, gripping the counter beneath you. he's trying not to fuck up into your hand.

"did you get off to it?" you're breathy and dizzy, torn between focusing on how his dick feels in your hand — something you've been wanting for a while now — and the way his mustache and lips feel against your skin. it's awkward, and your rhythm falters here and there, but he isn't complaining.

"absolutely, i did," he answers, and it thrills you. pre-cum steadily drips from his slit and gets mixed in with your strokes. it's obscene, the sounds his cock makes as you get him off. he's breathing and groaning right against your ear. you think you could cum from the noises alone.

"christ," he grits out, teeth more insistent on your jaw. "doing so well for me, pretty girl. feels so fucking good."

the praise warms you, making you eager to please, eager to be good.

he drags his mouth from your jaw down to your throat, nipping and licking over the skin until he groans, and you feel his dick pulsing in your palm. he grips your wrist for you to stop. you do, but you tighten your hold on him as well, not willing to let go just yet.

"'m gonna cum, darling, fuck," he growls into your shoulder, trying to gain his composure. it's been so long since anyone touched him, and he's almost desensitized to the way he fucks his own fist. the fact that it's you with your hand wrapped around him, possessive and needy? he's surprised he's lasted this long.

"mouth?" you ask quietly and he has to blink to clear his vision, pulling back enough to see your eyes, nose brushing yours.

"hm?"

"can you cum in my mouth?" you offer again, and he damn near spurts all over you at the suggestion. "easier to clean up," you rationalize. 

you're not wrong, but god damn.

price takes in a steadying breath, then pulls back to look at you, face cupped in his hands. your eyes sparkle, lip caught between your teeth and you blink up at him with glassy, wide eyes. he pulls you in close to kiss you, far softer than anything before. he takes his time licking into your mouth, savoring how you taste — the remnants of the cigar is faint, but it’s there. it isn’t frantic or urgent, and it makes your heart ache. your free hand rests on the side of his face as you kiss back, trying to convey something you don't quite wish to name.

he drags his lips from yours, smearing them across your cheek and down your jaw, to the sensitive skin behind your ear. he bites gently at the lobe, voice rough and accent thick.

"right. on your knees, then."

he steps away just enough for you to slip from the counter to the floor, eyes dark as he watches each moment pass, not wanting to miss a single thing.

as you settle on your knees, he tucks a few errant strands of your hair behind your ear, ensuring nothing obscures his view of you. he cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your bottom lip as you brace your hands on his thighs, blinking your hazy eyes as you try to focus on his face instead of the way his cock hangs so close from where you pulled him from his boxers. you draw his thumb into your mouth with your tongue, and he presses down, a firm pressure. your lips close around the digit, gaze never wavering as your tongue swirls around it gently before sucking, his breath catching.

"c'mon darling," he says softly, drawing his thumb from your mouth and spreading the spit clinging to it across your lips. "don't make me wait too long."

you grip the base of his dick with one hand, taking a moment to lick around the head, gathering the pre-cum that drools from the tip. you dip your head down to lick a broad stripe from the base to the tip, drawing him into your mouth.

he groans low in his chest, one hand bracing on the counter while the other threads back through your hair, gripping on the side of a little too painful, but it feels so fucking good as you open your jaw further to accommodate his size, feeling each inch push into your mouth and to the back of your throat.

"mind your teeth, love," he notes, voice raspy and hoarse. you take a chance, grazing your teeth lightly on the sides of his cock, and his fingers tighten further.

"careful," he admonishes, the heat in his eyes licking down your spine. "be a good girl for me, yeah?"

fuck, you'll do anything he asks if he continues to call you that.

you pull off his length to lap at the head with small kitten licks, keeping your eyes on him, making sure he's watching when you take him back into the wet heat of your mouth, fingers digging into his thigh more firmly for balance.

you take him as far down your throat as you can manage before you choke, using your hand to pump what doesn't fit in your mouth. you move your mouth up and down his cock, working in time with your hand, each glide coating him in your spit, making it easier to take him.

he can't take his eyes away, pleasure numbing his system, entranced as he sees how good you take him, so eager to please. your mouth feels divine, the tip nudging the back of your throat, feeling the way you swallow around him.

"that's my girl," he praises as you take more and more of him each time, until you're able to remove your hand entirely and press your nose to the thatch of curls at his base.

"jesus christ, look at you, so fuckin' beautiful," he grits out as your throat pulses around him. you choke and sputter, pulling off him entirely, breathing heavily. your mouth is a mess, spit dripping down your chin, his cock soaking with it.

"don't hurt yourself," he breathes out, carding his fingers through your hair affectionately.

"i want you to..." but you're too embarrassed to say, never having been in this position before. never wanting to do it before.

price is patient, waiting for you to continue.

"want me to what, pretty girl?" he rumbles when you need more prompting. "don't be shy," he adds, content with cupping your face and taking in how you fit so nicely in the palm of his hand.

you shift uncomfortably, before your eyes linger on his cock, dripping with your spit and the last remnants of your lipstick. you feel empty without him in your mouth.

"fuck my throat," you voice, doing your best to keep your voice steady.

he looks proud — why had you been so shy in the first place? — thumb brushing over your cheek. he seems to be debating for a moment, before he squats down to your level, grip firm on your jaw as he draws you in for a filthy kiss before he's standing back up, pressing the tip of his cock against your lips.

"you tap my thigh twice if you need me to stop, yeah?" he asks, and the authority in his voice makes heat pool thick in your belly, aching to be filled. you nod, tongue sticking out to taste him.

before you're able to get your mouth back on him, however, he pulls you away. you whine low in your throat in protest, but his hold is firm.

"tell me."

"if i need to you to stop," you begin, leisurely stroking his cock — needing to always be touching him — "then i tap your thigh twice. sir," you add on as an afterthought but he snaps, pushing the head of his dick back in the welcoming heat of your mouth.

"gonna fuckin' ruin me, i swear," he growls, keeping a firm grip on your hair and waiting for you to drop your jaw, driving into your mouth when you do, slipping deeper with each thrust.

you grasp his thighs, never breaking eye contact. your eyes water the deeper he gets, but you'd rather cry your mascara off before tapping out.

his thrusts are rhythmic, measured — the sound of him fucking into your mouth bordering on pornographic. he pushes you down further, until you're choking, gagging, tears and saliva spilling down to your chin. your nails dig in hard, but you don't tap out.

"oh, fuck," comes his choked-off moan, hips snapping harder, rougher. pre-cum coats your tongue with each thrust, until he's burying himself fully down your throat, your nose pressed against the base of his cock.

it's wet and messy and you gurgle and cough around him, but you love it. his resolve is cracking.

"i can cum in that pretty mouth of yours, yeah?" he checks one last time, shuddering as you only moan in agreement.

he pulls back until the head is resting on your tongue. you open your mouth so he can see as he jerks the rest of his length quickly, a few more times before he spills against your tongue. thick streams of his spend coat your tongue. he thrusts weakly as he cums, riding out his orgasm, a frisson of pleasure sparking through him.

he pants as he withdraws his softened cock.

"show me," he commands, and you obediently open your mouth enough to show him the cum gathered on your tongue, preening at the noise of approval that rumbles deep in his chest.

"swallow."

you close your mouth to obey, licking the edges of your lips for good measure, before opening your mouth again so he sees.

"good girl," he rumbles out, swiping your bottom lip before tucking himself back into his boxers and jeans. "c'mere," he says, reaching for you to pull you up, crowding you against the counter.

you wince as your legs protest, aching with how long you were on your knees, but then you're being sat back on the counter, pulled into price's warmth as he kisses you again. you grip weakly at his shirt, letting in him relish the taste of himself clinging to your tongue, cradling the back of your neck.

"such a good girl," he says, fingers dipping beneath the hem of your dress to hook into your panties, dragging them down your legs and over your ankles, stashing them in his pocket.

you'd flush if you weren't so embarrassingly turned on, wondering and wanting to know what he plans on doing with them.

he pushes your dress up over your hips, spreading your legs to expose your glistening, sticky folds — desperate — and drops to his knees.

"look at you," he says, breath fanning on your thighs, teeth nipping lightly at the skin there. you whimper, one hand on the edge of the counter to keep you steady, the other moving to grab onto his hair, silky and gorgeous and feels so good between your fingers like every other part of him —

you try to focus on him, fucked-out before he's touched you, raising your hips to entice him closer, needing his mouth and tongue. he presses his lips to up closer, stifling a laugh, and you'd make some bratty remark if you weren't so worked up.

he looks at you as he laves his tongue over your slit, drawing up between your folds before circling your clit. your nails scratch at his scalp, head falling back as your mouth opens in a silent moan, panting out breaths.

john's warm hands grip at your thighs, keeping you still, licking leisurely between your folds and clit, a pleased hum low in his throat that you feel, sparks spreading through your veins.

"j-john," you whine out — soft, so you can't be heard — and his eyes snap to you, focused and determined. "please," you add, trying to draw him closer with the hand tangled in his hair, feeling like you're going to fall to pieces.

he presses a kiss to your hip, before he buries his mouth in your folds, and you keen. his grip on you tightens, his nails digging in hard enough to leave indents. you can't roll your hips like you want — need — entirely at his mercy as he licks through your folds, occasionally swirling around your clit, sucking on it lightly.

it feels so fucking good, biting your lip hard enough to taste blood to stop yourself from crying and moaning out. you settle for shuddering breaths, blearily blinking down at him, moving your hand to the nape of his neck, keeping him close, delirious with pleasure, never wanting it to end.

his tongue pushes into you and your grip on the counter falters, slipping and falling back, head knocking against the mirror. you whimper for an entirely different reason, pain blossoming where your head hit, and you're almost brought to tears when john pulls his mouth away, standing up and gathering you in his arms.

his lips are shiny with your slick, arousal coating his mustache, eyes blown black. he cradles the back of your head so gently, careful with his touch as he straightens you, tilting your head back to look you over.

you've never been one to pout but you are now, bottom lip out as you grip at his shirt. your palms are sweaty, but his shirt isn't slick like the counter. you feel like you could cry if he doesn't get back on his knees, finish what he started.

"y'okay?" he murmurs gently, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, down your temple, to your cheek, nosing your face to align with his, taking advantage of you pouting by nipping at your bottom lip before easing you into a gentle kiss.

you nod in reply, his free hand skimming up the length of your thigh, the fragments of arousal still swirling through your body.

"want you to fuck me," comes your shy request. you've no idea why you're shy — his dick was in your mouth minutes ago and he was eating you out like he'd be happy to die between your legs — and yet.

he presents you with his middle and ring finger, pressing them against the seam of your lips.

"suck."

you're hesitant, if only for a moment, but it's enough of a moment for john.

"be a good girl, now," in that fucking throaty drawl, and you're helpless, opening your mouth to let him do as he pleases with you. a satisfied smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, as his fingers drag over your tongue, pushing to the back of your throat.

wrapping one hand around his wrist, you watch him through glassy doe-eyes, swirling your tongue around his thick digits as best you can, swallowing and drawing his fingers deeper.

"there we are, sweetheart," he praises, and he feels your unsteady breath, "not so hard, hm?"

you want to bite him, whine and whimper and cry until he fucks you with his tongue or even the fingers shoved down your throat or his cock that's sitting half-hard back in his jeans.

but you don't, because you're a good girl.

strings of spit connect his fingers to your lips as he withdraws them, and he marvels at his drenched fingers. he drops his hand between your legs, circling your clit, causing you to grip at his arm.

"when i fuck you — and i will fuck you — " he starts, voice wrecked and low and addicting, "it's going to be in my bed so i can hear all those pretty sounds you make and fuck you until you're ruined."

he captures your mouth in a filthy kiss as he pushes his fingers in your cunt, buried to the knuckle. you cry into his mouth, his tongue licking against yours, swallowing the sound. his fingers are so thick, stretching you better than any toy you have hidden away in your bedside drawer.

he lets go of your head to lean down onto the counter, crowding into your space further, anchoring him. you pull away from his mouth to wrap your arms tight around his back, fingers gripping at his shirt, burying your face in the crook of his neck. he drags his fingers in and out, making you feel every inch.

your teeth make home in his shoulder, finding it damn near impossible to stop the noises rising in your throat, little whines and moans, feeling like fire is curling in your belly, sparking hotter and hotter with each thrust.

he hooks his fingers up, easily finding the squishy part inside your cunt that makes you see stars.

"oh, you like that," he says. not a question, because you can hear the smug fucking smirk pulling at his lips.

he thrusts his fingers hard, alternating between hitting that spot and pistoning his fingers, dangling you over the edge of an orgasm. you'll never be able to use your own hand again — now that you've had your blood ripped open and devastating pleasure injected into you.

"such a pretty fucking cunt," he growls against your temple, moving his thumb to press against your clit. "so wet for me, so needy." he switches to hit that spot inside you with each thrust of his fingers, thumb circling around your clit.

"fuck, john," you pant against his neck, thighs trembling as he draws you closer to your orgasm.

you can't say much more than that, dragging your teeth along the exposed line of his neck, mewling as you damn near drown in the pleasure.

"want you to soak my fingers, baby, show me how much you need it."

it doesn't take more than a few more thrusts with his fingers deep inside before you're clawing at him, pressing your face to his chest. you try so hard to bite back your moans, but white-hot pleasure shoots through your entire body, vision going black and starry as you gush around his fingers, cumming harder than you ever have by yourself.

the pleasure comes down to simmer, grip loosening, coming back to your senses. he slowly withdraws his fingers from your cunt, your arousal dripping down to his wrist, under the band of his watch.

you watch as he licks the evidence of your orgasm off the back of his hand and between his fingers, before drawing them into his mouth to suck them clean. his eyes never leave yours.

he drags them out as slowly as he dragged them from your cunt, savoring every drop he could get.

you grab for the front of his shirt, boneless and sated, and he comes willingly as you bring him in for a kiss, happily tasting yourself on his tongue. he takes the time to kiss you, softer and softer until you inhale a breath and let it out, body no longer strung tight.

with a kiss to your cheek, he leaves you sitting on the counter as he rifles through the drawers and cabinets until he finds a washcloth, dampening it under the faucet.

carefully — and so, so gently — he cleans up the sticky mess between your thighs, almost reverent in his touch. he moves to clean his mouth next. he pulls you from the counter after, helping you steady yourself and dress you to look presentable, but keeps your panties tucked in his back pocket.

"you okay?" he checks and you think you're in love with him.

"perfect," you reply, throat a bit scratchy, nuzzling under the curve of his jaw.

opening the door, he guides you out first, palm warm on your lower back. he moves to go back out to your parents, while you're determined to crash into a post-orgasm nap.

he pushes your hair back behind your ear, leaning down low enough to murmur, ensuring no one else but you can hear him.

"one of these days, i want to know what my cum tastes like dripping out of your cunt."

he leaves you like that, his signature smirk painted on his lips, turning and walking down the hallway, while you stare at his broad form retreating, wondering how soon you can get him back between your legs.

[girlwithherheadinthestars]

"Villain..."

"Mhm?"

"I...I need your help."

Villain grins, eyes flashing. "Anything."

[hamsternamedmarinette]

@buggachat OK THIS IS THE LAST ONE I PROMISE

[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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Could I Be Yours (Joel Miller fic)

Pairing - Joel x Married Female Reader 

Summary - You’ve been married for five years now to your long term man Marcus, but with your dwindling sex life and your marriage on the rocks, you came to an agreement. You're allowed to sleep with other men. The only rules? 1- You have to tell your husband about it. 2- No staying the night, you always leave after sex. And lastly, rule number 3, you can’t sleep with the same man more than once. These rules are in place to avoid feelings blooming, but what happens when you meet Joel, and end up breaking all of the rules? Will it break your marriage too? If faced with a choice between Joel Miller and your husband, who would you choose? 

Warnings - Infidelity/open relationship??, smut, protected p in v, choking, mentions of face slapping, degradation, reader is called a slut a few times, oral (f receiving), squirting, Joel being cocky, 

Word Count - 7.2k

a/n - this is the longest piece I’ve ever written, lmk if anyone wants more, I have plenty of ideas for this story. 

“Did you have fun, baby?” your husband asked as soon as you closed the door to your shared home. He had an excited expression on his face, and was sporting a smirk you’d seen countless times. You’d noticed that whenever you returned home from one of your escapades, he wore the same demeanour. He was calm and collected, but eager to hear your recounting of the events. He wanted to know every detail and was never jealous. This is what he wanted after all, what he suggested. He wanted to know how you got them into bed, how wet you were, how big they were, how many times they brought you to release. And you were more than happy to tell him everything. 

“So much fun, Marcus,” you said while taking a seat next to him on the sofa, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. “He was a little quiet though, you know how I want to be praised.”

Marcus lifted your hair from your neck and trailed a path of kisses from behind your ear to your collarbone and asked the question he always did, “Did he make you come?”. 

—-----------------------------------

Your husband was a generous man, generous with his kindness, his money, and his wife. You’d met Marcus in University, he was the sweet, nerdy boy in your English Lit class that eventually asked you on a date. You were together through school and when he got a job opportunity in Austin, you packed everything and moved with him, no questions asked. At the time, you couldn’t imagine building a life with anyone but him, your youth and naivety made it so that you couldn’t imagine living without him at all. And so, after seven years of being together, 5 years of marriage, a dwindling sex life and less time spent together than ever, Marcus suggested the agreement. The agreement in which you sleep with other men and tell Marcus every last detail. The agreement that has three rules; you have to tell Marcus about whenever you sleep with a man; you can’t stay the night with another man and you can’t fuck the same man twice. Marcus claims that this agreement “saved your marriage”. While it may have saved your sex life, it certainly has not saved your marriage. Your husband was a generous man, generous with his kindness, generous with his money, even generous with his wife, but he was no longer generous with his time. You may have been having more sex, but you weren’t spending time together like you used to, you weren’t laughing like you used to, you didn't love him like you used to. 

You weren’t sure how he felt about you, if he still loved you enough to want to spend the rest of his life with you, all you knew was that nothing was how it used to be. In the past, Marcus was loud about his love, his eyes were a clear reflection of the love he held for you.  His love would make itself known, obvious, like road signs popping up constantly on a long drive, something you didn’t have to look for, his love appeared right in front of your eyes. Now you had to look for the road signs, your eyes were squinting to find them. Maybe you’d taken a wrong turn on the road. Maybe you were lost.

—----------------------------

A few days later, Marcus had to go on a work trip away for the weekend, the weekend you were hoping you could spend some quality time together. It had been so long since you’d been able to spend more than a few hours before bed together, and so you had been excited for a whole weekend to spend just the two of you, your bodies entangled together between the sheets, leaving next to no space between you in a hope to rekindle something between you. Your disappointment was evident when he’d told you and so he suggested that you get dressed up, go out and find a man to fuck you senseless for the night and tell him all about it when he got back, and while you wanted Marcus, you weren’t going to say no to that. 

You were apprehensive about the agreement at first, but you soon discovered that there was something you found so enticing about seducing other men. Feeling desired by so many was a feeling you couldn’t describe, especially when your husband was never home, or when he was he just wanted a quick fuck to calm his frustrations, he never cherished you, never took his time with you. 

The sex with Marcus was good, he knew exactly what to do by now. But, there was one more thing you felt that was missing from your sex life. For so long you had wanted him to be a little more dominant, you wanted to be told exactly what to do and when to do it, to be put in your place, be punished, even degraded a little. You’d brought this up but Marcus didn't have it in him, he’d grown nervous when you asked him to choke you, and looked terrified when you had asked him to slap you, so you didn't ask again. The men you’d enjoy one night with were more likely to do these things, but lacked the dominant energy you craved, it was difficult to believe what they were saying, difficult to submit to them in the way you wanted to submit. 

As soon as you walked into the dingy bar you felt you’d made the wrong choice. It was dark, only lit by the lights behind the bar and the small lamps on the larger tables. A country song was playing in the background and although it wasn’t too loud, the lack of people in the bar meant that you could hear every word being sung. You were undoubtedly overdressed, wearing a tight, black dress that left very little to the imagination and high heels that were quickly becoming uncomfortable to walk in. You contemplated turning around and trying another place but decided against it and approached the bar. You ordered a margarita; opting for a stronger option, hoping to feel a buzz sooner rather than later. Looking around, the choice of men in the bar was lacklustre at best. There was a trio of men at a corner booth who looked to be in their sixties at least, a group of boys who looked underage at another corner booth, and three people at the other side of the bar. Two men and one woman. One of the men was facing away from you and was mostly covered by the man next to him, who was standing up, animatedly talking to a blonde woman. The man you could see was attractive, dark hair, almost black, only looked around 30 years old, but he was clearly flirting with the woman, and she was eating it up. Her giggles filled the room, and she was twirling a strand of her long hair between her nimble fingers, no doubt flashing him eyes that screamed fuck me. 

You watched their exchange from your seat at the bar, until the man was tapping his pockets, pulling a pack of cigarettes out and passing one to the woman, leading her to the front of the bar and then outside. 

  With the attractive man and the blonde gone, you could look at the man with them for the first time, with no interruptions. He was a little older than the man who accompanied him, dark hair, tanned skin, a strong yet beautifully carved nose, strong arms and big, broad shoulders. He was gorgeous, so gorgeous that you were distracted by the way that his thick thighs were spread out on the barstool, which was dwarfed by his huge frame. Unsure just how long you’d been staring, you failed to notice that he was looking in your direction. He was looking at you, looking at him and he was smirking. His face, gorgeous and now sporting an almost too smug expression, was looking right at you, and you were momentarily stunted by the intense eye contact. You were seldom intimidated by men these days, they were always so predictable, so similar to each other that you knew what was coming each time. But this impossibly handsome man had not yet spoken a word to you, and was already affecting you in ways you weren’t sure you had ever experienced. 

Pulling yourself together as best as you could, you began your routine. You smiled at him, feigning shyness, although you were not sure if this time your shyness was completely fake, and held his eye. You had done this countless times and knew what worked with men. Smile innocently, act bashful and coy and they were soon eating out of your hand. But you could tell that this man was different, his smirk was now gone but he still looked so confident, so sure of himself. You knew you were not in control of this situation, and you welcomed the feeling. You held eye contact and wordlessly beckoned him over with a wave of your hand, you had not yet heard his voice but you were already settled comfortably under the influence of his charisma, and you wanted more. As if in an out-of-body experience, you felt as though you could see your own eyes, and your eyes were undoubtedly, just as you expected the blonde’s eyes from earlier to be; screaming fuck me. 

You watched as he grabbed his drink, his hand so big that the glass looked as if it had shrunk in his hand, brought it up to his lips and took a long sip. As if in a trance, you watched as he gulped the drink down, his Adam's apple bobbing and you couldn’t help but notice the veins in his thick neck that were slightly prominent. The man then got up from the bar stool, turned completely in your direction and walked towards you. The distance he crossed wasn’t far at all, and you found yourself wishing it was further, wishing the universe would grant you more time to take in his perfect form from the front. 

He places a hand on the barstool next to yours and, still holding intense eye contact, speaks to you for the first time. “You’re far too beautiful to be in a place like this,” his voice was heavenly, deep and velvety with a slight Texan drawl that was enough to make you squirm in your seat. The way in which his voice affected you had you floored, you were completely speechless and could only look up at him from your seat. You gestured to the barstool his hand was resting on, wordlessly telling him to take a seat beside you. He smiled and pulled out the stool slightly, showcasing his strong bicep and forearm. “Are you here alone?” he asked as he looked you up and down. His eyes, although soft and kind, held a fierce intensity that intrigued you.

You lifted your glass to your lips with your left hand, the ring finger of which still sporting your wedding band, and licked a sliver of salt from the rim, all while holding his eye, said in the most seductive voice you could muster, “I wanted a night away,” and waited for the penny to drop. You liked for the men you slept with to know that you were married, that this was their only chance, that you were never going to see them again. Some would shrink away while others would lean in. Some needed to hear about the agreement and others found it sexy, that they were fucking another man’s wife. You hoped that Joel was not the type to shrink away, to recoil with offence, as if you had slapped him, as some of them would. You could tell the exact moment he noticed the ring, his mouth, previously open as if he was ready to speak, quickly clamped shut. His eyes glanced up at your face, and then back down to your hand, which was now gently resting on the bar top. 

“You’re married? I’m sorry I must’ve read this wrong,” he drawled, and moved to stand up but you quickly interjected.

“You didn't,” the words sounded rushed when they left your mouth, your voice louder than you intended, “You didn’t read anything wrong. My husband and I…..”. This was the part you didn’t like, explaining the agreement was never easy, “...we have an agreement,” you said quietly, hoping he wouldn’t inquire further. 

“Like a…. Like an open relationship?” he asked while raising his eyebrow, and you nodded affirmatively. 

“Yeah, basically,” you said, and suddenly realised you still did not know his name, he was still only a stranger to you, a stranger who’s body you wanted to lick the entirety of. You introduced yourself, telling him your name. 

“I’m Joel, nice to meet ya darlin’,” he drawled, gruff and impossibly sexy. Joel, finally hearing his name felt as if you had been waiting to hear it for years, you returned his sentiment and tried his name on your tongue, tasting it as you said it.

“I like your voice, like the way you say my name,” he smirked once again, and his confident aura reappeared. “Your husban’ must be crazy, if you were mine I’d damn near kill anyone else wantin’ to get involved.” 

“Do you want to get involved?” you asked, keeping your voice sounding as demure as you could while softly placing a hand above his knee, slowly tracing aimless patterns on his thigh, not so innocently creating a pattern with your fingertips, tracing higher and higher towards the apex of his thighs. 

“Isn’t it obvious what I want?” he drawled, looking you up and down, his eyes flitting from your hand on his thigh and up to your face, “if that's what you want, maybe I should take you home, wouldn’t want a woman like you all alone,” he said in a coy like statement, with almost a hint of sarcasm in his voice, his eyebrows raising with his speech. 

“That’s exactly what I want, Joel,” you responded, you didn't have to try and sound innocent anymore, you were desperate for anything he would give you, and he was not transparent with his desires. His confident air was enough to make your panties soak with desire, the weeping wetness that occurred between your legs was enough to make you agree to his suggestion, to agree to any suggestion or action he ordered. 

He stood up and, holding out his hand to you, led you outside of the bar, his hands, rough and calloused and so much bigger than yours, made your head spin with anticipation. Outside, the man Joel was with earlier was kissing the blonde but pulled away just in time to catch Joel opening a taxi door for you to climb into and said nothing, but lifted up both his hands in a thumbs up, and smirked. 

Joel’s house, promised to only be only a short taxi ride away, was a cosy home, and was adorned with pictures of a child, or teenager, one you were not sure you should ask the story of. His bedroom however, was typical of a man’s, although tidier than many, was plain, but for a few pictures which populated the otherwise bare walls. But before you got a chance to properly observe his bedroom he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you closer, impossibly close. His hands travelled to your neck, gently wrapping his hands around it without applying any pressure. He was kissing you with fervour, his lips, while soft and supple, were aggressive in the way they claimed your mouth, he was possessive in his want, his touch, his need. His kiss, although distracting, was not distracting enough to divert your attention from the large hand that was trailing from your neck, to your collarbone and slowly to the low line of your dress, his soft caress of your breast quickly turned rough when he pinched your nipple, earning him a whimper from your lips. 

You were almost gasping for breath while his hands continued their assault on your chest, almost missing the whisper he let out against your mouth, asking, “are you sure you want this?” to which you quickly nodded your head. Although he smirked, he was clearly unsatisfied with your wordless reply, and placed his thumb and forefinger underneath your chin to lift your head to face him and upon meeting your eyes he uttered the words, “I need words, sweetheart” and you could have melted on the spot. Any other man calling you sweetheart would not have had the same affect, your cheeks would not have heated up as soon as his low drawl reached your ears, you would not have felt the urge to press your thighs together in search of friction, and you certainly would not have grown wetter from hearing the word. “Sweetheart,” from another man’s lips would have made you cringe, maybe uncomfortable, it might even have repulsed you. But not from Joel’s mouth, not from Joel’s plush, kissable lips, not in his deep voice with the Texan accent that left you craving more.   

Dazed, almost forgetting that what he’d said was a question, and warranted an answer, he smirked at you, again. His confidence had not wavered once, he knew you wanted him, and why not lean into it even more?

 “Please,” was the word that left your mouth. The only word. It was desperate and almost pathetic, but that’s exactly how you felt; desperate to feel his hands on you, desperate to feel his mouth on you, and desperate to feel his cock inside of you. His smirk only grew hearing the want in your plea, the need. He kissed you, slowly and unhurriedly, before walking you backwards until your calves hit the bed and you fell onto it. 

Before you could comprehend what was happening, Joel’s strong, calloused hands were grabbing your ankles, and roughly pulling you towards the end of the bed, towards him. 

Your excitement grew at his rough treatment, which only made you more shocked when he placed soft kisses where his hands were only a second ago, containing you in a harsh grasp. 

He kissed a trail up your legs, your core was almost buzzing in anticipation when he impatiently pushed your dress up so that it was bunched up around your waist and, wasting no time, pulled your underwear to the side, exposing your dripping heat. He admired the newfound view for a second, before licking a hot stripe from your hole to your clit, eliciting a deep groan from both of you. Joel continues to lap at your folds messily, he was letting out groans of appreciation which only added to your pleasure. You were a moaning mess already, writhing on the bed as he continued his assault on your pussy. Joel’s arms grabbed your ankles once again and lifted them so that your legs fell over his shoulder, opening you up for him even more and allowing him to wrap his arms around your thighs, his hands splayed out on your stomach, holding you down as you struggled to keep still the closer you got to coming. As if he could tell you were close, he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked hard, while simultaneously slipping two fingers into your soaking wet heat, thrusting them in and out a few times before curling them, his hands that were on your stomach pressing down and adding more pressure. You could no longer comprehend a thing, you were no longer in that room, in that house, it hardly felt like you were in your own body. Joel’s incessant movements had pushed you further than you had ever been pushed before and you were floating, hardly realising that you had completely soaked his sheets. When you came down and regained your senses, you lifted your head to look at him, only to find him already looking at you, the lower half of his face covered in your juices, dripping from his chin, and that damned smirk on his face. 

“You taste amazing, sweetheart,” he swiped his chin with the back of his hand as he spoke, the lewd action bringing heat to your cheeks. Placing his palms flat on the bed, he lifted himself up, climbing up your body until you were face to face. He kissed you roughly, his mouth still wet with your own essence, allowing you to taste yourself as he pushed his tongue into your mouth. Still reeling off the fact that this man, who you had only met tonight, had made you squirt, something no other man had ever done, not even Marcus, you broke off the kiss and quickly mumbled, “No one’s ever done that before,” into his mouth. He pulled away and, where you expected to see his signature smirk, you saw a shocked expression. 

“Really?” he questioned, his voice sounded genuine and almost concerned. “That’s a damn shame, sweetheart,” he continued while taking off his jeans and boxers, allowing you with your first view of his cock. Your eyes trailed down from his face, passing his broad shoulders and lean chest, soft belly, the trail of hair that led to his cock. You gasped involuntarily upon seeing it for the first time. It was without a doubt the biggest you had ever seen in front of you, and although you were desperate to feel him inside of you, his size made you nervous. 

“Well, let's see if we can make you squirt again, darlin’,” he said while slowly pumping his cock, and, sensing your nerves, he lowered his face to yours and kissed you before whispering, “We can stop anytime you want to ok? Just say ‘red’ if you want to stop.” You nodded with complete enthusiasm, his reassurance completely erased your nerves and you felt more than ready to take him. 

He ran his hand through your folds, collecting your wetness and spread it all over his cock before asking, “You want me t’ open you up a little more, baby?”, to which you burst out a loud ‘no’ before realising your lips were moving. Your want for him had seemed to reach its peak, and you couldn’t wait any longer. He smiled at you and tapped his tip against your clit once, twice, three times, making you whine and grind your hips, chasing his cock. 

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were a slut, baby,” he accused while lining himself up with your entrance, without pushing inside. 

Your breathing was growing heavier from his teasing and all you could manage was a small, “Please,” while you stared up at him, silently begging for him to just put it in. 

He granted your silent request and pushed in, slowly letting you feel all of him filling you up, but not before chuckling softly and breathing out a low, “I fuckin’ knew it,”. You had never been called a slut during sex before, but his degrading words mixed with the slight burn of his cock stretching you out was making your pussy drip on the sheets. He slowly filled you up to the brim, his tip lightly kissing your cervix as he bottomed out, he stayed there, unmoving and looked at you intently, searching for any sign of discomfort. 

Before he could ask if you were ok, if he could move, you started grinding your hips into him, desperate to feel any sort of friction. His feeling of his cock stretching you out was delicious, but it didn’t satisfy you, it only made you needy for more. Joel, realising that you were ok and wanted more, let out a low chuckle and withdrew his hips, leaving only his tip resting inside you, and then pushed all the way inside again, letting out a low groan. He repeated these movements, a slow in and out until you were a complete mess, moaning and groaning, writhing and squirming, unable to contain your reaction to the devastation his cock was causing your body. But you still needed more, you needed him to be fast and rough with you, to fuck you like his life depended on it, like it was the last thing he would do. So, you did the only thing you knew how to do at that moment, you begged. “Please, Joel, please go faster,” you interrupted yourself with a whimper as his cocked brushed against that spot that made your eyes flutter closed involuntarily. “Please, I can take it, I want it harder,” you looked up at him, your bottom lip between your teeth and your hands gripping the sheets.

Joel seemed to lose control momentarily, he threw your legs over his broad shoulders, which made his cock feel deeper than you thought possible, the angle making you moan loudly. His hands then flew to your neck, and they were nowhere near as gentle as they were  when he softly held your neck earlier, his grip was harsh this time, restricting your breathing slightly as he sped up his thrusts, holding his face close to yours and letting out a low growl. 

“I knew you were a slut as soon as I saw ya’.” He grunted with a surprising amount of control in his voice as he continued to fuck you with full strokes, completely emptying you before filling you again. “Actin’ all shy, but I saw through that. You’re just a dirty. Little. Slut.” He punctuated each word with a hard thrust. You had never been fucked like this in your life. The only way you thought to describe the whole experience was feral. The way Joel was fucking you was feral. The way you reacted to it was feral. The way you craved more was feral. You craved his cock as soon as it left you, and were quickly satisfied once again only to be craving more seconds later. 

“Oh God, Joel,” you cried out in a high pitched whine, his words, combined with his quick, hard thrusts, were pushing you towards the edge for the second time that night. This was exactly what you wanted, exactly what you've been craving for so long and to have it given to you by a random man you met in a bar shocked you. You barely had to ask for what you wanted, Joel gave it to you happily, he seemed to enjoy this just as much as you did. 

“Oh you like that, huh? You like bein’ called a slut?” his face was so close to yours that you could feel his breath on your face as he spat out the words. You could only whimper and nod your head, you were already completely fucked out, wrecked from the way he was using your pussy. Your eyes were beginning to close when he ordered you to look at him and when you did he called another order, “Open your mouth,” he commanded, and you didn't even have to think before you obeyed him, opening your mouth and sticking your tongue out. His spit landed perfectly in the middle of your tongue, and you were so shocked from watching his lips pucker, and spit into your mouth that you swallowed immediately, the sight, the action and the feeling of him spitting in your mouth was something you had never experienced. And you loved it. 

Joel grabbed your chin roughly and forced your mouth open, seeing that you had swallowed every drop of spit that he gave you, he growled out a low, “good girl,” which made you moan loudly, a harsh, guttural sound that you were sure you had never made before. It was an accidental reaction that brought the smirk back to Joel’s face as he forced two of his fingers into your mouth and trailed them down your body. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he travelled down to just above where his cock was sliding into your cunt and swiped your clit in slow, firm circles that made your head spin. 

“I want you to come for me,” although his voice was starting to sound breathless, his command was still strong, it was not a suggestion, you were going to come for him. “Be a good girl, and come on my cock,” his fingers circling your clit sped up, sending you rushing towards your peak. Your moans grew louder and louder, until you were almost screaming, your head moving to the side to try and muffle the noise. As Joel continued his movements, his grunts were getting louder as he began to grow close. This was only intensified when you tightened around him, your walls fluttering as you came with a loud moan, gasping for breath. 

“Good girl,” Joel said through gritted teeth as he picked up his pace, fucking you harder and faster as he chased his high. “You're such a good girl for me, sweetheart,” he continued, his voice sounding more and more strained the more he spoke. 

“Oh fuck, baby,” the lewd sound of your skin slapping together and your wetness accompanied his strained voice, and all you could do as you took his cock over and over again, was listen to the pornographic sounds. “You’re gonna make me come,” he confessed, speeding up his thrusts even more, making you let out a squeal of surprise. 

“You’re my new little slut.” His fingers returned to circle your clit, forcing your eyes to roll to the back of your head. This new amount of pleasure was a shock to you, Joel was already testing your limits, pushing the boundaries of your body and you were loving every second of it. 

“I don’t care if you got a ring on your finger, you're my slut now,” he claimed you again through gritted teeth and you couldn't help but let out a moan at this. You wanted to be his, and you weren't even the slightest bit ashamed. 

“Now be a good little slut and cum for me again,” his fingers sped up on your clit, and just when you thought you couldn't come again, your mouth was open in a silent scream as your whole body tensed up. Your walls caved in on Joel’s cock until he came inside the condom with a loud groan, continuing to thrust softly inside you before pulling out and throwing the full condom in the bin. Your mind was completely blank, so blank that you barely registered that you had no energy to get up, that you barely registered Joel softly wiping your pussy and legs with a warm cloth, or Joel finally taking off the dress that you had kept on due to impatience, pulling the covers over your body, and bringing you close to him before kissing your forehead. 

----------------------

You woke with a start, immediately realising you were not at home. You were in a foreign room, in a foreign bed, wrapped in foreign arms. You slowly got out of bed, gently unwrapped yourself from Joel's arms and crept to the bathroom. You take a look in the mirror and see a liar. You haven’t lied yet, but you know you will. Staring at yourself, you realise that you broke a rule last night by staying at Joel’s. You had one of the best nights of your life, undoubtedly the best sex of your life but you broke a rule, a rule your husband had set, a rule you had agreed to, a rule to avoid feelings getting involved, to avoid getting too close. Unsure what to do, you headed back into the bedroom with a vague plan of getting your clothes and leaving before Joel woke up. The plan was ruined as soon as you entered the bedroom and saw Joel awake, looking at you in all your naked glory. He smiles at you and beckons you towards him. You walk towards him, feeling as though your feet are moving of their accord, with no help from your brain and he pulls you back into bed, kissing your cheek before whispering in your ear, “I haven’t had that much fun in a long time.”

Before you could help yourself, you answer honestly, “Same here,” you said, maybe a little too honestly. He kisses you in response, it was full of passion and reminded you of the night before, how he’d claimed you as his, despite the ring on your finger. His hand trailed to your neck, and down your collarbone before softly caressing your breasts and asking, “Can I touch you, baby? I didn't get enough last night.” His voice was in your ear and was even more deep and gruff after a full night's rest. You knew that you should have put an end to it there, should have gathered your things and left, you should have resisted him. But you couldn't. There was something about him that you wanted, that you needed, that you craved. 

So, you nodded your head and whispered a soft yes which was met with a teasing pinch to your nipple before he kissed you again. He continued pinching and rubbing your nipples before trailing his hand lower, moving to rub your clit slowly. Your moans and whimpers were interrupted by a question from Joel, “I promised to make you squirt again last night, you didn't think I'd let you go home before staying true to my word did ya’ sweetheart?” He doubled his efforts, sliding two fingers into your core before curling them, just like he did last night, only this morning, he used his thumb to rub quick but firm and controlled circles on your clit, stimulating you just right, and sending you towards your peak. His other hand was splayed over your stomach, lightly pushing down to add more pressure and soon you were chanting his name over and over, praying that he didn't stop. 

“C’mon baby, soak me,” he grunted just as your orgasm hit you, buzzing through your body, making you feel light and airy, and you soon felt the wetness grow on the sheets, a sure sign he had made you squirt, again. 

“Oh my God,” your voice sounded breathless and all you could do was fight for breath and lie back on the bed. Joel lay down beside you and, turning your head to face him, smiled cockily at you. You smiled back at him and made a move to grab his cock, ready to return the favour but he shook his head and said, “That was about you, darlin, you don’t have to do anything,”. Before you could protest and say that you wanted to, because fuck did you want to feel him in your mouth, his features turned from cocky to nervous. You locked eyes with him as his mouth opened and closed, as if he was trying to force the words out but something stopped him each time. 

Eventually, he spoke, “Can I erm…. Can I see you again sometime?” His question had you swooning, you tried to stop yourself, you really did, but the apprehension in his voice, something you had not encountered in him since you met only added to your desire to see him again. And so, you said yes and gave him your phone number, before telling him you had to go.  

“At least let me make ya’ some breakfast before ya’ run off, sweetheart,” his words had you quickly feeling hungry, having not even thought about food this morning, you nodded your head, and he jerked his head towards the hallway. You put on last night's dress and followed him downstairs. On the way to the kitchen you took more notice of the pictures scattered around the house, there were some of Joel and the man you’d seen at the bar last night, and some of the girl you’d noticed on the way in last night. She looked a beautiful girl and you wanted to ask who she was, and who she was to Joel especially, but he was already asking you a question.

“How do you take your coffee?” He was straining his neck to look behind him at you as he asked the question. 

“Just two sugars, please,” you answered as you sat behind him on the island as he made your coffee, appreciating his naked back as he busied himself. His toned shoulders, the muscles in his back tensing as he moved. 

He turned around and placed your coffee in front of you, you smiled in thanks, which he readily returned. 

“So what do you do? we kind of skipped over the small talk last night” he said with a chuckle, his cheeks turning slightly red, “But i wanna know more about you.”

“I work in publishing,” you answered after taking a small sip of your too hot coffee, “so I read a lot of manuscripts, decide if they’re likely to sell, I could be editing the book, or I could be promoting books.” 

“Why’d you decide to go into that?” he asked with genuine interest, while turning

around to turn on the stove. “You good with scrambled eggs?”

“Yeah scrambled’s good,” you grinned at how easy this felt, you were only getting to know each other the morning after, but it felt good to sit here with him and just talk. “I’ve always loved reading and just books in general, so I got my degree in English Literature and then I didn’t know what to do, so I did a masters in publishing.”

“If you love books so much why don’t you just write one?” he asked as if it was the easiest thing in the world, turning around to give you a look that said, “duh”, before returning to cracking the eggs. 

“well……I don’t really think I'm good enough to actually write a book. I know when a book is good and when it’ll sell but, I don’t know if i could write a good book” you asked with slight insecurity. Marcus had never asked this, never suggested you do what you really wished to do, what you’ve always wanted to do. 

“That sounds like bullshit to me, you should try it,” you laughed at his nonchalance,  you liked how he thought you should do something no matter how unrealistic it sounded.

“We’ll see,” you answered with a chuckle before returning his question, “what do you do?”

“I’m a contractor, me and my brother, the guy I was with last night, have our own

Company,” he explained while quickly whisking the eggs, his muscles working overtime and giving you an amazing view of his back tensing. “I started  when I was young, right out of school.”

“Do you enjoy it?” He only shrugged in response at first, before turning around to face you.

“Pays the bills,” he said before serving up your breakfast and sitting next to you with his own. 

“So what would you enjoy doing?” you asked, since he was so adamant that you do what you want, no matter your insecurities.

“Well..” he started, and while scratching the back of his neck, seemed to contemplate whether this was something he actually wanted to say. “I always wanted to be a singer, every since I got my first guitar.”

You couldn't help but grin at the thought of the man next to you singing with a guitar in  his lap. “Well, you’ll have to sing for me sometime,” you suggested, unable to contain your grin as you spoke. 

“If you’re lucky, sweetheart, now eat your food.” He tapped your plate as he spoke, “‘M sure ya need your energy after last night.”

You both enjoyed your food in silence, you caught him looking at you while you chewed a particularly big mouthful of food, and he only chuckled when you stared back at his obnoxiously big bites. You thanked him for the food and tried to do the dishes yourself, but he looked at you as if you were a lunatic and did them himself, leaving you to do nothing but admire him again. 

You were ready to call a taxi to pick you up and, asking if he had any numbers you could call, but he didn't gratify your question with an answer, he instead looked at you with a dumbfounded look on his face and said, “I’ll drive ya sweetheart,”. He didn't listen to your protests, ran upstairs to put a shirt on and picked up his keys, led you outside, opened the passenger door of the truck for you before running to the other side and jumping in. You gave him the name of your street and he started the car, grumbling about it only being a 5 or so minute drive and drove. His arms were almost bulging out his shirt, his broadness creating the impression his clothes were bursting at the seams. 

He looked over at you, caught you staring and looked you up and down before saying, “That dress looks even better on you this morning than it did last night, especially with your hair all messed up,” he smiled as he spoke, looking ahead at the road but stealing glances at you every now and then. 

You smiled and made a humming noise, as if you were thinking hard and responded, “You looked better last night,” and smiled teasingly at him. He in fact, did not look better last night, his hair, messy and dishevelled made him look adorable and seeing him in comfier clothes than last night was incredibly sexy. 

He let out a chuckle and smiled at you again. Every smile he threw your way felt so genuine, and never failed to melt you into a puddle. As the car came to a stop outside your house, Joel leaned over to kiss your cheek and quietly asked, “So I’ll text you?” to which you nodded, thanked him for the ride and moved to get out of the car. But he interrupted your move with another question, “And you're sure your hubby’ll be all good with that?” You had no idea how to respond and in your shock all you gave was a timid mhm as you rushed out of the car and onto the driveway of yours and your husbands shared home.

He shouted a “see ya, sweetheart,” as you walked and you prayed none of your neighbours heard and walked into your home feeling guiltier than ever. 

Upon your arrival home, you showered immediately, desperately needing some time to think. But thinking only added to your guilt. You had broken the second rule of your agreement last night by staying the night. You’d let him touch you again this morning, and you enjoyed it, you loved it. You’d agreed to see him again, and you didn’t regret agreeing, worst of all you wanted to see him again, but that would be another rule broken. Another lie. Another betrayal. As guilty as you felt, there was a voice in your head, you imagined it to be the devil on your shoulder, whispering in your ear that maybe, just maybe, Joel Miller was worth it. 

Read part 2 here !!!

[wanderinginksplot]

Commander Fox + Mercenary!Reader

As a mercenary, you travel in and out of Coruscant a lot. You find it more than a little strange that Commander Fox himself always seems to be on the Coruscant Guard team investigating your transport when you come back planetside...

Commander Fox x gn!reader (platonic-ish, with a hint toward future feelings)

Thanks to @nowait-whathappened for the prompt!

Word Count: 3.4k words

Warnings: mentions of weapons, mentions of bodily injuries, implied lack of trust

Masterlist

---

“Transport 47816, prepare for boarding.”

The groans that echoed through the transport ship were instant and harsh. None of the familiar faces around you held an expression more pleasant than ‘irritation’, but you were well used to this by now. 

“Why?” Kann bit out harshly. You tried not to roll your eyes, but it was a close thing. As the Lament’s near-constant pilot, Kann knew exactly why you were being boarded just outside of Coruscant’s airspace, but that didn’t mean he was going to make things easy. 

“Transport 47816, you’re returning from a neutral star system. It’s protocol.”

Kann snarled. “Shove the protocol up your-”

“Shut up and let the troopers on the ship,” Skoh ordered. “I don’t have time for you to argue with the whole damn Guard.”

Despite his previous eagerness for a fight, Kann clenched his jaw and nodded. “Dropping shields now.” 

Kann was one of the more reckless members of the Lament, but Nakte Skoh was a force to be reckoned with. When the tall Togruta spoke, every one of the mercenaries on the team listened. Disobeying him was a good way to get killed - sometimes by the enemy and sometimes by Skoh himself. 

The troopers who boarded the transport were wearing the familiar Coruscant Guard colors. You even recognized a few of the patterns and greeted them with a slight nod. You wouldn’t have minded being a little more exuberant, but not among your coworkers. It would be unwise to show too much emotion surrounded by mercenaries. 

“Everyone stand.” Grumbling. “Leave all weapons here. We will be interviewing each of you separately.” More grumbling, even as everyone started to reluctantly comply. 

The trooper issuing instructions was none other than the commander of the Coruscant Guard, Commander Fox. You could recognize him by his visored helmet easily enough, but there was something in his voice. What exactly made his tone was hard to pinpoint, but if pressed, you thought you could pick it out of a crowd. Even if that crowd were made up of other clone troopers. 

So you stood with the others, smoothly pulling your blasters and blades out from their usual places. The pile they made on your empty seat was respectable, the wear on the weapons a mark of your ability to use every one. With a last quick count to make sure none of the other mercenaries decided to take something that wasn’t theirs, you followed everyone to the link between your ship and the Guard’s. 

“Hope they’ll be less stupid about their weapons checks this time,” Yarrex muttered to you. The Kiffar was impatient at the best of times, but she knew her stuff better than most. “Last time, they misaligned the power pack on my rifle. If I hadn’t checked, it would have taken all of us out.”

You nodded fervently, remember how close a call that had been. Yarrex’s rifle had been actively overheating by the time she returned to the transport ship and she had hissed loud curses the whole time she fixed it. You couldn’t blame her - the smell from the flesh of her fingertips burning had lingered in the ship for days. 

There was a Coruscant Guard trooper just inside the larger ship, ushering you to your ultimate destination. “This way, down the hall-”

“-And to the right,” you finished. “I know, I know.”

“Been here a few times?” Yarrax asked over her shoulder. 

You shrugged, glad there was no one else behind you. What you were about to say could easily turn into tales of bad luck, and eventually spiral into you not being hired onto as many jobs. “Every single time I come back to Coruscant.”

“That’s not fair,” one of the trooper protested. 

You aimed a dry look in his direction. “We both know it is, Chase.” 

“I didn’t know they had names,” Kann remarked as he was led to one of the interrogation rooms. 

Yarrax hissed disapprovingly at his back. The trooper stammered, “I- I’m not Chase.”

“Save it,” Skoh advised with a nod in your direction. “That one can smell lies.”

Chase glanced at you, clearly nervous even through the protective cover of his helmet. You gave him a broad smile and went to sit down. 

Chase and the trooper who had directed you to the interrogation area were watching the room. The unfamiliar one had a medic’s cross on one shoulder and you wondered idly whether the Guard was expecting trouble. 

They shouldn’t, honestly. The standard Coruscant Guard procedure was to pull everyone into individual rooms to ask questions about the most recent mission. The Lament had some latitude in the way they conducted business, but everyone made a point of being as vague as possible in their answers. It was an entertaining game you all played when you came back to Coruscant. 

Though, apparently, no one played it as often as you. 

There were two interrogation rooms being used at the moment. The ship had at least a few more, but Lament missions were made up of ten mercenaries by rule - no more, no less. With Kann and another mercenary in the interrogation rooms, there apparently weren’t enough of you to warrant using more rooms. 

Mercenaries weren’t the most lively and talkative bunch, especially not after a long mission. A few of them shut their eyes to catch a few moments of sleep. The lone Nautolan in the Lament, a female named Veng, worked on repairing a tear she had gotten in the shoulder of her shirt. The needle flashing in and out of the ripped halves was mesmerizing, but your attention was caught by Skoh. 

Your leader was watching the room, gaze intent as he studied the mercenaries and the troopers watching you. There was no real tension in him, not even the kind disguised by the specific relaxation he took on when a negotiation was leading toward violence. But he was awake and alert, so you decided that you should be, too. 

Not that there was any reason to, of course. Skoh and Yarrix were the next to disappear into interview rooms as the first two went back to the transport ship. You weren’t among the next two to be called, or the ones after that. When it was only you and Veng left on the Guard ship, the door opened for Khyr to step out. Commander Fox stood in the doorway, sternly announcing that you were next. 

Veng didn’t glance up to see the amused look you gave her, but that was fine. It hadn’t really been for her, anyway. The commander stepped aside for you to enter the interrogation room, then closed the door before following you to the table. 

“Commander Fox,” you greeted with a nod. “How are you? How’s the wife?” 

The commander removed his helmet, all the better for you to see the confusion and exasperation mingling on his handsome face. “The wife.” 

“Or husband,” you amended. “Or partner. Non-specific.”

“I don’t have any of those,” he told you. “Did you get hit on the head during this massacre?”

You rolled your eyes at him, the way you always did when he disparaged your line of work. “Not a massacre. Not this time, at least. We do things other than kill people, you know.” 

“Yeah? What was the objective on this mission?” 

It just so happened that the mission you were returning from had been far more violent than expected, so you stepped neatly around the question. “Anyway, the point is that I see you so often, I feel like I should get to know something about your life. With anyone else, I would know about their partner or children or pets or hobbies. I see you more often than my parents.” 

“That so?” Fox asked, tilting his head to deliver his skeptical expression to best effect.

“Not in the slightest,” you admitted easily. “But it has come to my attention that not every Lament mission gets investigated by the Guard when they return to Coruscant.” 

Fox stiffened slightly. “We do our best to stop every transport, but our team is spread thin…”

“I’m not doubting your work, Commander,” you assured, “just your selection methods. Why is it that my team is always the one to be stopped?” 

“Coincidence.” 

Now, it was your turn to be skeptical. “You’ll have to do better than that, Fox.” 

His eyes widened briefly and you wondered if you had offended him by dropping his title, but he recovered in the next instant. “Are you suggesting that we should be suspicious of you?” 

“No, but you are,” you countered. “Otherwise, why would you always be focused on my missions?” 

“I told you: we aren’t.” 

Despite the way Fox’s teeth were gritted, you pushed on. You had a trump card, and you intended to play it: “Then why are you here? You, specifically? The Head Commander of the Coruscant Guard, investigating a transport full of mercenaries? You have better things to be doing than this. It’s suspicious.”

“I’ve told you, it’s a coincidence.” Fox sounded overly stubborn, even for him. 

You lifted your hands innocently in front of yourself and leaned backward in your chair. “Fine, fine. Total coincidence. Your complete lack of supporting evidence or further arguments has convinced me. Proceed with your interrogation, Commander.” 

He scowled intensely at you, but sat in the chair across from yours and started with the typical round of questions. Name, address, interplanetary work-travel permit number, employer, job title.

When you had answered them all successfully, Fox set his datapad down on the table between you. “Now, tell me about the mission you completed just prior to coming back to Coruscant.” 

“We were on Raydonia,” you answered easily. “We were hired to protect a village.” 

Fox gestured for you to continue when you stopped. “And what were you protecting them from?” 

“They were hit by two unknowns a few weeks ago.” The explanation was a little shaky, but it was the only one you had been given. It was still more than you usually got for a job and you were fine with that, but Fox seemed determined to think you were untrustworthy. “They took some of the most powerful warriors in the village. The village elders were worried some of the surrounding people might take the chance to attack them. They were right.” 

“Were there any casualties?” Fox asked, carefully not looking at you. 

You smiled despite yourself. “No Republic citizens were harmed.”

It was a vague and a polite way of reminding him that he had no jurisdiction over things that happened outside of Republic-controlled planets. Technically speaking, Fox had no jurisdiction over things that happened outside of Coruscant, but you wouldn’t bet on that stopping him. 

“And among your team?” he asked. “No injuries or deaths?”

“Nothing major,” you told him with a shrug. “You can count. I’m sure you noticed all ten of us are here and accounted for.” 

“What about minor injuries?” he pressed. 

You knew better than to shift in your chair, or look away from the easy eye contact you had maintained up to that point. Fox was an expert, and a sharp one at that. The smallest possible tell and he would know everything there was to know. That was what made him dangerous.

“None to speak of.” 

Even your flawless delivery left him looking distinctly skeptical. “Then why are you limping?” 

Despite the surge of frustrated exasperation that rose in you, your lips curved into a smile. “You’re too observant for your own good, Commander.” 

“Which isn’t an answer.” 

That made you chuckle aloud. “No, it wasn’t. But since you’re so insistent on an explanation, I sustained a minor injury on the mission. I treated it promptly and it is well on its way to healing.”

“How were you injured?”

Dimly, you wondered if Fox realized that he had leaned forward slightly under the weight of his own intensity. But only dimly, because most of your attention was drawn to the way he was even more handsome from a shorter distance away. 

“Why?” 

Fox blinked, and it seemed to break the spell he had put himself under. An instant later, he was scowling again - a fairly regular expression for him during these stops. “Because I’m the Head Commander of the Coruscant Guard and I asked you a direct question.” 

“I don’t answer to you,” you reminded him, privately savoring the look of profound irritation blossoming on his face. “Not about missions that take place in independent systems. Even if they result in injuries.”

“Maybe I have cause to believe that you sustained that injury in Republic territory,” Fox proposed. “Maybe I need proof you aren’t lying to me.” 

For a mercenary, you were even-tempered. Remarkably so, in fact. It helped you get along with your more volatile coworkers. But you did have a temper, and when it sparked, you were far from subtle. 

The slam of the chair’s front legs reconnecting with the floor was loud. Fox didn’t jump - he had too much control over himself for that - but his eyes darted to yours in a way that made his surprise evident. Your hands connecting with the top of the table between you was loud, too, the sound specifically and purposefully sharp.

You leaned in toward Fox and the expression on your face was unpleasant enough that he looked concerned. “I like you, Fox. I think you’re a good man doing your best in the galaxy’s worst job. That’s why I’m gonna give you this one warning: I do not appreciate being called a liar.”

“I didn’t-” 

Your gaze was hard as you stared him in the eyes. Fox looked startled as well as concerned by that point. He had never seen you truly pissed before. 

“Yes, you did,” you said firmly. “I will be the first to admit that I exaggerate. I dramatize. I embellish for comedic effect. But I do not lie. I have never lied to you or any of your men, despite what is verging on harassment. I do not intend to lie in the future, and I don’t want to file a harassment charge, but all of that depends on you.”

It was honestly a shock when Fox didn’t take advantage of your pause to speak. It told you that he understood how deadly serious you were. With his attention sharp on you, you told him, “I’m a reasonable person. I am willing to overlook this misstep… once. And that offer is entirely dependent on what you say next.”

“I’m sorry,” Fox said, honesty ringing in the simple words. You waited for more and he obliged: “You’re right, you have never lied to me - to any of us. Not about anything big. It was unfair of me to accuse you of it.” 

“And why did you?” you asked. 

The question felt a little like twisting a blade in an injury, but you needed to know. You needed to know that it wasn’t going to happen again, and if it did, you needed to know enough to anticipate it. Because you had grown to respect Commander Fox, damn it, and it had hit surprisingly hard to have him misjudge your morals so dramatically. 

“I… don’t like the idea of you being injured,” Fox admitted, sounding mystified. You understood, since that explanation left you feeling a little mystified yourself. “I would like to know about your injury if you’ll agree to tell me.”

You watched the commander for another long moment, doing your best to gauge his sincerity. It wasn’t easy - especially since it required you to look past those lovely eyes and flawless bone structure - but you managed. It was one of your most reliable skills, after all. Fox seemed to be telling you the truth.

When you leaned your chair backward again, the tension in the room shattered. You sent him a cryptic half-smile. “You know us mercenaries,” you drawled. “We don’t give away anything for free. You ask your question and I’ll ask mine. A truthful answer for a truthful answer.”

Fox considered it for only a moment before he nodded. “How did you get injured?”

“One of the attacking villagers had better aim than I expected,” you said, smiling wryly. “After I pulled his vibroblade from my calf, I changed my previous opinion.”

“Do you have a bacta patch on it?” Fox asked. “If not, I can get you a fresh one before you go back to your transport.” 

“I already have one, thanks,” you assured him. “And I’m feeling generous, so I’m going to point out the fact that I let you ask two questions. Now it’s my turn.” 

Luckily for Fox, you really were in a good mood again. You only let him dangle in his discomfort for a few moments before you asked your question. “Do you always stop my transport on purpose?” 

“Yes.” 

For all that you had suspected that answer, hearing it directly was shocking. 

Instead of responding immediately, you paused for a moment to take a breath. If Fox was targeting you specifically, you had to believe there was a reason. And since you had already come this far, you may as well find out what that reason was. “Why?”

Fox looked reluctant and faintly uncomfortable. It was the look you imagined most of the troopers got when they were asked to do an unpleasant chore. But, to Fox’s credit, he gave the answer he had promised. 

“You’re not the typical mercenary.” You frowned, already opening your mouth, but he quickly went on. “Not that you don’t have your skills, but I’ve been keeping a close eye on the missions you’re a part of. That is, the Coruscant Guard has. There is a concern among the men that the Lament would leave you behind on a mission or allow an injury to go untreated.”

Well, it was an explanation, but you felt like it left you with more questions than answers. “Nice to know you guys worry about me, but I still don’t understand why you care.”

Fox shrugged, but the casual gesture was belied by the way his eyes were locked with yours. “You look at us like we’re human.” 

You frowned again. 

“And I… admire you,” Fox added quietly. “You have a code and you follow it. Unusual, especially for a mercenary.” 

“Again with the insults about my work.” Despite your heavy sigh, your tone was playful, and you knew he would take it as the tease that it was. “I look forward to seeing you too, Fox. That’s why I haven’t complained about being stopped every time we come back to Coruscant.”

He gave you a disbelieving look and you laughed. “Okay, fine. That’s why I don’t complain too much.”

Fox didn’t immediately reply. Normally, the two of you traded barbs and witty remarks back and forth so quickly that it would make an onlooker’s head spin. But you didn’t feel the need to say anything further and, apparently, neither did he. The room filled with a surprisingly comfortable silence, warm and cozy in a way that durasteel interrogation rooms rarely managed.  

“So you’ve decided against filing harassment charges?” Fox asked at length. 

“I have no intention of it,” you told him. “We made a deal. Guess that’s more evidence of my rare and admirable moral code…”

Fox rolled his eyes and you laughed. Before he could say something sarcastic, you added, “Besides, I think I would miss seeing you guys if you stopped checking up when I return from missions.”

“You would miss us?” You would have accused Fox of fishing for a compliment if he hadn’t sounded so charmingly stunned. 

“Of course,” you told him, narrowly stopping yourself from winking at him. He really was a very attractive man. “But I need to get back to the transport now. They wouldn’t leave without me, but one of the others might get a little grabby with the weapons I left behind. Especially since I have a sharp new vibroblade.”

Fox stood when you did, leading the way to the door with a suspicious look on his face. “This isn’t the vibroblade that…” He finished the question only with a vague gesture toward your injured leg.

“If someone stabs me with a knife, I get to keep it,” you told him seriously. “I believe that is common courtesy.”

“No new weapons on this next mission, then,” Fox said as he stood aside to let you pass. “No risks, no injuries, no killing.”

You shook your head in exasperation, already starting down the hall back to the Lament’s transport. “I’m starting to think you don’t understand what being a mercenary is, Commander.”

---

Author's Note - Happy Fox day! I knew I wanted to write something for 10/10, and big thanks to @nowait-whathappened for giving me this prompt! Thank you for reading and have a wonderful day!

You can find other works on my masterlist or sign up for my taglist here. As always, I'm happy to remove you from the taglist if it's no longer in your interests.

Taglist: @rexs-wife @sugarpuffsstuff @stargazingthenightaway @just-some-girl-92 @kimageddon @ladysongmaster @carodealmeida @adriiibell @boomtowngirl @bitchylittleredhead @blck-omen @lackofhonor @captxin-rex @literallydontlook @salaminus @lucyhelena @808tsuika @ladykatakuri @bikerlorian @torchbearerkyle @frietiemeloen @tsedeshgishnii @buddee @justanothersadperson93 @leotatombs @mavendeb @rain-on-kamino @itsagrimm @captain-splock-you @dancingwiththeplanets @hummellchen @theclonesdeservebetter @cyarinka @ladyemxo @maulslittlemeowmeow @rosmariner @staycalmandhugaclone @coruscanticoffee @crookedwiings @eyecandyeoz @fordo-kixed-rex @musigrusi @lucyysthings @dinsverdika @bombshe77 @cawyden

[somedaylazysomeday]

Fanfic February 2024 - Week Two

We are well past the halfway point of the month, but here are the collected links for Fanfic February 2024 - Week Two:

Winner Take All (Part Four) - A fourth chapter of my Nathan Bateman x fem!reader Ex Machina fic.

Hunted (Part Three) - A continuation of my Hunter x fem!reader Star Wars: The Bad Batch fic from FFF - 2022.

Noisy (Part Four) - A continuation of my Viktor x fem!reader Arcane fic.

Target Acquired (Part Three) - The first of a two-part installment of my Jango Fett x fem!reader Star Wars fic.

Target Acquired (Part Four) - The second half of this year's installment of my Jango Fett x fem!reader Star Wars fic.

A Boon (Part Five) - The fifth chapter of my Thranduil x fem!reader The Hobbit fic.

A Boon (Part Six) - The sixth (and final) chapter of my Thranduil x fem!reader The Hobbit fic.

All of these fics are either mature or explicit. Minors, please do not interact with my works.

You can find other fics on my masterlist, SFW Star Wars fics on my other sideblog - @wanderinginksplot-writes - or find me on AO3 under InkSplots.

[wanderinginksplot-writes]

Clone Trooper Rambles

Journaling meets imaginary friends meets clone troopers.

Warnings: minor road rage, minor language, some grumpiness, vague mentions of objectification

---

Alpha Comic Book

I swore loudly as a car pulled out in front of me, easily drive ten miles an hour under what I had been going before. I braked, grumbling at how unfair it all was. 

“Are you in that big a hurry?” Echo asked. “I thought you didn’t have much to do tonight.” 

“I don’t,” I agreed, “but I got an email a couple of hours ago. My package was delivered!”

An uncomfortable silence fell at that, leaving Hardcase’s cackle loud and mischievous. “What is it this time? No - wait! Don’t tell me! I want it to be a surprise.” 

“Isn’t it always?” Stone’s dry tone made me grin. 

It seemed that Hardcase was the only one who appreciated my… eclectic sense of things to order online. Sometimes, I got useful things, like clothes. Other times, I bought something that caught my eye, like the set of miniature paintings of objects in space. As long as I could afford it and it made me happy, I reasoned, there was no reason not to indulge in an occasional purchase.

“I wasn’t going to tell you anyway,” I said loftily. “This one definitely needs to be a surprise.” 

Someone groaned, and I couldn’t quite tell who it was. 

We got home and I rushed to my front door, mildly panicked when I didn’t see anything waiting outside. I pulled out my phone to text my roommates and saw that I had a message from Cole: Hey, something was delivered for you right before I left for work. I took it inside. It’s on the counter. 

That relief made me relax as I unlocked the door and walked inside. 

The brown paper envelope on the counter looked like a present waiting to be opened, and I couldn’t wait until after my shower to open it. I was careful as I slipped the scissors between the flap of the envelope and the main body of it, then tipped it to let the object slide out without risking a wrinkle.

Star Wars Republic: On Hostile Ground, the cover proclaimed. The people shown on the front were overshadowed by the hands holding lightsabers in the foreground, and I started to get a little nervous. I had done a ton of research to find comics featuring Alpha-17 and all of them had said this was one, but why were there a bunch of Jedi and mercenaries on the cover?

With shaking fingers, I peeled up the sticky edge of the protective cover for the comic book and let it slide out into my hands. When I opened it to a random page, I was greeted by a picture of Alpha. He wasn’t wearing his armor there, but it was clearly him. I relaxed again. 

“Oh,” Echo said, peering over my shoulder. “Oh, no.”

Rex glanced over and shook his head, a grim look on his face. “Does anyone know when he’s supposed to be here?” 

“A few hours,” Stone reported. “He’s taking the late night to early morning guard shift tonight.” 

I carefully put the comic book back in the original package and went to take a shower. 

Reading it took far less time than I had expected, but I wasn’t used to reading comic books. I would have to read it again later, when I could remember to focus as much on the illustrations as on the dialogue bubbles. 

But as I was finishing my first read-through, a massive figure settled beside me. “Is that me.” 

He hadn’t phrased it as a question, but I nodded at Alpha anyway. “Yeah, it’s you. You’re pretty badass here.” I turned to the last page and pointed to a new panel. “And look at this one! You look so… stoic.” 

“I look like I’m done taking Kenobi’s shit,” Alpha corrected. “At least that’s accurate.”

“Better this picture than some of the earlier ones,” I muttered. 

“And that means?” I didn’t answer and Alpha nudged me with his shoulder. “What are you talking about?” 

“I meant that you spent a lot of time shirtless in this issue.” I flipped back a few pages and held it up. “These are the panels I thought you’d object to.”

Alpha was quiet as he studied the pictures in question. The comic book version of him was wearing a vest and holding two giant blasters, but everything else above the waist was left visible for the viewer.

“I think they left out some of my muscles,” he commented and I could only sputter a laugh as he walked away.

---

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Author's Note - I love that comic book. My poor roommates had to listen to me talk about it and show off all the panels with Alpha... Good times!

Reminder that there is no longer a taglist for any of my works! They'll all be posted here and tagged with the story name. Feel free to blacklist any tags you don't want to see, and thanks for reading!

[inklessletter]

Congratulations, first of all, for reaching the milestone 💐💐💐 you deserve every single follower, and then some. Your art is always so pretty and I love how you bring us along during your process.

Secondly, would you like to make art based on this fic of mine? I'm thinking right at the beginning, when Eddie falls to his knees on stage and he and Steve have their "moment".

Thank you for hosting this fanart party ❤️

Steve tilts his head, and Eddie prepares for a kiss. He gets no lips, only tongue; Steve licks his mouth, from one corner to the other.

🎸🎸🎸

@2btheanswertothequestion

This one was SO MUCH FUN TO DO. I had trouble finding good references for the ambiance, but I love the result. Please, go read the fic, it's so good.

I know that I don't know many of the users that sent me requests a few weeks ago, but I've got a tiny story to tell about this one (I'm getting to know you little by little and I'm falling for every single one of you, you talented fuckers). They are the reason I am in Tumblr. It happens that I created an account many months ago, and didn't know how to use this, I just clicked "follow" to the tags and the blogs ST/Steddie related that posted fics and arts, and on my way to work, in the bus, I read the first chapter of a fanfic that made lose my stop (literally, I got late to the office that day).

Sad thing is the next time I opened the app, the fic was gone. I just remembered a few things and god knows that the search bar in this site works... well, works. Sometimes. I couldn't find it. I made it my personal goal to actually find this fic again, and this user, whose name I didn't catch because, again, I didn't know how to use Tumblr. This user pulled a full Cinderella on me, reading with intent every fic until the shoe fit. And I found it by mere coincidence, because they posted the third part, and I was like "WAIT IS THIS IT?". And it was it.

In the meanwhile, I actually completed my account, like you know, trying not to make it look like a bot (that I learned that it was a bad thing that could get me blocked), I put a profile picture, I made it decent, I learned how to use Tumblr (a bit). So, you see. This user, my beloved @2btheanswertothequestion is the one to blame that I actually stuck in this place. If you're wondering which one was the fic that got me so hooked up it was November Paramedic. (Here the AO3 link). Go read it, you're gonna love it.

(I'm kinda mad that they didn't asked me to draw the actual picture of the calendar, though. I have some ideas, I might draw it the future, because when I say that I hold this fic very close to my heart, I mean it.)

I really, really hope you like it, I worked hard on it and I did this with every bit of love stored in my heart ❤️❤️❤️

[sketchingstars03]

a struggle us ink fans know all too well

I’ve said enough

[girlwithherheadinthestars]

(Villain comes to visit Hero in the dungeon.)

"Hey..."

"I want nothing to do with you."

"Hero."

"Go away."

"Just...please. Talk...talk to me."

(A pause, then Hero asks)

"Was any of it real?"

"Don't start."

"Was any of it real?"

(Villain looks up, tearful) "More real than anything."