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hcdragonwrites · 9 months

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Cozy (a @jttw-monkeybusiness Drabble )

So I made another one- this one was inspired by this ask (I suck at Hyperlinks I’m so sorry)

It rolled a bit in my brain and kept begging to be fleshed out, so I decided to give it life ! Enjoy!

Snow

Snow fell in white flurries, chasing away the blossoms and birds that had been sitting in the trees just moments before. The storm was in a full frenzy now, peeling petals from overeager trees who had budded too soon, and throwing the birds from the sky. The wind whipped up the cold powder to spray back in the face of the pilgrims as they continued on their journey. They had left the warm subtropical forest only hours ago, where Sophie had rolled her sleeves up to relieve some of the excess heat. Now however, she was shivering.

None of the group, save for Wukong, was truly equipped for the snow and cold. Pigsys ears were turning purple from the temperature as he tried, and failed, to hide from the worst of it behind Sandy. Sandy silently continued on, carving a path for Sophie (who trailed farther behind) to walk through. The snow was already deep, coming to her knees as they continued to follow the tiny path up the mountain. Black rock jutted upward and outward like broken teeth into the white air. Horse and Monk both were struggling ahead, Yulongs sides shivering in the wet as the snow melted on his fur. Tripitaka called Wukong over, asking him to scout ahead to look for a place they could shelter for the duration of this storm. Sophie could see there heads bent together as Master and pupil discussed. Wukong, for once, didn’t reply with a snort or a quick jab at how Trip should be lucky for him to be his disciple. Instead he had somersaulted off, gone in a flash of fur and tiger stripes, into the air.

“Would be nice if I could just somersault out of here.” Sophie muttered.

A freak blizzard had not been on the list of things Sophie was ready for. She had faced shape-changing demons, women that turned to great tigers to devour Tripitaka, mountain gods throwing stones down into their path and the like. Sophie was prepared for any person or creature - or at least- expecting it. The weather however? She was severely underprepared for. She had the travel clothes she had bought with the coin purse she’d been given. They were meant for light rain and mild heat. Not for a snowstorm. Sophies hair was getting wet and the cold was starting to chill her ears from where it melted.

“It’s so cold…” she muttered. She kept following Sandys footpath, thankful for the giant of a river demon and his slow shuffling walk. If he was walking normally he would have left her far behind in the snow.

Her foot hit a rock and slipped, sending her flailing into a rapidly growing snowbank. “F-f-f-freezing! AH!” Snow had gone down her shirt, sending a chill up her spine. Faster than a wildcat she had hopped from the bank, shaking herself.

“Hate snow hate snow hate snow—“ she chanted her mantra as she slapped off the powder, trying to prevent it from melting and wetting her clothes. Wet clothes would only spell disaster. Sophie could recall all the cold born illnesses from one special National Geographic did on Everest and the extreme exposure the hikers faced there: pneumonia, Trench foot, frostbite, hypothermia, flu, Chilblains, bronchitis —

Her foot slipped again as her mind was listing all the things that could happen. Sophie would have been in the snowbank a second time except something caught her by the midriff and hauled her up.

“Stupid women stay on your feet!” Wukong snarled in her ear, setting her down. Sophie nodded, teeth chattering and nose turning red as the cold began to chap it. “Of all the people here I thought at least you had the common sense to be aware of ice!”

From up ahead came the faint cry and heavy fall as Pigsys fell face first in the snow. Sandy had to quickly turn to hid a chuckle as the drenched demon began wilding swinging his rake around in rage.

“S-s-sorry.” She mumbled, shoving her hands beneath her armpits. “Slipped.”

“What’s wrong with your speech? You sound like a squirrel.” Wukong cocked his head, an eyebrow raised. He rolled his eyes when Sophie didn’t banter back irritated she wasn’t snapping back at him. That agitation grew when he felt something like worry begin to itch his pelt. Of the pilgrims, the two mortals were in his charge of care and were the most delicate. While Wukong could fight off monsters and Demons and wicked minded mortals he could not fight a storm. Well- he could if he really wanted to find the celestial body responsible for its creation. But that would take time- and time was not on his side on this.

Tripitaka had put on a brave face when he had asked the Monkey King to find shelter. That didn’t mean Wukong had not noticed how his Masters hands had turned red at the growing cold, how his body shivered and his nose sniffed. Wukong would have teased, poked and prodded at his master- it was his nature to rile and cause mischief. But when he had seen the half awake expression on the mortal man’s face, Wukong had bit his tongue (with great effort) and had instead nodded.

Seeing Sophie in a similar state made the itch beneath his pelt grow worse as fire ants had begun to bite his skin.

“Damn it.” He cursed beneath his breath. He snatched her arm, avoiding her hand, and started dragging her behind him. “Come on just a bit farther you softie. I found a cave up ahead where we can get out of the worst of it. You mortals are ABSOLUTELY worthless when it comes to weather —“

Sophie was only half listening to Wukongs ranting. She allowed herself to be dragged up the mountain pass, trusting the Monkey King to find a better route than her own dimming senses. The cold was like a blanket she wanted to escape out of. Or escape into? She couldn’t remember clearly. If she closed her eyes… she was so tired. The snow looked inviting, comforting. Like the best downy comforter. Like the fluffiest pillow.

Maybe I just … need to lay … down in the comfort. Just close my eyes for a few minutes.

They had been walking for hours before the storm blew in. Her feet hurt, her hands shook and it was so cold. Cold. She just wanted to sleep.

“SOPHIE LOOK AT ME!” Wukong yanked her and she was rattled enough to open her eyes wider in surprise. Sun Wukong was right in her face, leaning so close she could see every line of his facial markings in detail. His breath came from between his teeth like some dragons as he glared.

“Ye-es?!”

“Stay awake- we're almost there. If you fall asleep while I’m dragging your ass up the mountain I will bite your pretty nose clean off!” The demonic monkey spat, then, half carried, half dragged Sophie the rest of the way. Leaning against his back Sophie sighed. Through the clothing she could feel it- like desert sand warmed by the sun. Delicious heat. Sophie - who wouldn’t in normal circumstances have cuddled so close- practically melted against the warmth. What else could she do? Wukong was dragging her up the mountain- practically carrying her. She could see the bend in the mountain pass- a steep cliff where the road cut itself around and hugged the mountain as a snake would do climbing along a vine. Almost there.

“How come you get to be so warm?” She grumbled, not realizing she had said it aloud. Wukong had heard however, and his face became a storm cloud as his heart took a shuddering beat.

“Maybe grow some fur or ask for the Buddha to make you some furry creature. Bet he would too.” Wukong grumbled back.

Stupid fucking women.

They reached the curve in the mountain where Pigsy and Sandy- mostly Sandy since the pig demon kept complaining about how cold his snout was- were setting up three tents. The tents were simple, the leather treated against wet weather and solid. All pigsy had to do was drive the stakes into the stone which, it seemed, he was failing at.

“It’s so damn cold!” Pigsy snorted angrily stamping his hands together, having missed the spike for the third time. “Blasted Heaven and whoever ordered a storm now of all times! Don’t they know who’s crossing these mountains?”

“Less talking more working.” Sandy angrily chided. He had finished setting up the second tent all on his own. When Pigsy went to open his mouth to make another comment and the usually peaceful Sandy shoved him across the shallow cave to the last tent and the one closest to the entrance.

As Wukong walked past, Pigsy lifted an eyebrow at the strange sight. The Monkey King could see the pig beginning to lift a lip in a smirk only to stop when he noticed Sophie’s shivering.

“What did you do?” Those were the last words Wukong expected to come out of his fellow brothers mouth.

“WHAT DID I DO?!” He bared his teeth, fangs on display. He didn’t have time for Pigsy or for his own feelings to confuse him. He knew Sophie was practically clinging to his back like the newborn monkeys did to their mothers back on Flower Fruit Mountain. He was very aware of it. The last thing he needed was for this thick pink idiot to start shit with him.

“I DIDNT DO SHIT YOU THICK HEADED BOAR.” He spat, continuing past. “THIS IDIOT STARTED FALLING ASLEEP IN THE FUCKING STORM. NOW SHUT UP AND GET THE OTHER TENT SET UP.”

Wukong left Pigsy behind, angrily chattering to himself and feeling embarrassed all the while. He couldn’t let that thick womanizing boar know any of Wukongs feelings. If he did, the damn brute would only press his nose to it and route deeper. The sooner he got Sophie off his back the better. Even though he didn’t entirely want that.

He reached the back corner of the cave, setting Sophie down. She huffed, letting go with some reluctance to his warm back. The Monkey King knelt, leaning in. Sophie’s shivering was less. Good.

“I’ll be back- I have to make sure the pink ham doesn’t fuck up the last tent. Once I’ve tended Yulong and seen to my masters comforts I’ll be back to check on you.”

Sophie pulled her knees to her chest. She was still so cold. She wanted nothing more then to curl up and sleep- to find something warm and hold onto it. She heard Wukong from far off - but she nodded.

“S-S-sure… just gonna fall .. asleep.”

“Don’t fall asleep you idiot.” He snapped.

“Why not?” Sophie groaned. She was tired

“Remember. You are in wet clothes. Wake up just to remember - Think. Use that reading brain of yours.” He flicked her between the eyes. That woke Sophie up enough as the pain cleared her head.

“Ow, what the hell Wukong?!” Sophie felt like she had come out of a daze. Her fingers started rubbing at the pain. It wasn’t terrible but … she felt like a child be scolded. Sophie glared up into the smug monkey face.

“Awake? Good. Now fucking listen before you nod off again.” Wukong smirked just a bit. The itching beneath his fur had eased just enough upon seeing her get mad. He spoke slowly, for her sake but also to press in how much he enjoyed giving her orders- and being right about them. “Your clothes are wet. You can’t sleep in them. Change to new ones. In fact, bundle up as much as you can. I’ll be back to check on you.”

Wukong stood up, then turned back around to flick her on the forehead again.

“Ow! I’m up, I'm up!” Sophie rubbed at the space between her brows.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes yes …” she uncurled herself and stood as well, looking down at the Monkey King. “Get out of wet clothes and get new ones. Bundle up. That really hurt you know.”

“If you are still in wet fucking clothes, I’ll do a lot worse then just smack you between the eyes.” And then he was away, already cussing Pigsy out who had, somehow, managed to rip the tent.

It was a only about twenty minutes later but Sophie had managed not to fall asleep. She had gotten into the tent and had peeled the worst of the wet clothes off. Her poor shoes were the worst for wear- the socks and the soles were soaked. She would have to wear her spare shoes tomorrow and let these ones dry. Sophie had set the wet clothes to the farthest side of the tent. She was now dressed in a pair of gray sweats, a long sleeve and her hoodie of bright orange with clementines decorating the front. She felt much warmer and absolutely exhausted. Her fingers were red where the cold had gotten them, her lips felt chapped from the dry air, and her body just kept shivering.

Sophie had retreated almost completely into the hoodie- only her face was viewable.

The tent flap lifted and Wukong stepped in, a bowl of some sort of wild berries and cold rice in one hand. He took one look at her huddled there on her sleeping mat and snorted.

“You look like some orange orangutan.”

“Hahah very funny. See how you like the cold when you don’t have fur.” She shot back. Wukong offered the bowl to her and she took it, digging into it with gusto.

“How’s Trip?” She asked between bites.

“Alive.” Wukong leaned back, putting his arms beneath his head as he stared up at the tent ceiling. “You two would have frozen if not for me- you were both starting to look pinker than yangmei fruit.”

“Thank you.” Sophie said.

“Mm? What are you thankful for ?”

Oh he was gonna ask her for all of it then? Sophie looked at him. Wukong had propped himself up enough to stare at her, waiting.

“Thank you for the food.” She lifted the now empty bowl- she had been famished - to him. “Thank you for finding a spot to rest. And … thanks for dragging me out of the snow.”

“You almost died I hope you know that.” He smirked, laying back down, eyes closing. She followed suit, too tired to sit up anymore or even bicker back with him.

“Yeah I did …” Sophie yawned. Usually she wouldn’t admit so readily to Wukong just how certain situations had made her dependent upon him. He was always, in some way or other, saving the lot of them. When Tripitaka was snatched up by some Goblins belonging to some chieftain of a nearby mountain, when Pigsy had boasted that they didn’t need Wukong and then (almost immediately) failed to find food when Wukong was sent away. He had stopped the dragon horse from foundering and taken to the care of his hooves and coat many a time. The Monkey King had seen to restoring the missing supplies from Sophie pack when a group of mischievous raccoon spirits had taken it. Wukong had even replaced Sandy’s teakettle when it was smashed in battle (Sophie was pretty sure he had stolen it).

He may act aloof and pompous but deep down, this big old brute cared for them. Even Pigsy.

Sophie felt her eyes grow heavy as Wukong kept talking about how she had stumbled in the snow like some “dumb struck fawn” until he came to help her.

As she relaxed to the sound of his voice rumbling on and on, it almost felt … cozy. Yes Wukong may like to slide the occasional wriggly salamander into her water skin, he may thumb through her things like they were his, he may call her idiot, stupid women, and softie. But. There was no real malice behind his actions.

He was also kind of … warm. She scooted closer, half listening to the Monkey ramble on about the idiocy of mortals and the greatness of beings such as him. He was rambling on about his natural prowess over mortals and how he had mastered the arts of immortality and Tripitaka couldn’t even master warding off a cold. Sophie fell asleep before he could get to the part about her looking like a slack jawed idiot in the snow.

Wukong was only a quarter way through his regaling of the story of how he had saved everyone this day when he felt hands wrap around his chest.

His heart nearly flew into his throat as he stopped dead in his speech. His mouth was open, voice cut off halfway through his speech. Sophie curled into his side, face buried in the crook of his neck and so close to his ear he could feel her breathing against its shell.

Electricity shot threw him, fur standing on end as if he had been in a thunderstorm.

He was suddenly very aware of many things. Of Sophie’s hands that had escaped that ridiculous orange sweatshirt and were now burrowed into his fur. One arm was across his chest. The second one was now, somehow beneath his head and tugging on his shoulder. Sophie’s face rested on his arm and in the curve of his neck, her face rubbing back and forth like a cat. As if … she was enjoying the feel of it.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Sophie moved just a bit, mumbling in his ear and Wukong felt his tail lash like it had just been bit. She didn’t say anything coherent but — the proximity alone—

Fucking Hell and all its Judges.

Sophie was … cuddling him.

She was practically twined around him.

And she smelled fantastic. Her scent always changed- sometimes it held a hint of lemons and the sweetness of grass, other times it floated like rain clouds and smelled of stones. But all of it together had a larger perfume beneath it. It was just her. Yes there were moments when her scent changed just enough that he felt like he was adding new spices onto his favorite dish. The essence of it, however, was just Sophie.

And now that cloud was all around him, filling his nose.

He looked at her, turning his head just a fraction to see.

Big mistake.

She was asleep, passed out completely. She looked so … fragile asleep. The dark circles beneath her eyes spoke of how she hadn’t been sleeping well. Her nose was stupidly pink like a Red Pika in her pale face. The cold must have chapped it. His eyes darted to her lips …

Mistake number two.

Wukong looked away, feeling his face flame. Fuck. Shit. He was stuck in a predicament now. He hadn’t meant to chat away about himself for so long that Sophie would fall asleep. Wukong was at war with himself. On one hand, he needed to get out of here. To leave before Pigsy and the others found out- before Sophie found out.

He couldn’t let anyone be that close to him- couldn’t let anyone be as close as Sophie was right now. It was a liability to his pride, to his reputation—

To his heart. Because if she rejected him it would ruin the friendship they had. And the feeling he had building in his chest- he would crush it in his fist before he let it jeopardize that peace between them.

I have to leave —

Wukong tried to move-

Only to feel Sophie’s fingers tug in his fur and her sleepy voice grumble “m’no don’t go.”

Jade Emperor flay me and boil me alive again.

In all the hundreds of years of living, Wukong had only felt trapped like this but once before. The first time he had lost his wager to the Buddha, having been unable to somersault out of his hand. The second time? He was trapped because he allowed it. He was trapped in a way no one in Heaven could have predicted- or had thought to do. Wukong had been placed in vats to be boiled, had wormed and tricked his way out of every trap and net that had attempted to keep his mischief managed. It had taken Buddha and his wager to finally end Wukongs terrorization of Heaven.

Wukong couldn’t move now. He was tethered here by frail fingers and the steady beat of a mortal's heart.

He could hear her heartbeat, feel it against his side. It was steady, soft. Like the steady roar of Water-Curtain Cave. Like the wind through the trees of the orchards on his mountain.

She was mortal. One day that steady beat would stop as all mortal hearts did.

That set his tail to lashing just a bit.

Hasn't she been afraid of dying? Of growing old? He remembered hearing a conversation late at night- when Tripataka and Sophie had those rare mortal conversations where he was explicitly not allowed to sit in on. He hadn’t known why it was such a secret conversation. So of course, since it wasn’t an order, Wukong had pulled a hair from his tail and made a doppel and floated somewhere nearby but out of sight to eavesdrop. The Monk and Reader had been chatting about death, about Sophie’s future.

Well her fears were unfounded. Doesn’t she know I would take care of her? Sophie shifted a bit closer as a gust of wind slipped beneath the tent flat he had left unsecured. Damn it all. Wukong carefully, o so carefully, shifted himself. He slid his body so he was now lying on his side, setting Sophie’s head beneath his chin. It was all the invitation Sophie needed to cuddle closer and escape from the wind.

“You stupid women.” He angrily whispered into her hair. He wouldn’t let her die. He would just fix that. He would fix a lot of her problems. She just had to tell him. He was Sun Wukong, Great Sage Equal to Heaven. He knew of a hundred different ways to achieve immortality. He could fix them all. Like her problem right now of being cold.

He was too tense to relax fully- too aware- but he grew just a fraction larger. His size now dwarfed Sophie’s a good bit and gave her a bit more to tangle into. And she did. Sophie curled her knees up, shivering slowing. Wukong waited. Watching. When finally the shivering had ceased he allowed just a fraction of tension to slide off of him. This stupid softie is gonna make me soft. The thought didn’t bother him as much as it would have months ago.

Maybe he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight but…

He could make her life Hell in the morning. It was something that she owed him on. His face was screwed furiously into a scowl because all he wanted to do was enjoy this moment but if he did- if he really truly did- he didn’t know if he would be able to stop.

She was most assuredly going to be bombarded tomorrow with the most annoying and snappish teasing and toying a King of Monkeys and tricks could give.

Sophie woke with a start as something cold and wet slapped her in the face. She panicked as any person would.

“GaH! DEMON!” She cried, grabbing at her face and throwing it aside. It was a wet rag.

“Relax.” Wukongs voice laughed at her. “Unless cloth can become possessed and has gained a hunger for red nosed mortal flesh, you're fine.”

He was at the tent flap, grinning ear to ear in a grin that promised problems. Really so early in the morning and he already wants to play games ?

“You could have woken me up in a number of other ways- why did you pick that?” Sophie rubbed at her face, feeling … huh. She didn’t feel as sore as she usually felt. When Sophie woke up there was almost a constant crick of pain in her neck from whatever odd angle she had slept in on the ground.

Maybe I had been so tired my body just finally didn’t care.

He shrugged. “You stink. Next place we stop at you better demand a bath of some sort or other.”

“Thanks….” She grumbled, letting the sarcasm drip off her words. She took the cloth up, rubbing the sleep out of her face and the worst of the dirt off her face and arms. She would kill for a warm bath, one that would wake up her bones and chase the last of the cold from her body. Once clean, she checked her wet clothes, bundling them away in a separate part of her pack to avoid them dampening the rest of her stuff. Then she stepped out of the tent, smelling the fire and the promise of breakfast being made.

Only for her feet to slip right from beneath her as a monkey foot stuck out and caught her ankle.

“WUKONG!”

He laughed, face full of malicious mischief as Sophie gathered herself up to chase after the errant Monkey. To do what, she didn’t know. He was a mystical demonic creature born of stone and she just a mortal women. As the morning light cut into the cave and Tripitaka had to order his disciple to calm down after he once again tripped her and she almost went sprawling into rocks, the pilgrims ate breakfast. They broke down their tents. And they were once again on the road.

None were the wiser of Wukongs happier mood. He hid it beneath a storm of frowns and a game of teasing torture as he became partically insufferable to Sophie. The threat of the hoop tightening spell was the only true damper to his mood when Tripataka heard Sophie scream as snow was dropped down the back of her shirt.

As the sun rose higher and the word was cast in a frosty flash of refracted gold, Wukong made a decision. He would solve Sophie problem of growing old. It was easy. And if Buddha couldn’t send her back…

Well she was a great sport for pestering and heckling. The least he could do as a benevolent King is give the poor women a roof over her head.

Maybe a few dresses down the line...

Girls liked dresses right?

“Hey Reader!” He called.

“What?”

“Dresses or suits ? What did you wear in that fake time long after this one ? Or whatever fake dimension you fell out of. What did you prefer ?”

And thus began the long hour debate that somehow pulled every one of them: Pigsy, Sandy and Tripitaka, into what was a heated discussion on the best attire for the best occasions.

#hcwrites #writing stuff #I DID ANOTHER ONE #thank you little anon for mentioning a cold snuggle scenario #I love when there’s cuddles even if one party doesn’t know or remember and the other is both ecstatic and pissed the fuck off about it #I Hope i wrote them well #the formatting took me longer then I thought #for jttw monkeybuisness #Sophie #Sophie and Wukong #sun wukong x reader #jttw sun wukong #jttw reader #jttw fanfic #I gave Sophie an orange hoodie because she already has a ‘magical’ peach kawaii cup.#make all her things fruit related #just writing the scene where Wukong walks back into the tent and has to pause because Sophie had turned into an orange made me laugh #I Hope i got your boy down Kiri!#thank you again for letting me write for you #this was a welcome break from my 30 page spree #I listened to two songs - the first part was #with Tourner Dans Le Vide #the second part where they are in the tent was with Of Monsters and Men ‘Love’#it helps to have a song hook you into writing because then you can follow the feeling of it and stay focused #I mean- songs are like a tempo to keep pace with.#sun wukong #jttw au #I did look up all the snow born illnesses to be a bit accurate.#also that falling asleep bit in the snow ? yeah that almost happened to me as a kid. it only took ten minutes - be wary of snow and cold #hcfanfics

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ilykirara · 3 months

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In light of Lunar New Year, I hc that Liu Kang does the most BEAUTIFUL dragon/lion dance (MK11 ver. definitely paired up with MK11 ver. Kung Lao whenever it was Lunar New Year)

MK1 ver definitely makes his fire dragons do the dance in the air at night <<3

If have time I definitely wanna draw Liu Kang with his dragons (but like... my schedule is so bad rn so if anyone does it TAG MEEE!!) / Raiden, Kung Lao, Cage, Takahashi, and Liu Kang doing the dragon dance PLEASE

#date night me and liu kang watch his fire dragons dance in the night sky as we lay down on the cold fresh grass and hold hands #i would LOVE to see liu kang wear those lion dance pants #liu kang and lunar new year simply pair up #oh id give him more than li xi/hong bao/lai see #liu kang #mk1 #mk11 #mortal kombat #lunar new year #headcannon #if youre still reading the tags and followed me cause i do a fanfic ermmmm im planning on sending the chapter soon haha...#raiden #kung lao #kenshi takahashi #johnny cage

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ishomieokay · 3 months

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—texting boyfriend!homelander

HOMELANDER X HISPANIC TEXTER (2/?)

✰ summary — a series of random texts between homelander and you, his girlfriend 💕

✰ warnings — +18, suggestive themes, hints of breeding kink, latina baddie with an attitude.

✰ genre — texts, domestic fluff, flirting, smut.

✰ taglist: @poisoned-cupcakes 🤗

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lady-lostmind · 2 months

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Icicles

Love is: Letting him put his cold hands under your shirt and only complaining a little bit.

a @steddielovemonth prompt Thank you @oh-stars for betaing this!

WC: 329 | Rating: T

ao3 link

Steve lays, sprawled out on the couch, glasses perched on his nose, one of Eddie’s nerd books in hand. He’s never been much of a reader, but Eddie is always quoting this damn thing and he would never say it, but Steve can tell it bugs him, that Steve hasn’t read it. That this book is important to him. And he’d gone to that big game with him a few months ago, even though Steve knows he was bored to death. And he clearly tried to get excited whenever Steve cheered. So…Lord of the Rings it is. Even if the long names confuse the hell out of him and he could do without the half page descriptions of a single tree.

He hears Eddie come in, door closing quickly behind him as he mumbles to himself. “Fucking freezing.”

Steve marks his page and looks up as Eddie comes in the room, hurrying over as he rubs his hands together, trying to get warmth back into his fingers. Steve opens his arms as Eddie flops down onto the couch, wrapping his arms around Steve’s middle with a heavy sigh. Steve presses a kiss to his head, smiling against his wild curls, a little damp from the snow before he sucks in a harsh breath as a deathly cold plasters itself to the bare skin of his sides as Eddie slides his hands under his shirt.

He swats Eddie with the book. “Your hands are like fucking icicles, Eds.”

Eddie looks up at him with big, pleading eyes. “You’re so warm.”

Steve rolls his eyes and settles back against the couch, shaking his head and bringing the book back to a spot he can read from.

Eddie’s eyes flick to the book, and then to Steve’s face, widening with wonder as a crooked smile spreads on his face. “Are you actually reading Lord of the Rings?”

#Love is letting him put his cold hands under your shirt and only complaining a little bit #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie fanfic #stranger things #steddielovemonth #day 22 #lady lostmind

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virgothozul · 1 year

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adfgfsgafsgvhhg

#Macho Man is my new personality hi #fanfic #Jona couldn’t plan this unfolding but in the end he was extraordinarily hypocrit with this move #« public decency » and « family friendly content » my 🍑 !#unnecessary obscene violence hello #Jona i seriously hope sb will kick ur ass for ur live broadcast demonstration of poor parenting bc im sure joz wont say 💩#As usual the writing is amazing #I love drawing from fics these guys r crazy talented it s so f easy to picture everything #joseph joestar #u have no idea how many scenes i wanna sketch #Macho Man #chapter 14 #chapter 15 #update : i finish reading the chapter Jona feels guilty so i guess it is almost forgiven but still ! Pretty hypocritical #also sb’s gotta have a word with jot #dude cant just waltz around killing ppl off to cope with his emotions wtf man #i say all that bc i’m so f invested in this story i love it to bits #And i can give jona the cold shoulder while loving him deeply

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unrelatedghosts · 3 months

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They on another outing, this time? Winnie made the mistake of mentioning Jaws.

#hc Augustine fucking loves Jaws #augustine orlov #winnie bosko #cold front game #i still ask for fanfics people #dm with some if you must.#ratkingart #digital art #hell yeah #background stolen off pinterest

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pixelatedraindrops · 3 months

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My RainCode fic, Under The Weather is officially on my AO3! I made a quick little scribble to promote it a bit further too :3

Poor Yuma can never catch a break with me... ;w;

I altered and added to it so its 2k words longer than what I had in the OG post so...hope you enjoy the little additions I made to it!

This is also my tamest silliest fic as well as it being the only one that has NO SPOILERS. So anyone can give it a read!

Hope you enjoy! ^-^

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fuukonomiko · 3 months

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Art by ODII on X

Tagging my fellow TaiZus.

@apatheticallyromantic

@sad-endings-suck

@charons-ships

@lillyblogsmizu

@libbyrequiresescapism

@farintonorth

@mothertruckerdudeheh

I would love it if you kind readers leave me comments on AO3. It encourages the writing bug :D

Also if y'all want/don't want to be tagged, I can do that!

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nerevar-quote-and-star · 2 months

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Yet another wild crackship between my LDB and some Skyrim dumbo, but this time it's General Tullius, and it actually gets madder from there

Look, a lot of this surprised me too. It sure surprised @elder-dragon-reposes and yet it makes sense and that's the strange beauty of it

He could be forgiven for not seeing her at Helgen. Between Ulfric's capture and the following dragon attack, Tullius had his hands full with escaped prisoners and a town in ruins. Not to mention Elenwen's attempts to take over his execution. One half-elf caught in the crossfire was below his attention at the time. When she came into Castle Dour, a cold wind in her wake as she spoke about fire and death, he had no choice but to pay attention to her. Especially when she brought up things like "peace" and "ceasefire." This Last Dragonborn was out of her mind.

Yet somehow, she led him into an agreement to meet with the Stormcloaks at High Hrothgar.

Tullius isn't quite sure he likes that. She's as double-edged as any Thalmor diplomat with her words. As noble as her intentions appear on the surface, he's not sure he can trust her.

At High Hrothgar, the Last Dragonborn, Leara, leads both sides into an agreement where no one gets what they want, but no one is worse off, and she plans to trap a dragon in a castle.

She . . . plans to trap a dragon in a castle.

Tullius knows he was sent to Skyrim to tame the rebellion, but no one ever prepared him for how maddening the people of Skyrim were. No one is as maddening as the Nords' hero. Tullius cannot understand her. He's not sure he wants to, all things considered.

The Legate is amused by his consternation. He knows this even without her saying anything. But Tullius is worried. This Leara has the power to sway Skyrim in whatever way she chooses, and if she joins the Stormcloaks, then he has a feeling that the Empire might lose more than Skyrim before all is over.

He keeps an ear out for the Dragonborn's movements. His spy network throughout Skyrim is extensive: If she breathes in Windhelm's direction, if she says anything about the Civil War, then he'll need to be ready. This woman has slain dragons. He doesn't want to see what she'll do to a legion of mortal men. Tullius needs to be ready.

Tullius is not ready when Leara walks into Castle Dour again, armorless and prim as she waltzs into his war room. Legate Rikke greets her, but Tullius pretends to give half an ear. He looks like he's going through reports, but he's trying to keep an eye on the anomaly in the room.

Legate Rikke and the Dragonborn talk quietly together. And then the Dragonborn leaves and Tullius finally puts down his paperwork. Legate Rikke is frowning.

"What did she want?"

The Legate's attention snaps to him.

"She wanted to know about our support from Cyrodiil, sir." "Support?" "She mentioned your inability to negotiate a peace settlement, General."

Tullius recalled that. He'd told the Dragonborn he couldn't do more than accept Ulfric's surrender. But why did the Dragonborn want to know about the Imperials' ability to negotiate with the rebels? Didn't she already get her peace treaty and trap her dragon?

Tullius cannot wrap his head around her. Everything his spies have reported paints her as kindness. Even the coldest Nords seem to thaw around her. But Tullius can't base his understanding of such a power player like the Dragonborn on reports and a handful of interactions. He'd have to speak with her himself.

The Winking Skeever is busy when he steps in. A few heads turn, but otherwise, no one pays Tullius any particular attention. The Dragonborn isn't difficult to find, either: She's at a corner table with her nose buried in a dusty book.

Tullius makes his way over to her.

The Dragonborn is surprised to see him but still invites Tullius to sit at her table.

"I assume this is about my discussion with your legate earlier."

She's perceptive. But Tullius already knew that.

"Do you always discuss politics in a bar?"

At his question, the Dragonborn offers a little half-smile, her eyes dancing with amusement.

"Do you?"

No. Honestly, Tullius couldn't recall the last tie he even visited a bar or tavern other than while traveling. Perhaps he was working too late, but between the Civil War, Elenwen, the dragons, and (maybe) the Dragonborn, he couldn't afford to slack off. Why else would Tullius chase the Dragonborn down to the local inn?

"Have you read much about Skyrim?"

Her question surprises him.

"War commentaries mostly. Military history."

The nod of her precise head is measured as if she expected that response. Marking her page, she closes her book and shows him the cover. It's some thick tome he's never heard of, but the knotwork dragon design around the edges breathes of old Nordic craftsmanship.

"As Dragonborn . . . [she pauses for a long moment] . . . As Dragonborn, I am highly invested in the preservation of the Empire and Skyrim."

She chews her lip.

Tullius almost asks if she's about to join the Legion. He can't deny that he'd hoped that would be her ultimate decision, but sitting here across from the Dragonborn as she was now, deliberating over words and tapping her book's cover, Tullius knew she wasn't about to swear fealty to the Emperor.

When she continues, she speaks slowly.

"General Tullius, would you be willing to help me? I need to reach out to people in the Imperial City about a peace summit, and I don't know where to begin."

A peace summit?

"I take it Ulfric didn't put you up to this?"

Her frown is surprising.

"No, he didn't. I asked him."

The Dragonborn asked Ulfric if she could talk to the Empire about a peace summit?

Before he could ask what in Oblivion that was supposed to mean, the server brought a tea service to the table. Just as quickly, he was gone.

"Would you care for a cup, General? I'm afraid all they have is lavender honey." "I . . . would like that--" "Leara."

She supplied. Her lips quirked.

So Tullius found himself ensconced at a table in The Winking Skeever and discussing different politicians and diplomats back in the Imperial City with the Dragonborn – Leara. He's halfway through his second cup when she admits that she's trying to find a peaceful resolution to the Civil War that could please everyone. He calls her a hopeful idiot, but she smiles.

"You can't please everyone." "Well, I don't think I can please the Dominion, but I can tie them in legal knots."

Leara wiggles her fingers at him, her rings glittering in the candlelight, and Tullius finds himself speechless.

If the Dragonborn – Leara – can tie the Thalmor up with a loophole, how imminent would their retaliation be? Tullius is at once intrigued and put off.

She was mad.

"Here, you'll want to write . . ."

But by the Divines, he was going to help her anyway, wasn't he? If Leara could talk Ulfric off his warpath, then maybe there was something to her hair-brained scheme.

Tullius sees Leara a few days later. She's been to the Blue Palace and the Bards College, she tells him when he meets her again at the 'Skeever. She's combing through maps and treaties, drafting letters, and making lists. Her mind is running at speeds Tullius can't comprehend, and yet she keeps looking to him for advice.

As Leara stirs a lump of sugar into her snowberry spice tea and peruses another list, Tullius wonders if she did this with Ulfric when she went to ask him to consider peace.

Her penmanship is as poised as the rest of her. He cannot see her against the harsh stony backdrop of Windhelm, amidst the snow and vitriol. She's too civilized for Skyrim. She's almost too civilized for Cyrodiil, but Tullius won't think of that.

He doesn't have a chance to give it much thought anyway when she's asking him about neutrality and the terms of the Concordat.

It's late when Tullius leaves her the second time. As he leaves, she's carrying a stack of papers upstairs. She has a hopeful lift in her step.

Tullius almost smiles.

Almost.

The next morning, Legate Rikke drops a new report on his desk. It's from Captain Aldis.

"What's this, Legate?" "There was a break-in, sir." "And we're concerned with this, because?"

Legate Rikke's jaw tightens, her eyes are wide. Whatever it is has unsettled her.

"It was at The Winking Skeever."

She sighs. Heavy. It's a familiar frustration.

"General, I believe that the Thalmor were exercising their Concordat-given rights."

A pit settles in Tullius's stomach.

"They took the Dragonborn, sir." "On what grounds?" "It doesn't say. sir. It doesn't even mention the Thalmor at all. But you know–"

Tullius doesn't hear the rest of the sentence because he realizes his mistake. He should never have discussed the possibility of an armistice with Leara in a public room. Who overheard her? Who saw Leara's notes and lists and books? Who ratted her out to the Thalmor?

Tullius's fist clenches, his knuckles pale. The one person with a Divine's chance in Oblivion to bring a favorable resolution to the Civil War and the Thalmor took her like every Talos worshipper the Empire was supposed to turn a blind eye too.

He paces around his office. Legate Rikke has left him alone, and now all Tullius can do is think and walk. Turn. Think and walk. Turn. The cycle repeats throughout his office. He only suspects that the Thalmor took Leara. Without concrete proof, he can't accuse them or he'll risk something far more uncomfortable than paperwork. But if he does nothing, then every hope for peace in Skyrim vanishes in the Dragonborn's wake.

Tullius stopped in the middle of his office, standing at a crossroads. Was it possible to ascertain that the Thalmoor abducted Leara and to request her freedom without bringing Elenwen down on his head? Probably not. But . . .

Tullius recalled the wide eyes, the fear swimming in the teary blue when Leara was faced with Elenwen at High Hrothgar. At the time, Tullius didn't think much of the Dragonborn's aversion to her. Most people hated the Thalmor Ambassador on a good day. But the terror that flickered in Leara's face before she grew cold and distant and manipulated the entire table to her own ends came back to him.

No, Tullius knew Elenwen personally had the Dragonborn. There was a history there he couldn't see, but it peeked at the edges of his vision in brilliant horror.

Elenwen had Leara, and she wouldn't let the half-elf go lightly.

If Leara could cheat an entire room of warring politicians and soldiers while ensuring a truce, then Tullius could sure as Hell try to manipulate Elenwen.

Sitting at his desk, the General ruled out any official Legion channels. Those would be tied back to him and ruin any chance Leara had of negotiating her armistice. Something under the table, then.

Mercenaries were messy. Robbing Elenwen would take a different hand. He grimaces and drafts a letter.

General . . .

The messenger hawk returns the next evening. Tullius doesn't want to think about why the hawk returned so quickly. He just hoped his charade would hold.

(Writing Galmar Stone-Fist of all people to encourage a Stormcloak raid on Northwatch Keep was something Tullius knew he could never live down if it got back to any of his superiors in Cyrodiil. He couldn't trust that General Stone-Fist would take an anonymous tip at face value, but as Leara soliloquised late that last night,)

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

It's four long days of giving only half his attention to his job before an Imperial scout reports that the Stormcloaks attacked the Thalmor fortress of Northwatch. When the Legion got there, nothing was left but smoldering ruins.

"They had a dragon, sir."

Tullius didn't want to know how they had a dragon, but he was optimistic that it meant Leara made it out of there alive.

With the Stormcloaks, but alive.

He sleeps through the night for the first time in over a week. When Tullius wakes up, he wonders how he could turn to the rebels to save the Dragonborn. Effective, yes, but it went against everything he was supposed to represent.

But she's alive.

She would be dead or worse off if he hadn't done it.

Tullius uses that thought to bolster himself through the coming weeks.

Then, a letter addressed to Tullius comes by way of Whiterun of all places. He recognizes the slender script curling his name across the paper. It's a short letter asking him to retrieve her belongings from her room at the 'Skeever. Two things stand out to him: The first is the thank you. Tullius cannot tell what Leara means by it because he knows that Stone-Fist didn't know who sent the tip about Northwatch. And yet there's a tearstain on the parchment, small and alone as if any others were quickly dashed away after the first one fell. The second is that all her books, papers, the things she worked on for her peace talk were all hidden in a panel behind the bookshelf in her boardroom.

Tullius didn't even think of Leara losing all her work. He was more concerned about getting her out. He was more worried about her than anything else.

Tullius buries his face in his hands.

This was a familiar feeling. It'd been years since the last time he felt like this.

Although, Tullius gave himself a wry smile, he doubted he'd have betrayed the Empire for the Countess of Anvil's cousin.

Tullius goes early the next morning to retrieve Leara's things, hidden or otherwise. A member of his spy network is tasked with getting the parcels to a Lydia in Whiterun. Then Tullius watches as every connection he has to the Dragonborn disappears out the doors of Castle Dour.

It's back to the everyday humdrum of war, then.

Until, some months later, a familiar half-elf comes into Solitude. Now, she's accompanied by a dark-haired Nord woman in heavy armor. Her stormy expression and hawkish eyes remind Tullius of Rikke at times. Leara introduces her as Lydia, her housecarl. Then Leara is handing him a folio of papers.

"I've been corresponding with some of the Elder Council. I'm planning a summit in Whiterun."

He takes the folio from her.

"What's this?" "My draft for a permanent peace treaty. I thought that since you helped me, you'd like to peruse it. Of course, I need to get it to Jarl Elisif when you're finished."

That Leara is offering to let him be a part of her peace treaty isn't lost on Tullius. He sets the folio on the table but leaves his hand on top, protecting it.

"I can come back for it tomorrow." "I'll get it back to you tonight."

Legate Rikke coughs, obviously. Tullius adds,

". . . we can discuss it over dinner, if you like?"

Leara's smile is full.

"I would like that."

They don't end up talking much about the draft. But Tullius gives Leara some of his favorite brandy after their dinner of roast lamb and stewed vegetables. Her giggle is light and airy, and her hand is cool like spring water when he takes it across the table.

Perhaps he drank more than he should have, but liquid courage was a reassuring friend.

At the end of the night, Leara, tipsy and yet all grace, presses a petal soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. She pulls away.

His hands slide up her arms, callused fingers catching on the soft linen of her sleeves. And he pulls her back and kisses her, full and properly on the mouth.

Leara tastes of tea and winter and something floral and frosted. There's more than magic in her mouth – there's music and mercy. If Tullius wasn't drunk before, he finds himself intoxicated on Leara.

She strokes his face, smiling, always smiling, and then backs away. Her eyes are bright and liquid and as deep as Lake Rumare. In the low glow of golden orange firelight, she is beautiful.

He loves her.

He doesn't say it, and soon she's gone, slipping through doors into the night. An angel passing from the room.

The next day, he finds that she left him her address. It had been a long time since Tullius even tried to write a love letter. They were never his strong suit, but Leara had a way of inspiring madness in him. He wrote her.

And Leara wrote him back.

Again and again and again.

Tullius doesn't expect for his presence to be needed when the summit is called in Whiterun. The Empire has its own group of delegates to negotiate the terms of Skyrim's division. But still, Elisif the Fair says that General Tullius has been asked to attend. The young queen seems as if she can't quite believe it, but she was often wide-eyed and overwhelmed as it was.

(Maybe Julia was right. He should listen to Elisif more. But pretty soon, it was likely Tullius would never see the Queen of Solitude again.)

Leara is there in Whiterun, laying out the terms of the Armistice with the light and delicacy he'd come to expect from her. How many others here knew she was anxious that things would crumble apart, that things would come to blows, and that the war would escalate for all her efforts to temper the fire?

Ulfric's face is a dark stormcloud, but somehow the Jarl of Windhelm appears to hold his tongue around the Dragonborn. He watches her, defers to her, and in return, Leara smiles at him.

Tullius is simply in an advisory position for the Imperial delegates to mine information on the state of the Civil War and the Imperial Legion. He never speaks to Ulfric, and seldom to Leara during the weeklong summit. But he sees the Jarl speak to her between sessions. Leara is quiet and nods. Her eyes are faraway and thoughtful.

Tullius remembers that when she first brought the idea of the summit to him, Leara mentioned that she convinced Ulfric to agree to it. For the first time, Tullius wonders how Leara went about winning Ulfric Stormcloak to her side.

His chest burns.

When the Armistice is signed and Skyrim divided in two–

"Divided, you can finally be united."

Leara said.

–there is a feast. Leara is in demand all night. Tullius watches from the sidelines, some Cyrodilic brandy in hand as he watches one person after another flit around her, bees buzzing around a blooming rose. After a while, Tullius gets up and retires to the quiet of the Dragonsreach porch.

He isn't out there long when the doors open again. From the dark stairwell where he sat, he saw Leara flit by, orbited by Ulfric.

Tullius's hand tightened on his glass.

"You must be relieved that's over." "I'm glad we could reach a resolution."

She deflected Ulfric's concern with a wave of her hand.

But Tullius knew the truth: She was terrified of the summit. She was terrified she'd fail.

"What will you do now?"

Leara's question broke through Tullius's thoughts.

Ulfric shifted.

"There's much to do. Skyrim hasn't been in a state like this since the Second Era. I'll need to work quickly to bring stability to the east before we can truly reap any of tonight's rewards." "You have a busy schedule, Jarl Ulfric! [her laugh is musical] Even when my work ends, you still have so much to do!" "Leara . . ."

There's a hesitation in Ulfric's voice that Tullius never would have imagined from the man who Shouted High King Torygg apart. Leara's responding,

"Yes, Ulfric?"

is careful.

"I was hoping that you would come to Windhelm with me. To help me." "Help you? As an advisor? Certainly, but–" "Not as an advisor. Not . . . as you're thinking. Leara, surely you must know what I feel for you." "Oh."

If Tullius didn't fear being caught, he'd have stormed from the porch. Or over to Ulfric and pushed him off. Or something. His blood was rushing in his ears.

Certainly, he and Leara hadn't truly defined what it was between them. This week was the first time he'd seen her since kissing her that night in Solitude, and in this week, they'd hardly been alone together long enough to discuss anything beyond the summit and the usual pleasantries.

But her letters were candid and funny and full of ideas. Her mind spilled across the page in curling and shifting lines.

Tullius knew then that while he had Leara's mind, there was every possibility that Ulfric had her heart. She was as divided as Skyrim was.

"Ulfric–" "While Skyrim was at war, I knew I couldn't give you the attention you deserved. But now that we can have some peace, I wish to ask you for your hand. Leara, you ignite a fire in my chest that burns my heart when you are near. Please do me the honor of agreeing to marry me."

There's silence. Long, drawn-out silence. Somewhere on the plains, a wolf howls. Its cry echoes the pain in Tullius's chest.

"Ulfric . . ."

Leara's voice is choked, emotional but she is forcing it down.

"Ulfric, you're very dear to me, but I can't marry you."

It was only Ulfric's loud,

"You can't? Why?"

That covered the sound of Tullius's brandy glass slipping to shatter on the stone stairs.

Leara hesitated.

"I can't give you my heart because it belongs to someone else. I can't take it back." "Who?"

Leara quieted.

"Please, Leara, if you won't marry me, then allow me the courtesy of knowing who I lost you to!" "I–"

Leara choked.

Tullius's heart sped up as his hands shook. He was as anxious as Ulfric to hear her answer.

"You won't like it." "Who is it? Galmar? I know he was the one to pull you from that Thalmor pit."

Divines. That would just be the cherry on top of this entire fiasco, wouldn't it?

"No, not . . . It's . . . General Tullius."

The silence that followed was more deafening than any that proceeded it. Even from the darkened stairwell, Tullius could since the thunder around Ulfric, rumbling silent and yet violent.

"You won't marry me because you're in love with Tullius?" "If that's how you want to put it, yes, that's it." "Leara – I, he . . ."

For once, all of Ulfric's fine speeches seemed to fail him.

"Please don't be upset."

Leara's voice is as soothing as the first spring rain, as far apart from Ulfric's hurricane as possible.

There was a rustle of skirts.

"You are a very important person to me, for more than you can possibly know, but I can't give you the love you want. It's not mine to give you." "But Tullius–" "Has been so vital to me during these last several months. We would not have this peace if not for him. I needed him." "I need you." "I know, but I've given you all I can. I can't give you any more."

Tullius peeks around the corner far enough to see Leara on her tiptoes. She whispers something in Ulfric's ear, then presses a fleeting kiss to his cheek. Tullius ducks back just in time to be hidden as Ulfric turns and leaves the porch. The doors shut behind him with a whisper of finality.

"You can come out now, General."

Tullius's knees are stiff as he gets up from the steps. Leara is waiting for him in the middle of the porch, her red hair a dark contrast against the white gold of her skin and the pale ivory of her gown. She's aetheric in the moon and aurora lights.

"I hope you finished your brandy before the glass fell."

His neck grows warm with embarrassment.

"Is that how you knew I was there?"

Leara's coy smile was her only answer. Yes, then. Well.

"Ulfric Stormcloak proposed to you." "Yes, he did." "And you turned him down." "Yes, I did. " "Why . . ."

Her hand was on the side of his face. She was perhaps a hairsbreadth taller than him, maybe an inch, but her hand felt so small against his face that Tullius couldn't help but reach up and clasp it with his own for fear that it slip away.

"I thought you were eavesdropping." "Well, I wouldn't say that–" "And, therefore, would know why I turned Ulfric down."

Tullius tries to swallow, but his throat is tight. Leara's hand is cool against his skin, and he takes comfort in that.

"You love me." "Yes, I do."

Her smile is radiant.

Tullius's hand slips from Leara's, but then his arms are around her waist, pulling her into him. She is slim and cool and everything a flower in winter might be. He buries his nose in her neck, amidst the frost and flowers.

"I love you."

She doesn't reply. She only tightens her arms around his torso. They stand there in the quiet of the night, away from the celebrations but togehter under the stars.

Later, when Tullius returns to Solitude for the last time, he packs his things for the return to the Imperial City. He takes his bags to the docks.

And there Leara is waiting for him, Lydia her housecarl in tow. She smiles at him, full and vivid.

"You're late. My trunks are already on board. Right, Lydia?"

Lydia rolls her eyes.

"All eleven of them, my Thane."

Tullius chuckles, quiet.

Leara's hand finds his, and he helps her up the gangplank of the Imperial Naval ship. It would be a long voyage, but Leara had never sailed before, so that would be their mode of transportation back to the Imperial City.

"What will we do when we get there?"

Leara's question is teasing and free of the burden of being Dragonborn and peacemaker. There were still the Thalmor to worry about, but after the ruin of Northwatch and the signing of the armistice, Tullius hoped they'd think thrice before going after Leara again.

"I'll buy you expensive teas and you'll drain my accounts on tea and books."

Her giggle rang out amidst the sounds of the ship preparing to leave the harbor.

"Oh yes, that must be why I've gone and married you."

Tullius pulled his wife to his side and slipped his arm around her waist.

"Must be."

It couldn't possibly be that she was the most maddening thing in the world and she drove him mad by proximity.

Madly in love.

What nonsense.

fin

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last-starry-sky · 6 months

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Girl's Night Out - ch. 2 pt. 2

friday|saturday|sunday

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

pairing: Ghost x shy!goth!f!reader

rating: E

summary: Oh boy, it's the morning after. Reader has no clue what to do but Simon seems content to make himself right at home. 🙂

word count: 7.7k

warning: mdni, not beta-read but edited by me until I wanted to claw my eyes out, a truck-load of self doubt and issues from reader, size difference 💀, oral (m receiving), facial, cum eating , fingering, tooth-rotting domestic fluff, the beginning of reader's mask and authority kink. a/n at the end!!!!

Repeating my warning hear for all of the chapters, I have committed the ultimate, unforgivable sin in this: Ghost is maskless. So if that ruins it for you, sit this one out.

saturday

The wind was howling against your window when you woke, shaking the panes in their casings with every fresh clatter of rain. The barest hint of sunlight crept low and blue from under the curtain above your bed. It was enough to see what was in front of you, which was Simon’s chest. It rose and fell with his deep, even breaths. He was rolled back haphazard, half on his back, head falling over the side of the pillow which was squished mostly under his shoulder. It looked terribly uncomfortable. His right arm was on top of the duvet, the left splayed on the bed above and behind you. A remnant of when he held you last night.

He was asleep still and you didn’t want to wake him. You just wanted to stay where you were: curled into his chest, tucked away from the cold autumn rain of the outside world, soaking in his warmth, but you really had to pee. You were lucky that you had split apart somehow in the night. You scooched down the bed on your side, just a bit at a time, taking care not to move the sheets too much or make the mattress creak. You only lifted yourself upright once your bare feet hit the cold floor.

You hissed involuntarily before you could stop yourself. Fuck, it was just as cold as last night, and now you were naked. Sitting on the end of the bed, you grabbed the first piece of clothing you saw: a black blob rolled into the blanket that revealed itself to be a t shirt. Without a second thought, you threw it over your head and stood up.

You tiptoed slowly out of your bedroom, not making a sound. You couldn’t hear any of your neighbors yet. Good. You breathed a sigh of relief as you quietly stepped into the bathroom, closing the door gingerly behind you. Your relief flipped upside down when you turned on the light. Looking in the mirror over your sink, you were horrified to see your black lipstick from last night smeared over the bottom of your face. Your hand flew up to your mouth to muffle the small gasp you made. The rest of your makeup had fared no better. Your eyes were ringed by black halos from your eyeliner and mascara, which had also shed a million little black hairs down your cheeks.

You decided that now was not the time to freak out about this. You grabbed a fresh washcloth out of your linen closet and drenched it in makeup remover. You sighed as you scrubbed the cloth over your skin. The itchy, grungy, feeling of old makeup clogging your pores slowly dissolved as you rubbed your face. When you looked back in the mirror you only had a little bit of liner stuck in the deepest of the fine lines around your eyes. You could live with that.

You pitched the cloth onto the top of your dirty clothes bin, which was overflowing. Another haunting reminder of the chores you were supposed to be doing, should have done last night instead of going out. You grabbed your toothbrush, wet it for just a second under the tap, and started to brush your teeth. Zoning out, you couldn’t have convinced yourself in that moment to have preferred sitting in the cold basement of your apartment, waiting for the washing machine to finish its cycle, instead of getting the best dick of your life.

Your eyes shot back to the mirror, minty foam leaking down your chin. Fuck, that reminded you, it was Saturday. You had to take your birth control for the day. You spit in the sink and wiped the side off your face with the back of your hand. Thank GOD you remembered on time.

You turned off the light and crept out of the bathroom. You heard Simon softly snoring in bed. Still good. You made your way across your living room to the weak morning light that fell in from your open windows. You HAD to remember to close those today, it was getting too damn cold. The pitter-patter of the rain had stopped already, leaving cool, silver puddles dotting the street. You kept your pills in your purse, which you remembered hanging up before you left last night. You unzipped the middle pocket, extracted the round container, opened it, and punched out the little white pill. You swallowed it easily.

You put your pills back in and zipped up your purse. You could feel the pill slowly, annoyingly dragging down your throat. Nothing a glass of water couldn’t fix. You walked into the kitchen, a little more bold now that nothing you had done so far had woken up Simon. You turned on the tap to fill your glass. Your pipes made a bit more noise than you were used to, groaning and rattling in the walls, or maybe you were just paranoid.

While you were sipping your water, your stomach gurgled. Oh yeah, you hadn’t eaten since your lunch at work yesterday. You sighed and set your water behind you on the counter. Just something quick, you told yourself as you took your frying pan off the hook above the stove. You cut a pat of butter and threw it in the pan before turning it on. The soft click click click of the gas lighting was a soothing reminder of your usual routine. You let the butter melt while you took out the carton of eggs and loaf of bread. You put the bread in the toaster and clicked it down.

You cracked the egg into the butter. The crackle that erupted was far louder than you expected. You almost pulled the pan off the heat. Instead, you froze. You stood stock still while you listened for any sign you had woken Simon. In the near silence of the apartment, you heard a small creak, like the springs of your mattress shifting, the soft shuffle of sheets, and then a groan.

Fuck. You had woken him up. You sighed at your egg, the fucking bastard. You swirled the pan around. It’s edges were nice and set, almost crispy. You flipped it with a flick of your wrist and set in back down to cook on that side. You might as well start the coffee if he was up. You heard his feet hit the floor hard with a soft fuck before the mattress squeaked as he stood up. You filled the back of your coffee maker with water, no longer needing to cringe at how loud the water came out of the faucet. You heard Simon wander out of your bedroom as you were measuring the coffee. Your heart thumped in your chest.

He didn’t come to the kitchen, though. Instead, he walked right into the bathroom, not shutting the door behind him. Somehow, that made you more nervous than if he had found you in the kitchen. You clicked the button to start your poor little coffee maker. It hissed and grumbled as it started to boil the water. You turned back to your egg. It was almost done. Now you had time to think of what you were going to do or say once he came out. God, what were you going to say? Thanks for the sex? If you want to leave, don’t feel guilty about it?

“Smells good,” he said behind you, voice groggy, making you jump.

Your heart was beating out of your chest as you flew around to face him. How was he so fucking quiet? He was leaning on the threshold to the kitchen, shirtless, with your bottle of mouthwash in his hand. You were staring back at him, wide eyed and stunned speechless. He also had black lipstick, your black lipstick, smeared across the bottom of his face.

He pointed the bottle at you, his eyes tired rather than intense this morning. “There’s where m’ shirt went to.”

You looked down at yourself with a groan, your hands covering your face. How hadn’t you noticed? It fell down to your thighs for god’s sake! You heard him throw back a swig of the mouthwash with a satisfied hum. You could have died right there.

The toast popped. You whipped back around, threw the toast on your plate, slid the egg onto it, picked it up and shoved it in his hand.

“Here!” you squeaked, “Eat!” You could feel the blush burning your cheeks.

He took the plate from you silently, mouth still full. You pushed past him to dash back to your bedroom. You heard him spit into the kitchen sink as you blew though the clothes on your floor, desperately searching for anything else to put on so he could have his shirt back. You shucked off his shirt once you found one of your own shirts and a pair of black sweatpants that were only a little stained.

Simon was standing against the kitchen doorway, eating now off of the plate, when you came out of your room. You tossed his shirt at him, which he caught with his free hand.

“Sorry about that,” you said quickly. He just nodded and stared at you as he chewed his toast. You motioned to the table and chairs right in front of him. “Sit down. If you want. There’s coffee too.” You couldn’t take his stare seriously while he was covered in your lipstick stains. “I’ll be right back,” you said nervously, heading back into the bathroom.

You grabbed the cloth you had used to clean your face and doused it in a fresh round of makeup remover. When you came out of the bathroom Simon had sat down and put his shirt on. You noticed he was a little too large for your chairs. You handed him the cloth which he only stared at. You motioned at the bottom of your face.

“You have . . . my lipstick . . . all over,” you said with a wince. He seemed to understand your stilted explanation, because he took it from you and rubbed it over his mouth and chin. “Coffee?” you asked, backing away from him toward the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he answered, looking at the black streaks left on the washcloth, still groggy and gravelly.

You threw yourself into the kitchen. You poured two cups of black coffee, put in another piece of bread to toast and cracked another egg into the pan.

“Get it all?” he asked as you came out with the coffee. He turned his head for you to inspect.

“Yeah,” you answered, taking the cloth from him, “All good.” You tossed it in the direction of the bathroom.

You were about to walk past him again to finish your own breakfast when he stopped you.

“Sorry about last night,” he said awkwardly.

You felt your heart drop. What did he mean? Your brows knit together in confusion. Was he about to drop something huge on you? But he wasn’t saying anything more! You just stood there, awash in a mix of emotions. You heard the toaster pop up. Your egg was very definitely overcooked by now.

“What . . . do you mean?” you asked nervously, “I-” you stopped yourself. Don’t say anything to sound clingy. “Last night . . .” you trailed off.

He took mercy on you and answered your stumbling question. “Shoulda taken more time with you. Kinda rushed things,” he said crossing his arms over his chest, silence falling between you, “Egg’s gonna burn,” he said throwing a glance over his shoulder.

You rushed into the kitchen. It wasn’t burned, not yet. You let out a disappointed sigh as you slid the solid chunk of egg on to the toast. You hated an overdone egg.

“‘s good,” he said as you came out of the kitchen, biting into the perfect runny yolk. It made your mouth water. You took a seat at your little table opposite him.

“Thanks,” you said, sipping your coffee, glad at least one of you had an appetizing breakfast, “Just an egg.”

You could have just sat in silence with him and ate your breakfast, but your curiosity was piqued and he had made you a little brave. Besides, he had brought it up first.

“What do you mean?” you asked, swallowing a bite of your egg and dry toast. You had forgotten the butter too, shit. “That you . . . rushed?”

He stared at you, halfway through a very messy, eggy bite.

“Didn’ expect you to be so . . . small,” he says swallowing his bite. You almost choked on your coffee. “Should have slowed down. Made it better for you.”

“No. No no no,” you said clutching your cup, “Everything was great. Last night was . . .” Simon was still staring you down, hunched over your table: a plain, serious expression graven on his face. He clearly didn’t believe a word of your breathless babbling. You sat back and looked down into your cup in your lap. “That was the best night I’ve ever had,” you mumbled, watching the coffee swirl in circles. You wondered how honest you sounded to him.

“Weren’t lying then?” he asked straightening up a little. He slid his coffee toward himself, the ceramic loud against the table. His yolk was oozing out over his plate. You stared wide eyed at him, not sure what he was asking you about. He lifted up the cup to take a sip. “Last night. Said you’d never cum like that before.” Your cheeks were burning. “That true?” he asked setting his cup down. How can he act so fucking nonchalant? How can he stare at you like that? Was this everyday conversation for him?

“Yeah,” you said quietly with a nod. You picked at the edges of your toast, no longer hungry. You let out the breath you were holding. Why hold anything back now? You thought back through your handful of past sexual experiences. “Lucky if I ever cum at all, to be honest,” you added.

“You fuck anyone before?” he asked. Good god, he thought you were a virgin. You wanted to evaporate.

You couldn’t look him in the eye, so you ran your fingers around the rim of your coffee cup. “Yes! I would have told-”

“How many?” he interrupted, leaning his crossed arms on the table, creaking as he did so.

You thought for half a minute. “Five?”

That didn’t satisfy him. His mouth pressed into a scowl. “Don’t seem very sure on that.”

You angrily set your coffee cup on the table with thunk. Fine. If he wanted honesty, he would damn well get it.

“The first time I had sex I was 19. It was in the back of a guy’s car I had went to school with. The second time was with my boyfriend, two years later. There was another boyfriend after him. It wasn’t until I moved. . .” You suddenly froze, biting your bottom lip. You didn’t want to get into that part of your life.

“Don’t need a history,” Simon said breaking the few seconds of silence that had fallen. “Didn’t want you to feel like you had to lie. I don’t care who or how much you fucked before me.” He picked up his toast and took another bite. It left a string of yellow yolk running down the corner of his mouth. “‘s long as you liked it, tha’s wha’ matters.”

You took another sip of coffee, a comfortable silence falling around you as the rain clouds cleared outside and the early morning sun started to really shine through your windows. A worm of a thought, started by that line of egg running down his chin, started to work around your brain. You had enjoyed last night. A lot, but what about him? You leaned your head on your hand and looked at his as he ate. Simon was sopping up his egg on his plate. He had wiped the egg off his face, but there was a hint of yellow still trapped in his stubble.

“Did you . . .” You started to ask. His head popped up to look at you. “. . . like that? Like, really like that?”

“Wha?” He asked around the last bite of his toast in his mouth.

“Last night . . .” you paused blushing, “When you came on me?”

He coughed as he swallowed. A smile bloomed across your face, hidden in your cup.

“Yeah,” he said pulling his dark eyes off his plate to stare back at you.

You set down your cup, gently this time, on the table. “What about . . .” You asked, not looking him in the eye. He leaned in toward you, over the table again, on his elbows. He was interested. “. . . if you came on my face. Would it be the same?”

He sat back in his chair with a groan. He ran a hand back though his hair. You chewed at your bottom lip, unsuccessfully willing your smile to dissipate.

“You serious?” he asked.

You nodded. “I wanna know.”

He pushed his chair to face out from the table with a squawk. “Then why don’t y’ come over here and find out,” he said darkly, bidding you over with a wave of his hand.

You were out of your chair in a flash. It felt weird to be standing over him, in between his long legs as they splayed out from the chair and his heels dig into the floor. He held out his hand, the one on his tattooed arm, to steady you as you kneeled down in front of him. Your breath was already shaking. He groaned again when you ran your hands up his thighs. Every twitching movement of his thickening cock was right in front of your face, visible through his briefs. You couldn’t help yourself, you pressed down to nuzzle it. His hand came back down to to palm the back of your head.

“Sure about this?” he said with a groan, leaning farther back, bucking his clothed cock against your face. “Couldn’t take it all before.”

You had no plans to take it all, but he didn’t have to know that. You pulled away to pump your hand up the length of him. You weren’t trying to show off or do any tricks. You just wanted to make him feel even half as good as he had made you last night. It amazed you that he was already fully hard. The man was efficient if nothing else. You squeezed your hand as you came to the tip. You heard his head hit the wall as he stifled another groan.

“Yeah,” you whispered with a nod. “I’m sure.”

Your hands curled up around the band of his briefs. He let you pull down his underwear. His cock was flush, tip leaking, against his shirt. You leaned in again to mouth at the tip, tongue flipping up from the bottom of the head to collect the pearl of salty release. You gripped the base of his cock before he could buck up, whining as he grabbed at your hair. He quickly rearranged his hands to rake back your hair from your face. Another bubble of cum pushed deliciously from his slit. He groaned, watching as your tongue lapped it up.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he said huskily as your hand started to pump up and down his cock as you sucked at the tip. “That fuckin’ mouth . . .” he trailed off, thumbing at where you were suctioned to him. You took a little more of him in as you sucked down, tongue lapping at the underside of the head, your hand working slowly in tandem. He let out a gasp of a breath. “Hands ‘r fuckin’ soft too.”

You hummed around him. His praise made you grip him that much harder, work his cock a little faster. You had to keep him talking, had to hear what he wouldn’t say normally.

“Y’ like that?” he asked, “Like doggin’ this big cock an’ y’ can’t even take half of it?”

You hummed again. You continued to pump him while sliding all the way to the tip before sucking it hard. The shout and salty taste you got in return was delightful.

“Nah, love,” he said palming at your face with those big hands again. You could tell he was looking at you, had been the whole time. He was enjoying the show just as much as your mouth on his cock. “Not gonna cum like that, remember?” You switched hands, cum and spit squishing between your clean fingers, as you started to suck again. “Don’t get anything besides my own hand most nights. Gotta enjoy this.”

His comments only added fuel to your fire. It was easy to forget he wasn’t just some guy. He was a soldier. How long he was away from home, away from family, it made your heart ache. The way he seemed to bend to your small, simple acts of intimacy, like when you rubbed his chest or made him breakfast, made you question when was the last time he’d had those things. You couldn’t save him from everything, the loneliness, the danger of his job, but you could get him off, so you did what you could.

You knew you weren’t a rockstar at giving head, but you were trying your best. Simon seemed to be enjoying it, at any rate. His head was thrown back again, using his hands on your face to gently rock your mouth back and forth on his cock, with your hand working the rest.

“Tha’s it. That’s it, love,” he gasped.

It was only a few pumps more before he ripped you off his cock. You tottered back on your knees, eyes half-closed and mouth still gaped open, not really ready to help with what was coming next. Simon wrapped his left hand around your neck, keeping you in place, as he jerked himself to completion.

The first stripe of cum lashed artfully across both of your closed eyes, as if he had planned it. From then on, you were blind. You heard him gasp as the rush of euphoria of his orgasm hit him. Them you heard him laugh. It was a small laugh, just a ha under his breath, but it made you flush. Another stripe fell over your cheek to your nose. He pulled you in closer as the third spurted across the corner of your mouth. You licked at it as he let go of you, his rapid breathing filling the room.

“Fuck me,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the blob of his cum where it ran down your cheek.

You were about to ask if he could help you clean off, when you were hauled up into his lap by his strong hands. You also didn’t expect for your faces to crash together. You tried to pull away, thinking he had made a mistake in his post-nut haze, but his hand pulled you right back. His tongue lapped over your mouth. You gasped in surprise, and then opened your mouth for him. You tasted his cum when your tongues finally met. He pulled away too soon and you groaned at the loss. He wasn’t paying attention though. His tongue laved over your cheek and to your nose. A soft oh escaped your lips. He was collecting his cum from your face. Then he was back at your mouth, tongues pumping mindlessly together, both moaning as his salty cum mixed with your saliva and his.

This man was something fucking else: totally wild underneath that stoic facade. He was pulling you out of your comfort zone and you were loving it.

You still couldn’t see when he pulled your faces apart. Your fingers were twined with his as they held either side of your face. He was breathing hotly into the space between you.

“Les’ get y’ t’ the shower, yeah?”

You nodded, letting him set you down to stand as he stood up from the chair with a groan. Your wooden dining chairs were not comfortable. Then he picked you up, as he had last night. You squealed again, not expecting it. He even pinched your butt again.

“D’n worry, love. Let me take care a y’,” he mumbled into your shoulder.

The few steps to your bathroom passed quickly. He kept you held in his arms as he leaned into the shower to turn on the tap. The sound of water raining down and steam filling the small space was soothing. He set you down in front of him and stripped you of your clothes, first your shirt, then your pants. He guided you to turn around, as if you didn’t know your own apartment, and into the stall.

You let the water pelt over your head for a few seconds, groaning with pleasure at how good it felt. You were long overdue for a shower and you could feel it. You had gone all day at work Friday, trapped in your stuffy office clothes, then the sweat and excitement from going out, plus the sex, it made you feel beyond grungy. You reached up and pumped a handful of body wash into your hand by memory. You lathered it over your cum coated eyes and face. You sighed as it rinsed off and you were able to open them again.

You heard clothes hit the floor, adding to the piles of dirty laundry you had planned to take care of today. You turned to watch Simon shuffle off his briefs and socks through the wavy glass. He gave you a dark look.

“Mind if I join? Save water ‘nd all.”

You nodded, turning to grab your shampoo. So practical. So military, you thought. You lathered your scalp as he stepped in behind you and you pretended that this was completely normal one night stand procedure, or that you even knew that procedure. You allowed him to crowd you under the spray of the water with his massive, muscled frame as he reached over you to grab some of the shampoo you had just used. You tipped your head back to let the bubbles rinse from your hair.

He was staring down at you as he cleaned his own short hair. You broke eye contact immediately to grab your conditioner. How could he be so on, so intense, all the time? You scrunched the conditioner through the ends of your hair.

His soapy hand trailed up your side, caressing your stomach, ribs, and breast. You shivered. His other hand joined, cupping your breasts and pulling you flush to his chest. He lightly squeezed your breasts in his hands, rolling your nipples in his thumb and forefinger. You gasped into the steamy air, hands still caught up in your hair. He released your breasts, smoothing down your chest right to your cunt.

“Ah, Si!” you whined, untangling your hands from your hair to grasp at his forearms as his fingers parted your folds. He leaned down to kiss at your neck, his fingers gently stroking at your slick clit and labia. Fuck. You hadn’t noticed how wet you had gotten.

“You always get wet suckin’ dick?” he asked circling your hole before stroking slowly up to your clit. “Or is this just f’ me?” You wriggled against him, but his hand kept you in place.

“You don’t-” you gasped out, trying to tell him he didn’t have to get you off.

“Said I would clean y’ up, didn’ I?” he rumbled into your ear.

You sighed, leaning your head back into his chest, acquiescing to his plans. You’ve known him for less than two days, but you still stupidly trusted him. He reached into the corner and squirted a pump of soap into his hand with one fluid motion, his other hand not leaving you. He smoothed the fragrant purple gel over your chest, lathering it across your shoulders as it dripped in soapy rivulets between your breasts. He used both hands to swab the soap down your arms. His hands came back up to knead at your shoulders. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck.

“Smells good,” he said, tickling your neck when he talked.

“Thanks,” you sighed, relaxing into the roll of his thumbs on your shoulder blades. You picked your head up to squint at the bottle through the steam. “Orchid and black currant.”

You fell away as he soaped up your back, kneading in small circles down your spine. You crossed your arms against the shower wall, letting your head rest against them with a groan as he massaged you. He stepped forward, pinning you farther against the wall, soaping your stomach, then your chest, then your breasts. He sighed as he squished your soapy breasts in his hands again. You leaned your head to the side, water slicking your hair to your face, letting a whine fall free.

Before you could say anything, he pulled your boneless form away from the wall flush with his chest. His one hand released from your breast, sliding straight down to your sex again. You bucked and whined as he began to rub circles around your clit, this time in earnest. You were losing yourself in his hands until you felt his cock knocking against your lower back.

“Si,” you moaned as he squeezed your nipple.

You pushed your butt back against him to make sure you were really feeling what you felt. He groaned as his cock slid against your soapy ass. Yep, it was.

“How are you hard again?” you asked looking back at him bewildered.

His eyes were dark and glassy. He shrugged at you. Shrugged!

“Don’t get this very often,” he grunted, rocking forward into your butt again. “Gotta take advantage when I can, y’ know?”

You let out a small laugh, turning your head away. He leaned down to kiss at your neck and work your clit again.

“Don’t mind it. Wanna do this for you,” he said into your ear.

“Then kiss me,” you demanded, looking up at him through the falling water.

He didn’t wait long to satisfy you, locking lips with you as you spun around so fast you almost slipped. His arms were there to catch you, though. He picked you up again, squishing your wet, soapy flesh to his. You squealed as you threw your arms around his neck and tried to hold on. You felt too slippery, even in his arms, you knew you were going to fall.

“Si!” you yelled, pulling away from the kiss, “Can’t do this in here!”

He smiled at you, shuffling you to one hand so he could lean forward to turn off the water with the other.

“Didn’t plan on it.” he said walking you out of the bathroom.

After he had brought you back to bed and pulled two orgasms out of you, you and Simon spent the rest of the day doing what you had actually planned: laundry and cleaning.

It felt comfortably domestic to have someone to help with these menial tasks. Almost disturbingly so. It frightened you how easily you both fell into it. Simon stepping right into his self-assigned role of Strong Man. Many of his tasks revolved around carrying things he deemed too heavy for you. He also took a lot of initiative for being a practical stranger to you and your space. While you sorted another bin of laundry, he washed the dishes. You didn’t even have to ask him, not that you would have. When you peeked your head in to the kitchen see why the water was running he gave you a little nod and continued on with his self-assigned task.

“My dirty dishes too, love,” he’d said with a shrug.

You were beginning to love how he called you that: love. You tried to stop it, but it wormed into your heart. You knew it was just an English thing. You’d gotten used to it long ago. You thought back to the first couple summers you’d spent with your dad here: just two young kids - you and your older brother - with pretty much free-run of the the city to work out the culture shock while your dad was busy everyday, either running his own firm or in the process of finishing his own recent move back to his home country.

You tapped your fingers against the hardwood as you sat cross-legged on the floor of your bedroom. He had never asked for more from your mother while you and your brother were children: more time, more that his assigned holidays. Then, you were both adults, moving around the country, busy with college, relationships, and jobs and never able to take him up on his invitations, despite his offers to pay for plane tickets. Never able to, that was, until it was too late.

Simon stuck his head in your room while you were piling another heap of black clothes into a laundry bin, breaking you out of your thoughts.

“Timer’s up,” he said leaning down to pick up the heavy bin. “Come on,” he said motioning for you to follow.

After you came back to your apartment, in the middle of setting up your drying rack, he stepped into the bathroom and started looking about. If you knew him better, you would say he was nervous.

“Mind if I clean?” he asked, arms crossed, looking into the dusty corners you’d let go for far too long.

“The bathroom? You sure?” you asked laying your black sweaters and socks over the rods. You never liked cleaning bathrooms which was a large reason why it was in it’s current state.

“Yeah, I don’t mind,” he said leaning down to search for your cleaning supplies under the vanity, “Like a good mess to get into.”

“Helps you think?” you asked.

“Helps me stop thinking,” he said turning into the bathroom, leaving you with more questions but too uncomfortable to push for answers.

Whatever, you thought. If it helped him and you got a clean toilet and shower out of it, who cares. You heard him start shuffling things around the little room, taking your shower products out of the stall, you guessed from the hollow plastic sounds, and left him to it.

After all of your clothes were hung, you wandered into the kitchen to look over what you had in your refrigerator. You heard Simon walk across the living room behind you and dig into his jacket. He was unzipping various pockets looking for something. You concentrated on using up what you could with this dinner before you put more thought into buying new groceries for the coming week. You were chewing on your thumb, standing in the open door of the refrigerator, when Simon came around the corner.

“You got bleach?” he said in a slightly muffled voice.

“Down with the laundry,” you told him, not looking up.

You pulled out a few ingredients from the drawers before turning around to face him. You almost jumped when you did. He had a black gaiter mask pulled up over his nose and a pair of black gloves on his hands. To block the chemicals, you told yourself. It was such a small change, but it made him look so much more intimidating. Usually, you had his whole face to soften his hard stare, the faded scars, his resting scowl, with most of it covered, though, it was just you and those eyes.

He started at the food in your hands: an onion, a bulb of garlic, two tubs of cheese, a pack of sausage and ground turkey.

“What’s all that for?”

“Dinner?” you squeaked, flushing and feeling very scrutinized under his stare. Fuck. Why did you like it so much?

“Oh,” he said with a nod, looking at your wall clock, “It’s getting late,”

You felt your heart drop. He was going to leave. Or make an excuse to leave. Stop, you told yourself. He’s just a guy. He can leave if he wants, but you don’t want him too, though. He doesn’t-

“You hear me?” he asked forcefully.

You fucking clenched at that. What the fuck was wrong with you, for real.

“No,” you admitted weakly, “Zoned out.”

He sighed and pointed at your hands. Why were those black gloves making his hands that much more attractive? Oh you were so fucked.

“What’re you makin’?”

“Oh!” you exclaimed, “Lasagna!”

He leaned silently against the doorway, thinking of something. Your heart was pounding, waiting for him to speak.

“That sounds fuckin’ good,”

You smiled, hugging the ingredients awkwardly to your chest.

“It is! I mean . . .” you said letting your arms fall a little slack. “You’ll have to judge for yourself.”

“I will,” he said, dark eyes sliding over you as he turned back around.

You stood where he had left you for a few moments, trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened and why you were acting like this. You let out a long breath, turned around, and decided to just not confront that train of thought. You hummed happily as you shoved the image of Simon in his black mask and gloves to the farthest back corner of your mind, and set about making dinner.

Simon kept a bit of distance at first, only popping back in to tell you it was time to bring up the last load of laundry, which he ran down for. You were able to cook the noodles and chop the vegetables in peace, but by the time you were browning the meat, he was like a six-foot tall dog. Instead of begging, however, he was stuck to your side, melting you with those big sleepy eyes while picking bits out to “sample”.

“If you keep eating it, there won’t be anything left for the top!” you said swatting his fingers from the mozzarella.

“’m helping,” he said, mouth full of cheese and a smirk on his face. He had pulled his gaiter down to his neck and shoved his gloves in his back pocket. “Meat needs more salt.”

“The cheese adds a lot of salt. Don’t tell me how to cook,” you said wagging your spatula at him. “How about you take the dry clothes off the rack and I’ll let you help me finish putting it together?”

“Fair ‘nuff,” he said turning on his heel and heading to the living room, eager either for an order or to get out of range of your hands while you had access to wooden utensils.

You had finished the laundry about an hour ago, all that was left was to fold and put everything away. A job for tomorrow. Simon had finished the bathroom too. It still reeked of bleach, which stung your eyes too much to even walk in, but it was cleaner than you’d ever seen. Even the grout was white again.

You spread the meat sauce on the bottom of the pan and smoothed it out with your spatula. Laying the noodles down reminded you of your mom. She had always given you the job of laying on the noodles. You could still remember sitting on the countertop as a little girl, helping her make Sunday dinner. As you grew up she had let you do more. When you cooked the noodles today, it was exactly as she had told you all those years ago: slowly and constantly stirring them in your largest pot, with plenty of room to cook, so they didn’t stick together or break.

The cheese mixture came next, carefully spooned on and spread out. You were reaching for the meat sauce when Simon came up behind you, wrapping his hands around your hips.

“Smells delicious, love,” he said sending a shiver down your spine, “Can’t wait to eat.”

“Thanks,” you said blushing, ladling the sauce over the cheese, “I like to cook.”

“Damn good at it, too,” he said nuzzling your neck.

“Don’t say that ‘till you’ve tasted it. You’ll jinx me,” you said with a laugh. You pulled the pan of noodles closer. “Do you want to help?” you asked picking one up.

“Sure,” he said letting go of your body, “If you don’t mind me messing it up.”

“It’s lasagna,” you said with a shrug, “Even if it’s messy, it’ll still taste good. Besides, I made this when I was a kid, I think you’ll do fine.”

He leaned in and pecked a quick kiss on your lips. It knocked the breath out of you.

“Thanks,” he said against your mouth, his nose caressing yours as he pulled away.

Oh my god you were falling for this guy.

You cleared your throat, knocking the thought out of your mind. You set the noodle across the sauce and waited for Simon to follow. He carefully picked up a wet, wiggly noodle, holding it like it was an alien creature, before setting it down next to your noodle in the pan. He looked to you for approval.

“Good!” you said with a nod, “Keep going. Only one more for the layer.”

You shuffled away from him, down the line of your counters, to grab a glass and quickly filled it with water. You gulped it down like you were dying. You could feel your heart beating too rapidly in your chest. Fuck, you thought gripping the cool glass tightly, willing yourself to come back to reality. You’ve known this guy for less than two days. This was not happening.

“What next then?” he asked, hunched over the pan, inspecting the layers.

“The ricotta,” you said pointing to the bowl filled with the white and green-flecked mixture.

Simon picked it up and looked at it just as he had the pan, eyeing it almost with suspicion.

“You . . . pour it on?” he asked, looking at you.

“No,” you said setting down your glass. You walked back over to him and gave him the spoon you had been using for just the cheese, because you were anal like that when it came to cooking. “Dollop on about half of what’s left with the spoon, then spread it out,” you said gently, feeling like your mother.

You observed as Simon followed your instructions perfectly, if slowly. He handed you back the bowl when he was done.

“Never would’ve had the patience t’ figure this out,” he mumbled, stepping back to let you do the rest.

“It’s not for everyone,” you said sweetly, stepping over to layer the meat sauce over the cheese. “Besides, it’s almost done.”

He was content to lean against the counter and watch you do the rest. The oven beeped while you were sprinkling the extra cheese over the top. After you had safely deposited it in the oven to bake, Simon still lingered around you in the kitchen. You stared at each other wondering what to fill the next hour with.

“Could do the dishes,” he suggested.

“We’ll just have more later,” you said with a sigh, “Let’s relax.”

You popped off from the counter and walked over to your couch before flopping down. You pulled your blanket around you with a sigh.

“Not gon’ argue with that,” he said rather cheerily following you.

You had taken up most of the couch when you landed on the couch, so you didn’t know what Simon planned to do when he joined you. You hadn’t expected him to scoop you up, blanket and all, settling down across the couch with you wrapped in his arms. You laughed and wriggled as he tried to squish you into a more comfortable position on his lap.

“Quit movin’,” he chided you, palming the back of you head, gently pushing you to his chest, “Relax.”

You sighed and snuggled against him. He was awkward to get comfortable against, but he was warm and made you feel safe. Night had already fallen. It was dim in your apartment, lit only by the light in the kitchen and the streetlights that came in under your curtains. You closed your eyes as Simon ran his fingers through your hair.

“Gonna fall asleep,” you warned him, a yawn sneaking out.

“‘s okay,” he soothed, “I’ll get y’ up when the timer goes off.”

You nodded, falling more and more comfortably into his arms, until you were asleep.

Simon had been true to his word, softly shaking you awake an hour later when the oven timer went off. He also begrudgingly followed your instructions to wait another fifteen minutes to let it cool and set once he had taken the pan out of the oven. He had been easy enough to distract from his hunger, though. You had thrown your blanket around his shoulders and pulled him down into a kiss. That’s how you ended up hauled onto the counter, with Simon standing between your legs absolutely devouring your mouth. You almost forgot about dinner entirely, but when both of your stomachs growled, you knew you had to pull apart.

One piece of lasagna perfectly satisfied you. It was richer and saltier (you knew Simon had added more while you were distracted) than you were used to for your meals, so you ate it with several glasses of water. That had only made you fuller. Simon, on the other hand, devoured half the pan. After you were done, you just sat and watched him eat, absolutely blown away at his pace. You weren’t used to anyone with that level of appetite, even your brother when he was a teenager didn’t compare.

“‘m ready for bed,” he said sitting back in his chair with a groan, throwing his fork on his plate after polishing off his fourth piece.

You had been watching him over your glass of water with wide eyes and an amazed smile. “Go ahead,” you said setting down your glass and collect your dishes, “I’m going to get the leftovers put away. Be right behind you.”

He was still collapsed in the chair when you took the dishes to the kitchen. You dumped them in the sink next to your mess from making dinner. Tomorrow, you reminded yourself. You grabbed a small container, scooping the last piece of lasagna into it. While you were putting the container in the refrigerator you heard Simon finally sit up and head to your bedroom. All you had left was the dirty pan. You placed it on top of the mountain of your other dishes. When nothing came tumbling down, you turned off the kitchen light and made your way to the bedroom, to Simon, through the dark of your apartment.

a/n: happy (late) halloween everyone! thank you all so much for your likes and comments! I see them everytime i log on and they overwhelm me in the best way ❤️ i need to work out some kinks (lol) with the next part, so i'm aiming for posting closer to this weekend instead of friday!

#starry writes #mw2 #ghost/reader #call of duty #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #you will take soft domestic simon from my cold dead hands #*aggressively gives him love and affection*

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