#i spent like almost 3 hours working on this

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Hey!!! I just got the most amazing idea ever!! (probably 🤭) I know that Franco had just lose his grandfather and he had to do FP. And basically everyone (the media & paparazzi just decide to hustle him despite him clearly not wanting to talk or do anything for them. Which is why he wears headphones and cap). So this is more of James with a wife reader. She is practically comforted and was with him since she always does that to everyone. Franco was just so young and she wanted to cocoon him in her warmth. From having bad weather to that awful FP which he crashed and later Alex did the same🙃🙃 Everyone especially the mechanics had to double their work because race starts in like 3 hours after quali. And how can they fix two cars in just that shirt period of time??? Being able to fix one was a miracle, but fixing two? They need to call everyone at the factory it seems😮‍💨😮‍💨 And then Alex not starting the race and Franco struggle in the rain because Williams didn't want to put wet tyres and then later crashed making the stewards flagging the race as red. You know, just a shitty day at the office. Williams out of the race:(( Everyone frustrated, tension arises, more work to do with how the race turns out to be. James admired her about that. Keeping calm, composure and bringing in warmth to everyone at the paddock (maybe interactions with drivers). This is the longest I've ever sent you, so it's up to you how it goes. I trust you. Can be anything you want. Fluff or angst or suggestive. Can be one shot or series. Anything. Just a whole lot of thank you for everything you've ever done for me!!! ❤️❤️❤️ Tag me later!! If you have any questions, just ask me!! I'll be happy to help. Thanks!!! :))

Rain, Resolve, and Resilience

word count. 1.2k

Pairing: James Vowles x reader

AN: Thank you so much for your application i really need that.

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The Williams paddock was a storm of activity that mirrored the turbulent clouds overhead. Rain battered the track, but it was nothing compared to the emotional storm inside. Franco, one of the team’s youngest drivers, had only recently lost his grandfather, the man who had nurtured his passion for racing from the start. Now, Franco was expected to push through that grief and focus on practice, even as his heart was heavy. The cameras followed his every step, journalists crowding in with pointed questions, ignoring the lines of grief etched into his face. He pulled his cap down low, headphones covering his ears in an attempt to escape, but it was all too much.

Y/n, the beloved wife of team principal James Vowles, saw it all unfold from the edge of the garage. She had spent countless hours at James's side, becoming a quiet pillar for the team in a way only she could. Mechanics and engineers knew they could go to her if the pressure became too much; her presence alone had a grounding, calming effect on everyone. Today, seeing Franco, barely more than a boy, desperately trying to hold himself together as he faced the cameras alone, broke her heart.

She moved toward him gently, slipping past the reporters who still tried to shout questions his way, and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Franco,” she said, her voice calm, almost a whisper. “You don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here.”

Franco’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. He managed a grateful smile, his voice barely audible when he replied, “Thank you, Y/n.” He didn’t say more, but she could see the relief in his eyes. Knowing he wasn’t alone in that moment meant everything.

The rain was relentless, and as the team prepared for the practice session, the paddock was tense. Y/n stayed close, keeping an eye on Franco as he prepared to take to the track. She felt protective, wanting to shield him from all the hurt and stress he was carrying. With a deep breath, he climbed into the car, and she watched, fingers crossed, hoping he could find some solace in the race. But as the rain poured harder, the slick track proved unforgiving. Franco’s car spun out on a turn, and he crashed, the impact sending a chill through the paddock. Minutes later, Alex followed, a sickening repeat that left the team reeling.

The Williams garage erupted into controlled chaos. With less than three hours to go before qualifying, both cars were in dire need of repair. Mechanics dashed back and forth, voices rising as they shared updates over radios and called for parts. It felt like an impossible task; fixing one car was a miracle on its own, but two? Every hand was needed, and the tension among the crew was palpable.

In the midst of it all, Y/n was a steady, calm presence, moving through the garage like a breath of fresh air. She approached a young mechanic, shoulders slumped as he stared down at a particularly stubborn part. He rubbed his forehead in frustration, looking close to defeat.

“Take a second,” Y/n said softly, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. “You’re doing amazing. We’ll get there, piece by piece.”

The mechanic glanced at her, finding comfort in her reassuring smile. “Thanks, Y/n,” he murmured, his spirits lifting. She continued to move through the garage, offering words of encouragement to others, giving each team member the strength to push on.

James glanced over at his wife between giving orders, his admiration shining in his eyes. She had a gift, a way of making people feel seen and valued, even when everything felt impossible. He’d often find her in these moments, quietly lifting the spirits of those around her, giving them strength without ever drawing attention to herself. She was the backbone of the team in ways that only he could see.

Back in a quieter corner of the garage, Franco sat alone, hands in his hair as he replayed the crash in his mind. He looked up as Y/n approached, her presence bringing a hint of calm to the chaos within him.

“Do you want to take a little walk?” she asked gently, nodding toward a nearby corridor away from the noise. Franco nodded, grateful for the escape, and they stepped outside into the cooler air.

As they walked, she spoke quietly, her words laced with compassion. “You know, you don’t have to keep this all bottled up. Losing someone you love…it doesn’t go away just because you’re expected to race.” Her tone was soft, non-judgmental, offering him a safe space to express the grief he’d been carrying alone.

Franco took a shaky breath, the weight of the loss settling in his chest. “I just… I wish he was here to see me race,” he admitted, his voice catching. “He taught me everything, and now…” He trailed off, struggling to find the words.

Y/n placed a comforting hand on his back, offering him a moment of silent support. “I think he’d be incredibly proud of you, Franco. You’re out here, giving it everything despite how hard things are. That takes strength,” she said, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

When they returned to the paddock, Franco looked a bit lighter. The time away with Y/n had given him a bit of the peace he needed to keep going.

The rain returned with a vengeance on race day, and the paddock was alive with tension once more. Only Franco’s car had been fully repaired, and the knowledge that Alex wouldn’t be able to start weighed heavily on the team. Despite the pressure, Y/n stayed close, her comforting presence a balm to the team’s frayed nerves.

As Franco took to the track again, Y/n stayed by the garage monitors, her hands clasped tightly as she watched him navigate the rain-soaked circuit. But the track was treacherous, and the decision not to put on wet tires soon proved costly. Franco’s car began to slide, the wet track claiming another victim as he fought to regain control. Y/n’s heart sank as she watched him crash once more, the red flags raised as the race was halted.

The team was devastated. The loss of both cars cast a shadow over the weekend, leaving everyone drained and disheartened. In the paddock, frustration was written across every face, the team grappling with the weight of another painful blow. For many, the temptation to give up felt stronger than ever.

But Y/n, ever the steady presence, moved through the crowd, her calm energy pulling everyone back to center. She listened as mechanics vented their frustrations, offering a word of comfort or a quiet hug to those who needed it most. For the younger team members, she was a constant, a familiar warmth that reminded them they weren’t alone in their struggles.

When James finally made his way over, exhaustion etched into every line of his face, he found Y/n beside Franco once more. The young driver looked up at her, his gratitude clear even in his exhaustion. James watched, his admiration for his wife growing with each passing moment. She was the heart of the Williams family, the one who kept them all grounded when the pressures of racing felt too much to bear.

Y/n looked up at James, catching his gaze with a soft smile that seemed to ease his worries. “We’ll get through this,” she said, as much a promise as a reassurance.

[emeritusemeritus]

omg! saw your requests opening, glad to see you writing and I’ve read nearly all of your works! your writing style and fics inspired me to write more and motivate me so I thank thee for that!

i didn’t know if I would be able to request something like this, but you be willing to write something for both of the Weasley twins? you come home from a bad day, it was absolutely horrendous and overwhelming and you just want to forget about it. would you be able to write both of the Weasley twins willing to blow their mind away in bed to try to make them forget about their day? ��

Hi lovely Anon! Thank you so much for your kind words, I’m so glad I could inspire you to write more, I’d love to read your work! I hope it’s okay that I added a little Christmas twist. Hope you enjoy! P.s. my own personal headcanon is that Angelina would become a healer after hogwarts, so I made the reader a healer too🖤

Warnings: where do I start… smut, pinv sex, graphic smut, oral (both), fingering, masturbation, slight sub/dom elements, rough sex, overstimulation. Threesomes (no twincest) Readers feeling a bit of a grinch. Healer reader. Christmas stress. Can you tell I’ve worked retail with how much I hate Christmas crowds. Not spellchecker nor beta read.

Word count: 6.7k (some of it is plot I swear)

Fairytale of Diagon Alley

You were turning into the Grinch.

It appeared that when you had kissed your boyfriend's goodbye this morning upon leaving your shared flat above the shop, you had also kissed goodbye to your good mood and any semblance of patience you had left.

There were people everywhere, the whole street of Diagon Alley was packed with frantic christmas shoppers wanting those last minute bargains, forgetting all of their manners and regular etiquette as their heads filled with 'what to get little Timmy' and how Flourish and Botts hadn't even started their sales yet, Godric forbid.

You pushed through the brainless crowds, cringing at the attention you were receiving having walked out of the closed store, protests of unfairness echoing through the street as if you were some VIP patron with early access before the store had opened.   The line of people waiting for Wheezes to open was eye watering and you felt a complex mixture of happiness and sadness for your boyfriends knowing that they would have such a busy day once again, though business would be booming and they'd inevitably make a killing. They'd been exhausted these last few weeks, working extra hours to accommodate the expanse of people whilst importing more stock than ever to see them through peak trade. They'd started the sale two days ago, an offer of buy 3 get 1 free that had skyrocketed sales and had plunged through their stock even quicker than expended, leading to more light nights spent dealing with manufacturers and suppliers to rush through more orders. They did it all with a smile, so warm and welcoming to each customer that it filled you with awe seeing them, knowing that they were running on very little sleep.

You simply huddled down, pulling your coat tighter against your collar to ward off the biting cold and pushed through the crowds with facetious attempts of politeness as you muttered excuse me repeatedly , trying to make your way out of the crowded street. Christmas music was blaring out from the cafe at the top of the street and you cringed as you walked past, the volume almost deafening.

It didn't cheer you, not today. You were just overwhelmed by the amount of people, overstimulated by the ridiculous noise of the music and the constant chatter around you as you were just trying to make your way to work for what you knew would almost certainly be another dreadful day.

You paused outside the entrance to the abandoned looking department store Purge and Dowse Ltd, heaving a heavy sigh to prepare you for the day, having successfully made it through the crowds... eventually. You loved your job usually, but something about Christmas time just seemed to make people more stupid, less careful and much more irate.

The welcome witch was unpleasant as ever as you stepped into the entrance of the building, seeing a bustling waiting room of people with various maladies and injuries that were certain to keep you on your toes today.

"St Mungo's hospital for magical maladies and injuries," the receptionist Barbara welcomed the next person waiting to be booked in, her usual overly-cheery voice ringing out along the corridor, pausing her speech to wave at you warmly as you walked past. Her hair was transfigured into a Christmas tree shape though it was leaning at the top with tinsel wrapped around for good measure and a couple of illuminated lights in her hair that were flickering on and off in an uneven pattern, which you noticed she kept trying to fix with her wand though she was largely unsuccessful.

"Ready for another fun day?" Angelina asks sarcastically as you change into your uniform, casting the usual enchantments upon the regulated clothes to protect them from all manner of horrors. Knowing that you don't have to hide your real emotions from Angelina, you sigh and let out a long whinge, resting your head dramatically on her shoulder. She laughs whilst stroking your hair, the two of you sharing a moment together as you prepare for the day, enormously thankful that at least your best friend would be on the same shift as you today, both of you successful in following your calling to become a healer.

"Just think, 12 hours to go and you'll be back fighting your way back to the flat through the Christmas crowds!"

The whinge that fell from your lips was louder and longer than the first and held nothing back of how you truly felt.

Angelina didn't need to be part seer to foresee the future but she sure got it right in predicting with almost perfect accuracy the horror of Diagon Alley upon your return. If anything, she had downplayed the horror of your return as it seemed even busier than this morning, with people covering almost every square inch of the cobbled street. You briefly wondered if everyone stood on a singular cobble, if there'd be any room at all for more people.

Children were squealing with excitement, some crying at the top of their lungs about being denied early gifts. Three boys in the corner near Fortescue's had found a small patch of untouched snow and were crafting snowballs to throw at each other though their sense of aim was way off and had instead found it much more enjoyable to cast the snowballs into the crowd to hit unsuspecting shoppers who most appeared indifferent to the attacks, probably not even noticing.

It was sheer mayhem and all you could think of was getting home, taking a bath and soaking away the stresses of your very long day. It had been none stop from the second you arrived on the ward, with new challenges and issues that often rendered you speechless. You were beyond stressed and weary, the long days and the disregulation of routine completely throwing you off. You'd barely spent any time with your boyfriends these past weeks, even after they'd employed temporary staff over the busy period. The flat was increasing in mess and clutter everyday and you found yourself caring less everyday, completely void of motivation. Presents needed to be wrapped, some still left to be bought, Christmas cards to be written, food to be ordered and collected. You needed to confirm with Molly what time you'd be arriving on Christmas Eve, the plan on everyone staying at the Burrow in their old bedrooms ready for a big family Christmas seeming more and more welcoming with each passing day as you craved simpler times, away from the stresses of an adult Christmas. You lamented the days at Hogwarts when everything was easy, when it was just you, the twins and your friends around a perfectly elf-prepared Christmas dinner with gifts that were more gestures of love before money and being an adult ruined everything.

Your feet were hurting, you were exhausted, you were sick of fighting through crowds morning and night each time you left the flat. You needed to sort the Floo network but each and every time you resolved yourself to asking Fred to have a look, you'd see him walk in exhausted and the request would fall from your lips upon seeing the deepening purple bags under his eyes. You didn't know the first thing about floo networks or where to even start on fixing it or asking someone to look so you left it alone, the entire thought process dropping from your mind the second you were home every time without fail until you were faced with the unpleasant crowd once again.

The sights and sounds of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes flooded out into the dark street like a lighthouse at sea, the bacon of light that guided you home. As overwhelmingly pleased as you were to see it in all its glory, knowing you were so close to being home you were also a little downtrodden at the sight of so many people still out shopping. The closer you got, you could see George on the third floor near the explosives section, helping yet another customer with their purchases as he pointed out various whizzbangs on the wall between Fred's blaze box and George's compendium box of pyrotechtrix. You couldn't see Fred anywhere but you could spot Verity through the window looking frazzled at the till. You snook around the back and let yourself in with the appropriate charms, begrudgingly taking each painful step up the back staircase near the storeroom to make your way to the flat, the noise and the bustle from the shop falling silent as soon as the door was closed.

You sighed in relief as you toed off your shoes and hung up your bag and coat, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer number of layers that you were wearing as you frantically unwrapped your scarf and tugged off your hat with very little care of what your hair looked like underneath. You wanted to make a cup of tea but couldn't even muster the energy even with magic and so you walked straight to the bathroom and began running a bath, ignoring any messes you could see along the way.

You pulled off your clothes with determination, desperate to rid yourself of the day and soak in the bath full of bubbles. The bath was huge, one of the many benefits of being in love with two very tall men who had both insisted on a bathtub that could accommodate their whole bodies without question.

You lit a candle and placed it on the windowsill to illuminate the room, praying that the outline of your naked figure couldn't be seen by all of Diagon Alley.

Slipping into the hot bath felt like heaven. Your skin was pleasantly tingling from the warmth and you felt your eyes closing instinctively as you head tilted back to rest on the edge of the tub. You felt soothed, both in body and soul as you sank deeper into the water, finally finding peace in your day.

You don't know how long you are lay there floating somewhere between relaxed and dozing until you heard a gentle knock on the bathroom door.

"Well this is a welcomed sight," you hear George say as he steps into the bathroom after you'd told him to enter. He looks tired but happy, his eyes roaming over you in the bath, no doubt trying to see exactly how much of your body was covered by the bubbles. You smile, holding your hand out for him to take as you look up to him with heavy eyes.

"You should have joined me," you smile, knowing that it wouldn't have even been an option, but it was nice to think of.

"I'd have burned down the shop to have jumped in there with you," he says with a deep chuckle, perching on the side of the tub with you, his hand still holding yours.

"You're going to get wet," you say as a soft warning, eyes roaming over his work suit.

"Don't care," he replies quickly, his other hand scooping up some of the extra bubbles, eyes lighting up with mischief as he suddenly blows the bubbles back towards you. You squeal seeing the bubbles flying towards your face and flail slightly to get your face away from the incoming bubbles as George laughs.

"Hello ladies," George smirks, staring at your breasts as they become exposed by your flailing, the bubbles no longer concealing you. Your eyes widen and you scramble to cover your chest with your arms instinctively.

"Angel," he says, one brow slightly raising as he reaches to stroke your concealing arm, gently beginning to pull it away from you, though his touch is gentle enough for you to keep it there if you're uncomfortable. "I've been looking at these pretty tits for years, don't go shy on me now."

With the look in his eye and his smooth voice, you're helpless to resist and pull your arm away from your body with a slight bite of your lip. Seeing his eyes feast upon your exposed chest is instantly arousing, your naked form so vulnerable to his fully clothed self. The mood in the small room has shifted almost instantly, the calm and peaceful atmosphere now filled with a need, the tension between you both so overwhelming. His eyes are half lidded but it's no longer from tiredness as he looks up to your eyes again, pausing as if he's considering his next move before he leans forward, capturing your lips in a dangerously loaded kiss. You want to reach out for him, to run your fingers through his hair and pull him closer to you by his tie but you're wet through and you'd inevitably soak his favourite suit.

"George! Where are you, you're needed out here!" You hear Fred calling up the stairs and pull apart, a quiet sigh of disappointment falling from your lips as your shoulders sink like a deflated balloons. George growls as he pulls away, his head resting on yours with his eyes still closed, evidently we wound up and frustrated as you by the sudden interruption.

"Hold that thought baby okay? 30 minutes and we're all yours, I want you right here when I'm done."

With one last smirk and a delicate kiss placed upon your forehead, George steps out of the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

You throw your head back onto the side of the tub in frustration, arousal swirling through your body with no outlet now to relieve that need. The thought of having to wait for at least another half an hour was killing you but there was nothing you could do about it.

You tried to stay in the bath just as George had requested but you found yourself growing cold even after enchanting the water back up to the warmth of before once again but you were no longer relaxed, unable to find that sense of peace. You were too wound up, too aware of your naked body, the hardening of your nipples and the ache between your thighs that seemed to be calling out to you for relief.

You heaved yourself out of the bath with a frustrated groan, not even sure what you were annoyed at. Before George had walked in you'd been perfectly content to just lie there and put your day behind you. If Fred hadn't had called out for him, if the shop wasn't open so bloody late, if the customers would just go home. You were spiralling but didn't care, for once you just wanted the night to go how you wanted it to go, for your needs to be met and to come first for a change. Groping for the towel, you quickly dried yourself off and walked into the bedroom, cursing Merlin under your breath at the state of the room. Wardrobe doors left open with various ties scattered around as if someone had been looking for a specific one this morning and simply discarded all the rest. Your pyjamas from last night were thrown in a pile in the corner of the room, the bed wasn't made and various pieces of clutter decorated the vanity that had become a dumping ground for all three of you. You cursed again when you stepped on the corner of a pin badge, one of the many iconic 'W' badges that your husbands wore in the shop discarded on the floor. You reached for your wand and cast numerous cleaning charms, not even caring on how they would clash, just praying that they would sort out the room.

You threw on your comfiest, baggiest clothes and threw the towel towards the rough direction of the bathroom, watching briefly as it got caught up in the crossfire of the charms you'd used.

Gone were the thoughts of a quiet night or any hope of some stress relief fucking that you'd so desperately needed. Apparently your lack of sexual relief had caused you to become increasingly frustrated and short, your lip fixed into a near permanent pout as you sulked about your day. You wouldn't entertain ideas of making dinner, despite your stomachs grumbling protest and opted instead to flip down onto the sofa, pull out your book and ignore the rest of the world- especially the 'Christmas to do list' that lay infront of you almost mockingly on the coffee table.

"You were meant to be in the bath sweet girl," George says as both he and Fred entered the flat after close. Your eyes flicker up to the clock on the wall and saw that it had not been thirty minutes as promised but instead it had taken nearly double that for George to get back to you. You don't reply, only offering a noncommittal shrug as you fix your eyes back to your book, rereading the same sentence for the third time.

"Hey princess, good day?" Fred asks as he throws himself down onto the sofa beside you, arm immediately reaching across the back to where his fingers reach out to run your shoulder.

"Busy."

"Tell me about it," Fred answers, reaching up with his spare hand to undo his top button and loosen his tie, missing the true meaning of your words completely. "So what's for tea?"

You slam your book down onto the coffee table and march off towards the bedroom without a single word, barely holding in your groan of annoyance at his lack of sensitivity. It wasn't just down to you to think about meals all the time, to do the bloody shopping and start preparing a meal when you'd already worked twelve hours, having to fight through the stupid crowds morning noon and night just to go about your day. You knew they'd had a long day too but it didn't trump yours, didn't mean that they automatically got a pass from adulting because they'd been working hard because you had too.

"Angel?"

You rolled your eyes, knowing what was coming. You didn't answer, hoping that George would just go away. You didn't want sensitivity or broken promises right now, you didn't really know what you wanted but you knew that if George came in here to try and reason with you, you'd go mad.

The second he slips through the door, you know that you'd gotten it very wrong. He wasn't coming to reconcile or to ask you what was wrong to fix the issue, instead his eyes told a completely other story.

"Where did my sweet girl go?" He says, eyes fixed hard as he looks at you, suddenly seeming to be even taller than you pictured. "I kept you waiting too long."

You don't reply, knowing that you'd only say something that you'd later regret.

"I agree it was mean of me, getting you all worked up and leaving you like that, so beautiful and needy."

He knew exactly what he was doing, and unfortunately for your pride, it was working.

He moves closer to you now, his firm towering over you as you sit on the edge of the bed where you'd slumped down, neck craned to stare up at him with a look that is softening more with every passing second.

"But there question is," he says as he squats down in front of you, your eyes lining up once again as you threaten to cower under his blazing eyes and dangerous smirk. "How needy are you?"

You can't help it, your chest heaves at the very same time you have to swallow down your nervous energy, altering George to how well his words were affecting you.

"That bad huh?" You don't know if you want to slap or kiss that smirk off his smug face but all you know is that the fire from earlier had been reignited in the most sinful way possible.

"You think Freddie could help with that too?"

At the very mention of your other boyfriend, you feel your eyes widen slightly with the sudden influx of sinful possibilities crossing your mind, your need and arousal doubling as you fight the need to squirm under his forceful gaze. You nod gently, hardly daring to look away from his mesmerising eyes, your breathing rapidly increasing though it's shallow breaths only.

"You need us to fuck away your day sweetheart?" A second voice says from the side, alerting you to the presence of your other love, his eyes just as fiery as his words. You nod again, biting your lip under the scrutiny of them both.

"Words princess," Fred warns, eyes dark as he prowls over to you.

"Please," you say as if on command, submitting to them so willingly that it's almost alarming.

Their smirks are completely identical as they briefly share a look before turning back to you, stalking closer and capturing you in their arms. George attacks your lips again, his tongue snaking around your lips before mingling with yours in a sinful battle of dominance that he inevitably wins. Fred's lips attack your neck as he joins you on the bed, hands snaking around your waist and up to your breasts where he cups and squeezes with just enough pressure that you gasp onto George's lips. Your hips begin to cant on their own accord, too aroused for you to remain stationary as their hands begin to wander. George's hands replace Fred's on your breasts, his favourite place to play on the wonderland of your body whilst Fred's begin to stroke across your legs, caressing your thighs through your baggy clothes that you deeply regretted wearing.

George pulls away from your lips and tits for only a second as he rips your oversized shirt over your head, leaving your tits exposed to him once again. His eyes glaze over as he looks at your bountiful flesh, his eyes tracing the curves of your body and fixating upon your rosy nipples, so hard and aching for his mouth. You cry out when you feel Fred's big hands snaking around your waist and reaching to cup your breasts, squeezing them together and raising them up for George to take into his mouth, his full lips wrapping around your bud as his tongue pokes out to circle it seductively.

"I want you naked beautiful girl," Fred whispers in your ear, his right hand beginning to toy with the waistband of your sweatpants, long fingers edging closer to your heated core with every stroke.

"Please."

George pulls away from your breasts once again and gives you a devilish smirk as his fingers reach into the top of your waist band whilst Fred pulls you back to recline on him as he slips behind you on the bed. They share a brief look of utter mischief before George rips your sweatpants away from your body leaving you completely exposed to their eyes.

Your legs squeeze together as you look between the three of you, seeing them both still fully dressed in their suits with you wearing nothing but a smile between them, like the prey and the predators together.

Fred's lips trace the lines of your ear down to your neck and your chest rises, back arching in pleasure which seems to welcome George back to caressing your tits, his mouth latching back onto the hardened buds. He breaks away from sucking on your nipples to press a line of kisses up the column of your throat until he captured your lips in a blazing kiss once again, his hands caressing your breasts now instead of his mouth.

"Don't know about you mate, I reckon she's soaking wet for us," Fred says to George almost mockingly, as if you're not lay between them.

"Oh I know she is mate," George says as he pulls away, casting a cursory glance over at you before replying to his twin, "I can see that little pussy glistening from here."

"Ah ah ah," Fred warns with a firm grip of your thigh as your legs squeeze together to offer any relief you can find as their words catapult you towards dangerous levels of arousal.

"That was naughty," George chastises, one single finger on his right hand now trailing down the length of your body towards your core, teasing you.

"Will you be our good girl tonight?" Fred asks in your ear, the vibrations of his deep voice sending shockwaves through you.

"I'll be your good girl," you say breathlessly, needing more than what you were getting.

"Then prove it," George says, standing up in front of you and undoing his belt. You watch with rapt attention as he undoes the belt, looping it out of his trousers and throwing it off to the side, nimble fingers undoing the buttons on his tweed trousers and dragging down the zip.

Your mouth waters when you watch him reach into his underwear and pull out his hard cock, already so swollen and throbbing. You force yourself to look away from the delicious sight, up into his eyes to look for his consent, seeing his eyes dark and predatory.

He holds out his cock towards you, gripping it hard in his big hands by the base, offering it for you to take. You waste no time, slipping out of Fred's grasp to crawl forwards on the bed so that your face as near perfectly aligned with your reward. You kick a tentative stripe up from the bottom of his cock towards the tip, circling the bulbous tip and moaning when you taste the faint salty liquid already leaking from his little hole. You lap it up greedily, allowing his cock to rest on your flat tongue as your lips wrap around the entire head before giving him a long and deliberate suck. The growl that you pull from his lips only makes you want to do better, to suck his harder and take him deeper. You allow your mouth to fill with saliva, knowing how sloppy he likes it, how he likes you messy. You push him deeper into your mouth, tongue working over the sensitive veins and ridges until you open your eyes, looking up at him with big, wide eyes that you know he can't resist. His mouth is open, face contorted into pure pleasure as he pants, nose scrunched up as he watches you pleasure him. He pulls away his hand now, knowing that you can take more of his length and his now free hand reaches out to stroke your hair in a way that shows his love for you even in his dominant state.

You take him deeper still, fighting off the urge to choke as you slip him into his throat, immediately rewarded by the most delicious moans and gasps from above, his hand slipping into your hair to gather it. He doesn't force you nor guide your movements but simply holds back your hair in a way that forces you to know that he holds the power here.

Fred, who had been stroking your body as you gag on his twins cock suddenly sits up, unbuckling his own belt as he moves towards you, no longer content just to sit there and watch.

You're acutely aware of your nakedness between the two men who are still fully dressed and suddenly have a desperate urge for them to be just as naked as you, to see their perfect bodies taking yours. Defying their usual expectations, you take it upon yourself to reach out for Fred's trousers, giving a slightly pull trying to silently communicate your needs whilst still pleasuring George.

"Think our girl wants something," Fred says, the smugness in his voice allowing you to almost hear the smirk upon his face.

George's fingers tap gently on your chin and you look up at him as you pull off of his cock with a resounding 'pop', his whole body fighting off a shiver of arousal.

"What does our princess want?" George says, the dominant edge to his voice almost mocking you.

You don't answer verbally, your hands reaching up to fumble with the buttons on his waist coat, wanting his naked. He's still wearing his full suit, jacket and all except for the long cock hanging free from his unbuckled trousers. Fred's equally as clothed only without his suit jacket, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

"You want us just as naked as you sweetheart?" Fred murmurs in your ear, hands wandering again.

"Please," you say sounding desperate, "want to see your bodies as you fuck me."

"Merlin," Fred curses behind you. George's fingers instantly hook under your chin to force you to look at him and he leans down to place a blazing kiss upon your lips with so much force that it knocks you backwards, your words clearly affecting him too.

You can hardly believe your luck when as you get to watch them undress, having a moment of confused sentimentality that this was your life, that only you were in this position. They were so similar and yet so different, even as they undressed. You watched transfixed as their braces were pulled off their bodies, shirts quickly unbuttoned by long fingers and trousers pulled down their long legs until they were bare.

"Is that better sweet girl?" George mocks, moving to stand in front of you. Fred slips back behind you on the bed, maneuvering you so that he can slide in. You can feel the prominent bulge of his erection as his rests on your hip and you fight to control the urge to squeeze your legs again, feeling largely untouched. "Now because you've been so good."

"Lean back on me darling," Fred coos in your ear, handling you backwards until you're resting against his chest, head thrown back onto his shoulder.

"Let me make you feel good."

His hands slip down over your breasts, his fingers reigniting the hardness in your nipples as his gorgoeus, veiny hands cup and squeeze your supple flesh. His fingers trail down your chest and across your tummy making you squirm, hips raising on their own accord as his fingers trail down towards your dripping core.

You gasp when you feel his fingers dip lower, legs spreading wide as you allow him access. He strokes over your outer lips, barely ghosting your pussy as he teases, touching your thighs, your outerlips- simply anywhere except where you need him.

When his finger suddenly dips within your folds, collecting the juices that are freely flowing from you and beginning to draw a line right up to your throbbing clit. You cry out as he makes contact with your clip, back arching at the pleasure as he begins to circle it slowly, knowing just how you like it.

Your eyes open and you gasp seeing George sitting directly infront of you, his hand wrapped around his cock as he slowly strokes himself, eyes fixed upon your spread pussy as Fred works his magic.

You're close to the edge already, aching for it, the teasing already too drawn out. Fred senses it right away as your breath catches in your throat, hips canting as you fight back the urge and stops his ministrations. You whine at the sudden loss of contact but stop when you feel his hands on your hip.

"You need my cock darling? I'm aching for you."

"Please Freddie," you gasp, rubbing your ass against his throbbing cock, desperate to have him inside of you.

"Up baby," he instructs, tapping your hip as he kisses your cheek. You lift your hips and Fred scoots down a little, lying flat but propped up on the pillow. He reaches down and holds up his cock for you. You stay facing away from him, lying on top whilst holding your weight on your hands as you align yourself with his gorgeous length.

You can hardly contain the moans as his tip begins to penetrate you, the tip slipping in easily with the wetness between your legs. You're breathless as you push his cock further into you, slipping down until you were taking almost every inch of his cock. He's moaning and breathing heavily underneath you as he keeps a firm hold of your hips to guide you, picking you up slightly only to bring you down a second time, his entire length inside of you. You cry out in perfect synchronisation with Fred as you begin riding his cock hard, bouncing up and down in his lap.

You feel sexy, empowered and yet submissive being so spread out and naked, completely open for George's view as he sits with his cock in his hand almost drooling as he watches you get fucked.

Fred's grip is almost bruising but it only serves as a reminder of his control over you, even if you are the one on top as he stops your hips bouncing, choosing instead to pound you from below as he keeps you still, the feel of his cock overwhelming. He bares the brunt of your weight as he forced you to lean on his chest instead of your hands. His thrusts are forceful and powerful with perfect aim as your head falls back from the overwhelming pleasure, your moans and cries unable to be contained.

You whine as you feel George join you on the bed, his hands grabbing hold of your thighs as he attempts to hold some of your weight whilst keeping you spread open for them. His lips find your clit from above, tongue running over that swollen little nub, latching on giving sharp, quick sucks. You're completely done for, the pleasure taking over your entire body.

Your walls are squeezing Fred who's moaning out your name and growling from below, long fingers still brushing your hips as his thrusts get harder as he approaches his end. George's lips suckle your clit with perfect precision, doubling your pleasure and propelling you towards your orgasm in no time at all.

"I'm, I'm," you try to warn but it's pointless, your climax ripping through your body in a fit of blinding light as you scream out Fred's name, hardly able to hold your head up any longer.

You're lost in pleasure, barely registering fred's orgasm that follows yours within seconds until you feel his cum filling you to the brim, cock lodged in you so deep that you feel he's in your tummy.

He waits for you to get your breath back before slowly pulling out of you, shifting you gently so that you're almost lay beside him, his lips pressing a cool-down kiss onto your own as you feel a stream of cum slowly leaking out.

You're breathless and panting but you still need more, turning to George with expectant eyes, seeing that he's waiting impatiently for you to come back to him.

"On your knees," he commands. You sit up onto your knees and turn away from him now, looking back towards Fred who offers you a loving smile as he leans against the headboard, giving you room.

You gasp when George's hands wrap around your hips, his fingers digging into the marks that Fred had left as he pulls your ass right up to the edge of the bed and presses a hand to the skin between your shoulder blades to push your body down. Your upper half falls forward, ass high up in the air as he grips you with force, his cock already pressed up against your core.

"George," you breathe out in desperation, too worked up for teasing.

The cry that falls from your lips sounds almost non-human as he suddenly pushes forward, his entire length slipping inside your already overworked pussy. The curve of his cock drags purposely against your inner walls and your head drops down onto your arms with the force. He shows no mercy as he pounds into you from behind, the sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoing around the room, his balls hitting your clit with every deep thrust. It's agonising pleasure and you scramble with your fingers to reach out for the duvet beneath you to ground yourself. You look up into Fred's eyes when you feel his hand entwine with yours, offering you that support you so desperately needed.

It's a delicious contrast of personality as the usual menace tenderly holds your hand tenderly in support whilst the normally more sensitive twin takes you roughly from behind. He's growling and groaning as your walls stretch and constrict with the pleasure, your body becoming quickly overstimulated as you feel tears well up in your eyes at the sheer sensory overload.

"George!" You cry out, earning a swift spank to your right bum cheek that seems to echo around the room multiple times. The force of the smack, the jarring of your nervous system and the deep growl that emits from George as your pussy clenched on him is enough to renew your arousal to heightened levels. You can feel that telltale feeling in your lower stomach rising, as if it's slowly taking over your entire body, your skin erupting in goosebumps and your hips suddenly trying to squirm against George's hold. It rises within you quickly until you're squeezing Fred's hand, clawing at the sheets and fucking yourself back onto George's cock, your orgasm erupting. You're silent this time, the slow build of the white hot heat rendering you silent.

"Fucking Merlin!" George cries out, pulling out of you and quickly pulling you down into the bed, turning you over with one slight shove to your shoulder. His fist works quickly on his cock as he looks upon your squirming body, breasts heaving as you attempt to catch your breath, legs wide open and a slight line of drool coming from your mouth. You scramble forwards, your mouth wide open for him as you look up into his eyes with a look that you know will finish him off. You watch closely as his face crumbles, eyes squeezing tightly shut as his fist moves quickly along the long column of his cock, catching against the bulbous tip that looks bright pink.

He cries out as he cums, the viscous liquid spraying your face and shooting into your waiting mouth. You taste him on your tongue, leaning forward to engulf his throbbing tip in your mouth to lick up every drop of the salty liquid that addicts you as you watch him shudder.

You fall back onto the bed in an exhausted heap, flanked by two satisfied men mere moment later who instinctively reach out to touch you, their lips pressing against your slightly sweaty hair and any skin they can reach. Fred offers you his handkerchief to wipe off your face which you gratefully accept, wiping off the quickly drying cum from your cheek.

"You did so well sweetheart," Fred murmurs into your ear, his voice soft and quiet as if speaking louder would shatter the bubble you found yourselves in.

"So good for us," George echoes, his hand reaching out to yours to entwine your fingers as you all fight to regain your usual heart rates.

You're exhausted. Unable to reply back to them no matter how many ways you want to compliment them but can't bring yourself to muster the energy to talk and so you sink down into their comforting hold in complete contentment.

"Not that I mind how it's turned out since I asked the first time," Fred suddenly says, his softness disappearing from his voice as he sounds just as mischievous as usual now. "But what's for tea?"

You smack him on the chest playfully, not wanting to answer his question.

"We could go out," George suggests. You instantly groan thinking of the crowds of people that were inevitably still shopping somewhere, all the craziness of London in general and the number of layers you'd have to put back on. You needed a bath again, cum leaking from you and onto the sheets below, your skin covered in a thin sheet of sweat and most of all you just didn't want to leave the flat again.

"We can order in," George offers, hearing your groan. "Order in and work on getting that Christmas joblist sorted, plenty we can get done before bed."

You don't answer, you simply reach down and pull the covers above your head to hide yourself, wishing it was Harry's invisibility cloak, thinking to yourself  that you'd never heard a worse idea in your life.

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[silkendress]

Bitten Bullet

Previous Chapter First Chapter Next Chapter

-ˋˏ➛ Chapter 3: Missing You

-ˋˏ➛ Call of Duty

-ˋˏ➛ Suggestive

-ˋˏ➛ Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

-ˋˏ➛ Strangers to Lovers, Civilian Reader, Slow Build

-ˋˏ➛ 11k Words

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Simon nudges that line between acquaintances and friends ever closer.

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Read on AO3

Simon nudges that line between acquaintances and friends ever closer.

Ever since he took you out on his bike it was like a bridge had been drawn, a light turned green.

It starts with calling you. It’s random and sporadic, only once every other day, but he calls. He calls and he prompts you to tell him about your day. You do. He listens.

You think he figures out from trial and error the days and hours you work, because when he does call it’s almost consistently when you are about to leave work or at home.

You take what you’re given like you always have. You cherish your occasional phone calls, you even begin to look forward to them. Simon doesn’t get deterred if you can’t talk for long or at all, he still sounds the same when you eventually do get the chance to return his call. Unbothered and persistent.

You haven’t spent time with him in person since the bike ride, but he makes up for it by taking a genuine interest in your day-to-day. You can’t remember the last time anyone aside from your mother did.

“Have you been up to anything lately?” Speaking of your mother, she checked in as always with her daily calls—or texts—sometimes you called her, sometimes she called you; she was the one person you spoke to consistently.

And soon enough Simon would be a part of that category.

And speaking of Simon… “Uh, well…”

You’re not sure if the bike ride with Simon was something you should tell your mother or not. Not because you thought she would judge you but because you truly weren’t sure how to explain you found yourself becoming well acquainted with a six foot-something man from the military that you also just so happened to meet at a bar one time.

There was also another, deeper worry, one you couldn’t quite place but was eating away at you now that you thought about it. You didn’t want your mother to become happy for you over something that didn’t exist.

It helped to expect nothing and hope for very little, it kept your heart safe. Even if that safety could sometimes be agonizing.

“I had a nice breakfast at a place I haven’t tried before.” Is what you settle on.

“I have to go grocery shopping.” You open the cabinet to get tea, and breathe out in relief when you see there’s one tea bag left in the box.

Simon doesn’t say anything for a moment. Your conversations were like that. Simon never stuttered or tripped over his words like you did; he would wait, mull them over, then talk. And that was assuming he had anything he wanted to say at all.

He never pressured you to talk either. You still got worked up from time to time and convinced yourself you needed to fill the silence lest you were labeled as ‘abnormal’at best, a reflex you developed from multiple failed social interactions and ridicule. You thought that the more you familiarized yourself with Simon the less this feeling would crop up, but oddly enough it’s been the reverse thus far.

It wasn’t that Simon made you feel uneasy, it was rather that he had this strange penchant of making your heart lurch and stomach swoop. A penchant he was completely oblivious to. You went great lengths to ensure it remained that way.

“Did you ever get that bloody cereal?” This was a part of Simon that you were still getting acquainted with, yet cherished all the same.

He definitely had his own sense of humor. Dry wit and deadpan sarcasm. You find yourself suppressing laughter, you are certain Simon can still hear the grin in your voice.

“No,” you carefully pour the steaming water into your mug. “But I hope I will when I go to the store.” You place the tea bag in.

“I hope it’s on a lower shelf.” You say in the same cadence as your previous sentence. You hear Simon quietly huff through his nose on the other end, it’s as close as you’ve been able to get to a chuckle out of him so far.

“Could just reach it for you.” And your heart lurches and your stomach swoops.

It’s that. When he says things like that.

He’s just making conversation, he’s just talking and you’re just being you. Overly-emotional, sentimental, tender hearted you.

You have to physically brush it off with a shrug of your shoulders.

“Yes. You could reach a lot of things.” You agree.

You want to stop thinking about how Simon dwarfs you, so you keep talking. “Hopefully the store has it. I could give you a review of the cereal and everything.”

“I’ll be lookin’ forward to it.” He replies dryly. “Had it the last time you were there, should still have it.” He almost sounds conversational, it’s a bit of a rarity.

“I’ll be going to a different store to get groceries.” The convenience store was closer, but it didn’t have all the necessities you needed. It would be a long walk to and from the actual grocery store, but you’ve done it before.

Simon’s quiet for a while. You walk over to a different cabinet and retrieve some sugar.

“Where?” He eventually asks.

You tell him.

“And you walk there?” He sounds incredulous.

“Yes.”

There’s a pause, then you hear him exhale heavily. “Fuckin’ hell.” He mutters quietly under his breath, too quiet for it to be intended for you to hear. You discern the words only barely.

You expect him to chastise you, or maybe admonish you for your lack of license—and car.

He does neither.

“When are you going?” It’s a question but it’s said so flatly that it sounds like a statement.

Your answer glides off your tongue easily and without thought. “Tomorrow morning.” You pour some sugar into your tea.

You reach out your hand to open a drawer, retrieving a small spoon to stir the granules into your drink.

“I can drive you there.”

Your spoon comes to a screeching halt on the bottom of your mug.

You sputter. “Oh, you don’t have to—“ Your anxiety flares, you didn’t want him to feel like he had to, you didn’t want him to pity you, you didn’t want to push him away—

“Don’t want me to?” It’s sharp and clear-cut, sharp in a way that comes from the need to know in no uncertain terms if he’s crossed a line. He’s demanding clarification.

You breathe in, then out.

“You can.”

“I will, then.”

You fuss over your appearance more than usual the next day.

You haven’t seen Simon in person since he let you sit on the back of his bike.

You’re not sure why it matters to you so much that you can feel your heart pounding in the very pit of your stomach, but it does. Maybe it was because you were half-expecting him to drift away, not flow back to you. You were just waiting for that inevitable day when he stopped calling.

Perhaps it wasn’t as inevitable as you initially thought.

Either way, your nerves were alight and you were pacing around incessantly while you tried to settle down. ‘It’s just groceries, there’s no need to get worked up over it.’

But that was the problem; you weren’t getting worked up over groceries, you were getting worked up over the idea of being in close proximity to Simon again.

Of course, sitting in the passenger’s seat in his car wasn’t nearly as close as you were on his bike, but that didn’t matter. What mattered is that you’d be sitting with him in the car to and from the store and this time you could easily talk to one another while doing so. What mattered is that you haven’t seen him since you’ve been on the back of his bike.

What mattered is that you couldn’t ignore that despite talking over the phone with him every other day, you missed him.

It left a lump in your throat and a pang in your heart. All dangerous territory for someone like you. It was becoming increasingly troublesome to corral your thoughts and feelings, to keep them all in check; no thanks to Simon.

Of course, just when you were beginning to reach a bitter acquiescence to the idea of dying alone and childless, he had to drift into your life like a phantom.

Perhaps it was precisely the effortless nature of his presence that made you—

You still refused to use the word. It was stubborn, maybe childish, but you weren’t going to say the word. You feel the uncomfortable itch of heat on your cheeks, embarrassment bubbling up in your chest.

You couldn’t help but bury your face in your hands in shame. ‘I’m making a big deal out of nothing.’

You make yourself take a deep breath, then another.

A ping from your phone frees you from your thoughts for a moment. On wobbly legs you retrieve it from where it was charging on the nightstand next to your bed.

It is from Simon.

‘On my way.’

You’re hovering by your front door, peeking out one of the nearby windows to see when Simon arrives.

Your nerves haven’t settled one bit, your twitching hands remind you.

Every time a car drives by your breath hitches in anticipation for the one that will turn in to park. Eventually, one does exactly that. After a moment you receive a notification on your phone.

‘Here.’

You breathe in and out, then do so again. You were determined to behave normally.

You step out your house and fumble with your keys to lock the door behind you. You couldn’t shake the feeling that Simon’s eyes were already on you. It made warmth creep up your spine.

When you turn around to walk over to his car you make an active effort to keep your gaze slanted so as to not lock eyes with him. The distance between your front door and where he parked wasn’t far at all, but it felt like miles.

You’re still thinking of what to say when Simon gets out of the car as you approach.

“Thank you again for this.” You blurt out.

“Anytime.” He murmurs.

Not ‘don’t mention it’ or ‘no problem’ but anytime.

Your heart clenches almost painfully.

You’re staring at your feet as you skittishly pad over to the passengers side of the car. You don’t realize Simon is right behind you until his hand darts out to open the door for you.

The suddenness makes you jump but you recover quickly. You nod at him all while avoiding eye contact, hastily murmuring a small ‘thank you’ before hopping into his car.

It is then you recall Simon got out of the car in the first place—he was going to open the door for you. Your mind was in such disarray you hardly realized it, let alone put two and two together. Your heartbeat is a dull ache in your chest.

The door closes with a soft thud. You’re given a very short moment to yourself in the vehicle while Simon walks around to the driver’s side.

You exhale heavily, clicking your seatbelt into place and running your hands across your face with a shaky exhale.

‘I’m getting in my own head again.’ You run your hand over your mouth, resting your chin in the heel of your thumb, your digits curled around your mouth pensively. Your other hand was resting on your knee, tapping fingers nervously on your leg.

Despite the rationality your mind offered you still were nervous.

You just were never good with talking with people, especially not men, and now here you were about to be driven to the grocery store by one. It was remarkable how effortlessly Simon eased his way into the periphery of your life. And if you were being presumptuous—and a little reckless—you got the inkling he wanted to slot himself even further into your day-to-day. Assuming you were interpreting his consistent calls correctly.

Part of your turmoil was compounded by the small insistence that a man such as Simon didn’t seem the type to make friends just for the sake of it, especially not friends like you. You always tuned that thought out namely because of the conclusion that followed, you didn’t have a good history with getting your hopes up.

You couldn’t get a good read on Simon either. There was no reality in which you were asking him—there was always a possibility that you were wrong.

You could just enjoy the time spent with him. It didn’t have to be anything more than that—

but you wanted it to be—

He would take you there, you’d get what you needed, he would take you home. Simple as that.

Just as you reached that resolution you hear the driver’s side door open. You straighten yourself up and fold your hands neatly in your lap. The car itself shifts just a little, almost imperceptibly, as your towering travel companion takes a seat. He shuts his door and starts the car without any preamble.

His movements are no-nonsense and efficient, there was an ease to his shoulders though. Then with one hand on the steering he places his hand over the back of your seat to pull the car out.

You don’t know why, but your face is ablaze.

Before you know it you’re on the road, your home getting smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror.

It’s only been about a few minutes, nothing has been said yet.

You think you can hear rock music playing almost inaudibly on the speakers—you’re not certain of its exact genre, just that there are guitars, drums and raw vocals.

Normally you wouldn’t mind it, especially not with Simon, but for you feel like you need to fill in the quiet—it’s something to do with how it’s been a little while since you’ve seen him face-to-face.

You had already thanked him twice now. So you end up saying; “Have you been up to anything lately?”

“The same.” Simon gruffly responds.

You gathered bits and pieces of Simon's daily routine from talking to him over the phone. Fragments of his day-to-day. It was never anything specific, you had to be rather observant and piece it together yourself.

You gathered he had a rather strict personal schedule. And he preferred to be solitary more often than not.

Except with you, it seemed.

You were resigned to let the conversation end there until Simon spoke again.

“Have you got a list?” He sounds indifferent, but you knew it was uncommon for Simon to make idle small talk—he was the type to simply sit in silence after a conversation had reached its natural conclusion.

It takes you a blink to fully understand him. A grocery list. “Oh! Yes, I do. I won’t take long.”

There's a beat of silence.

You spare a glance over to him. His eyes are firmly on the road, one of his hands on the steering wheel. 

‘He has such large hands.’ You remember how said hand wrapped so effortlessly around your wrist, readjusting your hand to lay over his abdomen, the width of his shoulders filling up your view on the back of his bike—

You shake your head slightly as if to physically fling the thoughts out your head, looking away.

"I'm not in a rush." Came his gruff response.

You’re not sure what to say in response to that. You find a soft smile on your lips and warmth blooming in your chest regardless.

The silence that comes over in the car isn’t an unwelcome one this time. Another song begins to quietly start up on the speakers.

You’re looking out the window watching the scenery go by. At a red light Simon spares you a glance out the corner of his eye. He spends the rest of the drive with his eyes on the road.

You unbuckle your seatbelt as soon as Simon turns the engine off. The large building of the grocery store now right in front of you.

“I won’t take long.” You assure him once again.

Simon drifts his eyes over to you. You’ve just tugged the strap of the seat belt off your shoulder.

You momentarily pause in your action when you hear Simon’s car door open, then see him get out the car entirely.

Your brain still hadn’t caught up all the way by the time he comes around and opens the passenger door for you.

“Thank you.” It comes out as a quiet whisper under your breath. Your eyes are pointedly avoiding his gaze lest your heart beats out of your chest. You expect him to move when you get out the car. He doesn’t.

By consequence of him remaining still you brush against him. Once you’re out the car he shuts the door closed behind you. You feel his eyes burning into you.

“I won’t take long.” You find yourself repeating, it drifts off into a mumble and you begin to scamper off in the direction of the store.

You hear the telltale thud of Simon’s boots amble behind you.

Your neck twitches, you resist the urge to shoot a glance over your shoulder. You weren’t expecting him to come in the store with you.

On the chance you were being presumptuous, you slow to a stop and spare him a look over your shoulder. You almost sputter, flustered, when you see his obsidian eyes are already staring at you intently.

“Did you need something?” Your voice almost cracks, you mentally kick yourself for it.

Simon stares at you. His expression impassive but his irises intense. You watch his jaw shift almost imperceptibly under the black cloth of his mask, his eyes narrow, thinking.

“No.” He replies, the word sounding incomplete.

“Ah,” it looks like your presumption was correct. Your mind is a whirlwind of emotions. “Let’s go, then.” You somehow manage to say.

Before you turn back around to continue onward you catch Simon’s posture easing, the tension previously in his shoulders only becoming noticeable once he relaxed.

His heavy footfalls come up next to you. Arms brush over one another incidentally as you walk together. The chilly breeze does little to cool down your face.

You stand somewhat aimlessly as Simon grabs a cart.

People come in and out the store, the sounds of footsteps, chatter, rustling of groceries and whatever else all become a mosaic of noise in the background of your mind.

Some people spare glances at Simon as they go, more of a reflex due to seeing black cloth where most expect a mouth and nose. Simon is utterly unbothered by it.

Simon tugs the cart along with one hand, only stopping briefly to let a woman and her small child walk past.

“Thanks.” You mumble sheepishly, perhaps for the umpteenth time today.

Simon gives a single hum in lieu of a verbal answer.

He falls into step next to you, his eyes sharp and his presence close. You didn’t get the feeling crowds were his preferred setting, but you also didn’t get the impression that Simon was a man easily rattled.

Either way, you appreciated this favor he was doing for you. ‘How many favors would that be, now?’ You pondered.

As that thought crossed your mind, so too did the urge to repay him somehow.

Your attention is drawn out of your thoughts when Simon speaks. “What’re we gettin’ first?” He grumbles, he made an effort to keep his tone neutral, but the slightest hint of exasperation laced his voice.

He mentioned earlier that he was in no rush, but you could deduce that he would rather not be here longer than necessary. ‘The least I can do is be quick about this.’

“The produce.” You reply, now determined to get this errand done with.

You were nearly done with your shopping. Your list got whittled down bit by bit, and now you were in yet another aisle with Simon lingering somewhere nearby out of your immediate view.

The aisle faintly smelled of coffee, it almost made your head hurt—it certainly agitated your nose. Your eyes were scanning the wide array of instant coffee and powdered tea blends, determined to find the specific brand of green tea you liked.

“Coffee drinker?” Simon piped up behind you, a hint of genuine curiosity in his rough voice.

“Oh, I like tea more. Coffee makes me jittery.” You answer offhandedly, finally finding the brand you wanted—your joy was swiftly dashed when you couldn’t immediately see the plain green tea flavor from said brand, however.

You began your search again. ‘Surely they have it plain…’

“A woman after my own heart.” He replies flatly.

Your entire body goes as still as a statue, your train of thought derailed entirely. It takes about two pulses of your frantic heart for you to spin your head around to look at him.

He’s busying himself checking the options available. His back was to you, a small box of lavender-infused tea leaves in his large hand, his eyes narrowed with scrutiny. Completely unaware of how he was fraying your thoughts. Unintentional in the ruffling of your feathers.

You look away and take a breath. ‘I need to get out of my own head.’

It is at that moment your eyes land on the box you were so determined in searching for. You grab a box of decaffeinated green tea and toss it in the cart.

Simon places the box he was holding back into the shelf, following you out the aisle. You get a few more steps ahead until he calls your name, his voice only just loud enough to catch your attention.

You look over to him curiously. “Oh! You found it!” You cheerfully exclaim. It was a welcome distraction from your incessant thoughts following his offhanded remark; in his large hand was the now infamous cereal.

You couldn’t wait to eat it—and subsequently tell Simon how it tasted.

The cart rattles somewhat as he drops the box inside. Then he sidesteps around you to walk by your side again. You don’t move, he doesn’t step further away to account for that. The sleeve of his jacket gliding over your back is no surprise—you expected it. Hoped for it, if you were being honest. 

Your face felt hot when for a fraction of a second you could feel his large, relaxed bicep against the layers of material.

Your eyes darted up to him. He looked as impassive as ever, perhaps a little more relaxed since you very first stepped into the store, but still hyperaware of his surroundings.

You suppose that’s why every brush of contact sent a whirlwind of butterflies in your stomach, for someone as conscious of the environment around him he made a habit of incidentally brushing past you. Incidental being the keyword, like Simon subconsciously included you into his bubble of personal space and therefore didn’t feel the need to give you as wide of a berth.

You wondered if he sought your touch the same way you were beginning to yearn for his. Your face grew ever hotter with that question in your mind.

You conclude maybe, because neither of you ever jerked away.

As you make your way to the final aisle you can’t shake the growing feeling of disenchantment; soon the day would be over, and who knows when next you would see Simon in person again. The fear of overstepping some bound that was clear for all to see but invisible to the likes of you was strong enough to prevent you from asking Simon outright to spend time with you. You just answered his calls and spoke with him that way, all while daydreaming for more.

Despite the moments you got flustered, you enjoyed this—it felt silly to admit to yourself but it was true. The simple mundanity of just existing with another person, with Simon, was something you enjoyed. Terribly so. Terribly.

Your thoughts become preoccupied with finding the last item when you sharply turn into the next, and final, aisle.

Fortunately your eyes catch what you’re looking for almost immediately. Unfortunately it was on the top shelf. You huff through your nostrils, exasperated. You leave the cart momentarily as you approach the shelf.

You stand on the very tips of your toes, it’s a song and dance you’ve done before—sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you don’t. Your fingers brush over the box of brownie mix you were hoping to get, but every attempt to grasp it only pushes it further back. It was looking like it wasn’t going to be a lucky day for you.

It’s fortunate then, that another hand grabs it.

You sputter and flinch, just barely catching yourself before you smacked yourself against the shelf in surprise. By the time you steady yourself and turn around you see Simon dropping the box into the shopping cart.

You don’t know how someone so big could be so quiet.

You feel your face flash with heat. You of course had the passing thought to ask him, but you didn’t want to impose on him more than you already felt you were. Even though Simon showed no signs of doing this for you bothering him.

He tugs the cart along with one hand, moving out the aisle as he calls to you. “That’s it?”

You swallow thickly. “Yes. That’s it.”

‘I’m going to miss him.’ You realize defeatedly as you both go to the checkout together, the day nearing its end faster than you wanted. Again.

The line on most of the checkouts were too long for Simon’s liking, it seemed. He sharply drifts to the far less congested self-checkout.

You find yourself fighting a snicker at it; seeing small glimpses of Simon that weren’tblunt indifference was always a joy.

Simon wordlessly began helping you with scanning the items and placing them in bags, he was rather efficient at it. Before you know it the last item is scanned and put away.

You fumble for your wallet to pull out your credit card and turn to pay for it.

Simon is already at the screen and tapping something on it with his large thumb.

You hastily ramble. “Oh, goodness, Simon you really don’t—“

“I want to.” It isn’t harsh but it is swift and final. He isn’t going to argue with you about this.

You stare at your feet as the transaction completes, your hands clammy and your chest feeling as though it could burst.

“C’mon.” Simon mumbles to you, walking past you to take some of the bags in his hands. He then nudges you with a gentle tap of his forearm to get the rest of the bags. You sputter and pick them up, you realize belatedly that he took the heavier bags, leaving you with the lightest ones.

He waits patiently while you fumble with your fingers to get them all. Once you do he doesn’t give you the chance to thank him before he comes back around to softly bump you forwards again to urge you to walk with him.

You have to walk faster than normal to match his longer strides, you don’t have the mental capacity at this very moment to dwell on the casual contact nor how he, unprompted, paid for your groceries.

The air was cold enough to almost make you shiver, even through the layers of your clothing, but it was welcome; it gave you a sensation to focus on instead of the flutters in your stomach.

He opens the trunk of his car for you without preamble. You’re careful with placing the bags in. Simon puts his down inside as well. You and Simon’s limbs hover over one another as you both go about it, he looms over next to you.

With the final bag put away you both stand, with Simon closing the trunk with an audible thud.

“I really appreciate all of this, you know. Really.” You don’t think the words through, but it was the truth. A wary vulnerability etched in your voice.

“And…Talking to me on the phone too, I—“ ‘Rein it in a little.’ “Thank you.” You stare at your feet, your hands fixed in a nervous fiddle.

Simon doesn’t say anything. He shifts his weight on his feet once, a silence begging to be filled grows between you. You take the small risk and look up at him.

The light hits him just right, and there in the depths of his blackened iris you see gold and warmth, amber glinting where the sun shines on one side of his face.

It makes a honeyed crescent, his pupil stark and deep against the syrupy flecks. His pale lashes flash like sparks in the sunshine. His lids are low and his brows are smoothed out, the muscles in his face as relaxed as they could be.

He shifts his weight once more, and just like that his other eye falls back into shadow.

“You don’t have to thank me for that, sweetheart.”

You're cognizant of your heartbeat. You try desperately to not dwell on how the low register of his voice curl so delightfully over that honeyed word, how there still was a masculine gruffness to his voice even when he made it soft. A frisson goes up your spine.

“That all for errands?” He then says, fluidly shifting the subject. You can't determine if he would mind if there was more or not, if he would spend the whole day with you if you wanted.

You don’t find out. “That's all.”

The car ride back was strangely tranquil.

You had thought with your emotions running amok that you would have been a jittery mess, especially with how you could pick apart a few moments in the day where you failed your initial goal of ‘behave normally,’ yet you found yourself oddly at peace.

Simon looked relaxed too—when you last spared a glance at him. Every now and then you’d see his eyes flick over to you in your peripheral.

Your head is leaning against the passenger window, your eyes staring at the road ahead through the windshield but not quite observing anything.

It was peaceful.

“What song is this?” The question sort of comes out, there isn’t any ulterior motive or deeper thought behind it. You realized at some point you liked the song playing so quietly on the speakers, that was all.

“Hometown.” Simon replies without skipping a beat, sure in his answer.

“I like it.” So much so that you’re looking it up on your phone to save it for later, you then ask Simon the artist which he supplies with the same level of confidence.

A moment passes before Simon speaks again. “Didn’t think you’d like this sort of music.” He sounds intrigued, a thought spoken aloud, a branch for you to keep the conversation going.

You then ask him softly, “What did you think I would like?”

You would be lying if you said you weren’t curious if Simon thought of you nearly as often as you did him, if he wondered about you too.

Simon hums, the sound low and thoughtful. “Not this.” He eventually responds. Your lips quirk up in a smile.

You were about to prod him to tell you more, but you don’t have to. “Somethin’ more gentle.”

A beat, then muttered under his breath; “Somethin’ like you.”

Your heart lurches and your stomach swoops, monarch butterflies have migrated into the pit of your stomach—it’s pandemonium.

You swallow, and it’s difficult to with the lump in your throat, you chew the inside of your cheek to give that oversentimental heart of yours time to settle down. ‘Stop getting worked up. Stop getting worked up—‘

“I like those songs too.” It’s the best you can think of for a response, so it’s what you go with.

“Yeah?” Simon shifts his dark irises over to you, lingering for half a second too long before focusing his attention back on the road.

All you can manage is a soft ‘mhm’ and a nod of your head.

“Like a bit of everything, then?”

“Yes, you could say that.” You agree.

You mull over whether or not to continue on briefly before speaking again. “I thought you’d like this sort of sound.” You gesture noncommittally towards the speakers with your pointer finger.

Simon seems amused by this, you can almost hear the smirk in his voice. “What gave it away?”

You bite back a smile. “Oh, you know.” You mumble sheepishly, waving your hand.

You expect him to say something teasing in that dry tone of his, that’s how these sorts of conversations play out over the phone. The car slows to a temporary stop as you come up to a red light.

“What else have you thought about me?”

Your tongue weighs just as much as mercury if not more in your mouth.

You can’t even look at him in surprise, because you can see in the corner of your eye that he’s already looking at you and maintaining eye contact while you were flustered was a recipe for disaster.

You never had Simon say or ask you such a thing before. You had a decent enough idea of Simon to know that he was not the sort of man to place too much stock in what errant thoughts others had of him, so this threw you for a bit of a loop.

He sounded as though he couldn’t care less about the answer yet the intensity in his eyes told a different story. He was observing you, eyes honed in to any reaction or lack thereof.

“I’ve thought about when I’d see you in person again.” You blurt out.

His eyes shift back to the road when the light turns green. The car starts moving once more.

“Missed me, did you?”

Your mouth opens and closes, by the third time you realize you’re gaping like a fish and keep your mouth clamped shut. You run through your typical reassurances that you were making a fuss out of nothing to calm your heart.

In the time it takes you to think of what to say, Simon’s eyes dart over to you, in a blink his gaze is forward again.

You weren’t sure what you saw in that momentary look, either way, you found your voice was lost at the moment.

You also weren’t sure as to what to even say to that. It was possible he was joking—it had happened before, mortifyingly enough, where you mistook one of his dry and witty remarks for sincerity. In the event he wasn’t joking—

You still don’t know what to say or do.

You throw in the metaphorical towel. A huff of air escapes your throat, a sound that could pass for laugh, but there’s no genuine humor in it; this was as much of a response as you could manage. You rest your head against the window once more, the glass cool was welcoming against the rising temperature of your skin.

The only thing you could think of was to simply let the conversation simmer out. It wouldn’t be anything new for you and him, sometimes your conversations just did that.

Seconds tick by. Simon doesn’t press it, he doesn’t say anything at all. You’re grateful for it.

And gone as it came, your body cools down to a normal temperature.  The quiet serenity from before envelops the car.

Your eyes shift over to spare one last look at Simon, a myriad of thoughts in your head.

‘I did miss you.’ Was one of them.

Simon is a gentleman in his own right. He opens the car door for you again once he parks the car in front of your home, he helps you carry the bags inside—taking the heaviest ones like before.

It is when you’re fumbling with your keys to unlock your door that you realize Simon has never been inside your home before. You didn’t think he’d help you put the groceries in, let alone pick you up to drive you to get said groceries or pay for them—

So you weren’t sure if the inside looked presentable. You kept everything clean, of course, but you couldn’t shake the incessant paranoia that you could have cleaned more.

You weren’t expecting anyone to come inside.

And yet, here Simon was, looming behind you while you finally twisted the key and opened the door.

You shuffled inside awkwardly, Simon right behind you on your heels. You take off your shoes at the door and Simon observes this before silently following suit.

Hearing the door shut makes your head whirl around. Simon stands in the short hallway,  his stature was so wide that it made the hall appear narrower.

“Where do I put these?” He asks gruffly.

You blink, then sheepishly smile up at him. “The kitchen, over here.”

He trails behind you as you lead him. He places the bags next to where you put down the ones you were holding.

Then you hear the bags rustle. Your eyes go increasingly wide as Simon pulls out vegetables, one in each hand. Presumably to help you put the groceries away.

You open your mouth to insist he didn’t have to, but close it when it dawns upon you that this was an opportunity to remain in one another’s presence for longer.

You didn’t want him to leave just yet.

“Those go in the fridge, in the bottom shelf.” You say softly.

He gets to work immediately.

Simon made your kitchen feel smaller.

It’s strange, being so skittish around him that you go out of your way to avoid accidentally brushing him when you had already clung onto him while on the back of his bike, when you already brushed against one another in the store. Your mind convinced you that these were different circumstances, however.

You try not to think about how simply domestic this all feels.

Putting things away is much faster with someone else to help you, which came as no surprise. It wasn’t long before the last item was put away.

You hover in your kitchen awkwardly. Simon’s presence made you feel like a stranger in your own home.

“Thank you.” You mumble, staring at your feet. You can feel Simon’s eyes on you. He merely grunts in response.

Your eyes flick up to him, then dart off away from him. Your arms hang limply at your sides.

“Do you want any brownies?” You sputter out suddenly. His eyes go half-lidded, it almost makes him look soft. Soft felt like a word that was contradictory to everything you knew and assumed about Simon thus far, but that was what that look made him become—even if it was only on a minuscule level.

You feel your stomach swoop.

“As thanks.” You hastily tack on when Simon doesn’t immediately answer.

“You already thanked me.” He murmurs slowly, the careful tone in his voice makes you hesitantly look up at him. He’s still looking down at you past blond lashes.

Whatever was there in his eyes is there no longer the next time he blinks. “Won’t say no to dessert, though.”

The brownies are put in the oven. A timer is set on your phone.

Simon had gotten himself comfortable in one of the dining room chairs. You can’t help but think he looks endearingly out of place in your home. You never had many, if any, visitors.

Now that you thought of it, the only people that visited you so far was your immediate family.

And now Simon.

When you look up from your phone you find that he was already observing you. He had made a move to help you with the brownies, but you insisted you had it covered. Besides, he paid for your groceries—you thought this was the least you could do.

And goodness, did you have to insist. He wasn’t a man that would back down easily once his mind was set on something. It wasn’t until you stuttered out that you just wanted to gift him something for once that his mind was finally changed.

Admitting such a thing was embarrassing for you, but it worked. The only downside was that you once again felt like a fish out of water.

Simon leans back a bit in his chair, his eyes never leaving you. Heat creeps up your neck.

He had taken off his jacket earlier—took off his gloves and stuffed them into the pocket—it was draped over the back of the chair he was in. He was wearing a plain, short-sleeved black shirt. It exposed even more of his sturdy arms, and also the tattoos he had.

“You have a lot of tattoos.” It’s an observation impulsively said aloud.

He blinks slowly, his eyes shifting down to his inked arm, then back to you. “Just the ones here.”

You softly hum in reply. You can’t help but stare at the swirling ink, you think it’s flames. The designs of whatever else is on his skin is too clustered together for you to make out at this distance.

“You can take a closer look.” It’s said so casually that you think you misheard him for a moment.

All you know is that you were in the kitchen, and now you were seated next to him in the dining room. You track the motion of his thick arm outstretching to lay on the table, you notice the corded muscle flexing under his skin, the pale wisps of hair decorating his arms—just as blond as the hairs on his head, the veins in his arms.

And his hands. He had such large hands.

His fingernails are blunt, short enough that you barely saw any white on the tips. There’s some old nicks there, so faded that it looked more like a blemishes now. You could tell just by looking that his palms were calloused.

You lean forward a bit in your seat now that you’ve been given permission to closely examine the art etched onto his skin. You notice Simon’s eyes are tracking you in your peripheral.

You start at his wrist and work your way up.

The one there is the first tattoo of his you ever saw; the jawless skull with the crown. What is directly above it is more difficult for you to make out, the art is all bunched together and interwoven with black ink.

After squinting and tracing the lines carefully with your eyes, you make out the shape of a tank, looming over it is a helicopter. Behind that is larger piece of a solider holding a sniper rifle.

You think you see what looks to be the edge of another rifle—the silhouette of one in pure black—on the side of his forearm, but with the way his arm is laying on the table you can’t see the whole of it.

Further up his arm the images become more clearer, they aren’t as cramped together, but they still are rather close.

There’s another skull—he must really like the motif—and to the upper left of it is an anthropomorphized cartoon missile with its teeth bared. The backdrop of flames are increasingly comprehensible the further you go up his arm.

The final tattoo you can see is—

“Wait, what is that?” Your normally soft voice is raised somewhat in surprise, it makes Simon look at you curiously.

You point at the upper edge of his bicep, not at his shoulder but close. The artwork flows over the curvature there, so it’s somewhat warped, but not by much.

“Is that a knight holding an axe?” It was. One surrounded by flames and with skeletal hands—it was just a bust, only the shoulders up.

His eyes crinkle, you try to imagine what his smile looks like. You bet it’s teasing.

“Like that one, do you?” He rumbles, you could hear the grin in his voice. He had a sort of nonchalant confidence about him, completely at ease with himself.

You suppress the urge to shiver. You sputter a bit. “Well, I like them all.” You reply amicably. His eyes feel like they’re burrowing into you.

“Do you have one you really like?” You ask him in one quick exhale, your hand coming up to rest your chin in your palm to give yourself something to do. You feel the heat on your face from your fingertips.

Simon settles back in his seat a bit, he’s somewhere else while he thinks. He’s staring almost blankly ahead.

Then he tilts his arm, showing the inside of his elbow.

“This one.” He taps at it with two fingers.

It’s a pair of dog tags, barbed wire is looped through them where you think a chain should be.

He removes his arm from the table before you get the chance to read the text on them—the ink much too faded and blurry to be able to discern the letters with a quick glance. The hope of one day being able to know the story behind each tattoo is an unbidden one.

The quiet that comes over the two of you is familiar at this point, pleasant.

You spare a quick glance at your phone. Time is moving slower than you expected.

“Do you want any tea?”

There’s a good-natured scoff on his lips when he answers. “Always.”

You are scrunched up in on yourself on the far end of the couch.

Tea soon became ‘do you want to watch anything while we wait for the brownies?’

And thusly you found yourselves doing exactly that.

It wasn’t like your couch was comically small, just that you didn’t want to intrude on Simon’s personal space by mistake—personal space which encompassed a wider area than most. He took up a good portion of the couch, the furniture dipping a little under his weight when he sat down.

Sure, you held onto him like your life depended on it on the back of his bike, but that was different. He gave you the green light to do so and it was an appropriate response given the circumstances.

Simon’s legs were spread, but only just enough to be comfortable. You could sit up, but then your leg would be against his the entire movie.

When you asked Simon if he had any preference for what to watch he simply shrugged, so you picked. The brownies would probably be done before it concluded, but that was fine; this was just so you could have a sort of social buffer.

The title flashes on the screen and you see Simon’s eyes squint.

“Have you watched this before?”

“No.” He replies, deadpan.

The two of you quiet back down as the movie begins in earnest.

Simon is just as relaxed as he was at the restaurant. He’s leaned back lazily, his long and wide legs stretched out in front of him, there’s a mug of tea in his hand.

Every now and then he lifts his mask up from under his chin to take a sip, you catch glimpses of his jaw, a sight that you’ve seen before but still were intrigued over. You find yourself wondering what his entire face looked like. His nose, his cheekbones, if he had freckles or scars you couldn’t see.

‘I need to get it together.’ Your face scalds with embarrassment, bringing your mug up to your lips to take a small sip.

The most reaction you got out of Simon during the movie was quiet huffs and the occasional roll of his eyes when appropriate. You didn’t mind; it was a movie neither of you have seen before so you didn’t begrudge him for his silence during it.

It wasn’t a bad movie at all. At least, from what you could tell before you had to pause it to take the brownies out the oven lest they burn.

Shortly after you placed the pan out on the counter to cool you heard the soft shifting of the couch as Simon rose from it. He rolled his shoulder and tilted his neck to stretch out the muscles there. You made yourself look away.

“They’ll need to cool a little.” You mumble.

You hear Simon’s footsteps come closer into the kitchen. His head slants slightly to get a look at the desert, then his eyes drift to you.

After a beat, he slinks out the kitchen to return to his seat at the dining table. Simon was willing to wait.

Silence with him was easy. Talking to him was easy, too.

When you weren’t getting in your own head, that is.

You had asked him how he thought of your place, he made a show of flicking his eyes around the space at that moment, but you got the feeling he already observed your living space as soon as he stepped through the door.

“It suits you.” He eventually says with a slight shrug.

You give him a smile from over your shoulder before getting two small plates to place the brownies on. They had cooled down enough to not immediately burn the tongue once bitten into, which meant it was time to eat them.

You nearly jump out of your skin when you notice Simon standing next to you in your peripheral.

It was remarkable how quickly and how quietly a man as large as him could move. All the reasons you came up with for how he learned to move so stealthily all involved the military and the macabre, so you let it go.

He took one of the plates from you and waited while you cut him a piece, you couldn’t fight the small smile on your lips while doing so. Simon, objectively, was still an imposing man; something about him waiting so patiently with one of your delicate plates with pastel floral detail wrapped around the edges held in his calloused paw of a hand was endearing.

You gently place the piece you cut for him onto the plate, you may have subconsciously given him a larger slice than usual. Simon doesn’t seem to mind either way.

“Thanks,” he murmurs before ambling back off to the dining table. You nod to him, giving a soft ‘uh-huh’ in response before turning to give yourself a slice.

When you turn back around to go take a seat at the table yourself you nearly gasp aloud.

Simon’s mask was crumpled and discarded on the table beside his plate.

It takes your brain longer than usual to recognize it all. You didn’t even stop to think that Simon would have to remove the thing to eat.

Perhaps some part of you didn’t expect it to be so…Simple. Unceremonious wasn’t quite the right word—just being able to see his entire face unobstructed was an occasion in of itself. But it was uncomplicated. His mask was on and now it was off.

His eyes are, of course, the same. Darker than the earth, more ink than cocoa, framed by pale lashes and eyebrows. His lids are lowered, disinterested, yet the whites of his sclera are stark and aware.

He wears the gaze of a man woken from the dead, it wouldn't have looked handsome on anyone else but him.

But in context of his whole face, his eyes look different—different in a sense that they aren’t just isolated features anymore, but a part of an entire, storied picture. You recall the crinkle in his eye when he smiles. You wonder what his smile looks like.

You’ve wondered what he looked like many times by now, all different variations; now you realized some were close to the mark, some not. None resembled how he truly looked.

He looked like himself; perhaps he inherited more facial features from paternal or maternal line—you wouldn’t know. It didn’t matter. He looked like Simon.

Light stubble decorated a strong jaw. You see the entirety of the scar there now, it nearly grazes the edge of his earlobe. It had healed long, long ago; but you could tell just by looking at it that it hurt when he got it. His the bridge of his nose didn’t look completely straight, there was a slight tilt that suggested it was once broken.

You could also see the whole of scar on his lip, how it trailed up and further into his nostril. On the same side the scar was located his vermilion border was ever so slightly higher than the other.

“Cleft lip.” He says, simple and devoid of any strong feelings—positive or negative. He brings the baked good up to his mouth to take a bite out of it.

He wasn’t looking at you, his eyes were far off and away, yet he still noticed you enough in his peripheral to tell you were staring.

“Ah,” there’s no point in pretending you weren’t looking at his scars. “I was wondering what that was.” You sheepishly admit. Corrective surgery, you fill in the blanks yourself.

“Well, now you know.” He says with no small amount of exaggerated dry sarcasm. For a mortifying breath you think you’ve offended him somehow, but then the corner of his mouth twitches up in a phantom smirk.

You’ve seen his mouth before, but you’ve never seen him full-on smile yet; the twitch of his lip reminds you.

Your face feels warmer. You force yourself to stop looking at his lips.

You are quick to cross the room and seat yourself down across from him. Once seated you take a bite out of your desert far more hastily than necessary just to give your hands something to do other than fidget.

It was embarrassing to admit to yourself, but you struggled to not pay attention to him in your peripheral; to his jaw and how the tip of his tongue would occasionally dart past his lips to lick a stray crumb.

He was handsome. Perhaps not in the standard magazine cover sense, but there was a sort of ruggedness to him that plenty could find appealing. You were also a member of said plenty. Scars, broken nose and all.

It was unbidden; the hairs that rose on the back of your neck, the warmth pooling in your stomach—all just from seeing his face.

You considered mentally reprimanding yourself as you have countless times before throughout your life, but decide to give yourself a bit of a break and just enjoy what you could of his presence—which was no easy task since it was almost second nature by now, but you managed.

You opt to eat in silence. The brownie mix from stores practically never tasted bad, so it felt pointless to ask him even just for conversation.

You try your very best to commit his face to memory, cherishing it.

You half expect Simon to put his mask back on as soon as he's done with his brownie. He doesn't.

He gets up and balls the cloth up in his big hand and shoves it in his pocket.

Simon brings his thumb to his mouth, getting a bit of chocolate that had melted there. “Can I have another?” He asks, his accent thick.

It was new to see him talk, how his mouth curled around vowels, how his jaw shifted along with what was spoken. You clear your throat and keep your gaze away from the sight determinedly.

“Have as many as you like.” You answer with a self-conscious smile, simply pleased to have Simon stay for longer, no matter how arbitrary the reasoning.

You’re about to get up to get a second brownie yourself until Simon grabs your plate in his free hand. “I’ll get it.” He rumbles before going into the kitchen, not giving you a chance to respond.

Once he gets you both another slice you fully expect Simon to return to the dining table.

Instead he keeps going into the living room. He only gives you a firm nod in the direction of the couch to motion you to follow him.

You get up from your seat, the chair screeching against the floor with the suddenness of your movement and skittishly follow him.

He had already returned to his spot on the couch, your plate was on the coffee table waiting for you.

His spot. To think that he's only been here for a short while and you were already labeling that part of the sofa as his. You gingerly sit down in your self-designated corner, and take your plate in your fidgety hands.

In the corner of your eye Simon glances at you expectantly. You waste no time in resuming the movie.

Simon gets a bit more talkative this time around. Little snide remarks here and there, deadpan quips that never failed to make you smile or laugh.

You see his lips twitch on occasion, a huff of breath that you knew was a scoff, but no full smiles just yet from him. While you did want to see his smile and hear his laugh, you didn’t mind. You got a feeling that was just how he was. He was human, he’d do one of those two things eventually.

He would shift every now and then, a roll of his shoulder or a flexing of his fingers. Little movements that would indicate his presence. Eventually he put his arm over the back of the couch, relaxing. It would be too easy to sit up and have his arm—You felt pinpricks of heat lick at your cheeks.

You keep your attention on the TV from then on.

One movie turned into two, then three. You were still only a couple minutes into the third when you noticed the sky growing ever so slightly peach. You swallow thickly, as much as you wanted him to stay all day, you didn’t want to keep Simon, nor did you want to risk the potential of coming off as overbearing.

You pause the movie, causing Simon to lazily shift his eyes over to you.

“It’s getting late, I’m sorry for keeping you—“

“Want me to go?”

‘No.’ You clamp your mouth shut, your tongue pokes the inside of your cheek.

Your expression must have said it all, because Simon continues.

The gruffness of his voice contrasts with the reassurance in his words. “Trust me, if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t.”

He sounded as soft as he could be with a voice like his.

You suddenly speak. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

You’re taking small bites out of your everything bagel, your eyes are staring at your plate, directionless.

Simon did, in fact, want to stay for dinner. Except he insisted you didn’t have to make anything for him—the brownies were enough. You insisted that he should still eat something. So now he was sitting with you at the dining table yet again; this time with a plate of eggs.

You had eggs too, but yours had cherry tomatoes diced in them—Simon just wanted his plain—and a bagel.

Simon gave you a somewhat amused look from the fact you were eating breakfast for dinner—a look that made your face burn—but otherwise said nothing aside from thanking you.

At this point Simon was done eating his, and soon you would be done with yours.

A glass of juice is in the middle of the table, right by your plate the other is situated next to it. Neither of you have drank out of them yet, so he can pick whichever one he wants.

He leans forward in his seat, his large hand reaching out languidly—

And his thumb, calloused and rough as you thought they would be, gentler than you ever could have imagined, presses against the corner of your mouth.

Everything stops. The only thing moving is your heart, sending a tender ache throughout your chest and into your throat with every pulse.

His thumb swipes across a single time, it doesn’t linger—you wish it did—it pulls away, gone as it came. The only evidence of its presence being the heat on your face and the flutters in your belly. On it is a sesame seed, he presses it down and away on his napkin.

He says nothing. You say nothing. It’s almost dizzying.

You want to say something, you want to tell him that it was okay for him to do such a thing—in hopes that he would do so again, that you would share meals together again, that this feeling behind your ribs wouldn’t be the first and only time.

Your head is still tilted down when you flick your eyes up at him. He is looking at you intensely, gauging your reaction.

You want to speak but all that you manage is a small, misshapen smile.

He leans back in his chair, at ease.

You continue to eat in a soft, gentle silence.

He still hasn’t put his mask back on yet.

As the sun dipped lower Simon told you that after this last movie he’d be going home. It was when he said that you realized he had spent practically the entire day with you.

He slotted into your day like he was always meant to be there.

You barely are able to comprehend the finer details of the movie at this point, your mind replaying the events of today like a vinyl.

There was a shift in the air after he touched you. Not a bad change, but it was a change. You couldn’t put your finger on it. Simon was as unreadable as ever, so you couldn’t discern if it was just you or not.

Some kind of electricity just barely contained.

You and Simon were far more talkative during this movie due to the fact it’d be the final one for the day. Yet no matter how many words were passed between the two of you that electricity never fully dissipated.

Before you knew it the movie had reached its end. Simon’s cue to leave.

You felt a dimness come over your mood, but you weren’t as disappointed this time considering you had spent most of the day with him.

Simon, unexpectedly, utters your name.

You look over to him, brows raised in curiosity.

He holds your gaze, his expression placid. It was strange seeing it on him now that his face was exposed, so familiar yet unfamiliar.

His lips thin out, you only notice it due to the crease in the corner of his mouth deepening as a consequence. It’s subtle, but it was there. Simon has never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but you truly can’t tell what he’s thinking about in this moment.

You’re not sure how, but he made brown eyes piercing.

Then his eyes flutter in a blink, and his gaze drifts off and away from you.

“Today was nice.” You can’t shake the feeling that wasn’t what he initially was going to say.

“It was.” You agree. The feeling is still nagging at you.

Simon gets up, the couch shifts from the absence of his weight. You linger where you are for a moment longer.

He exhales from his nose, long and heavy. His shoulders set straight in a tenseness you couldn’t place. His jaw shifts.

He looks down and over to you. Simon already towered over you—and most people—while standing, being curled up on the couch as you were only exaggerated that gap. You swallow thickly, waiting. You’re not sure for what, if anything.

The connection gets severed when Simon looks away walks past the couch to go to the dining room to retrieve his jacket, his footsteps heavy.

You get up and off the couch slowly, your arms wrapping around yourself in a subconscious self-soothing gesture. Your heart was pounding and anticipation had sunk its claws into you.

Simon’s back is to you when you walk in to the dining room. He’s in the middle of putting his other arm into the sleeve.

You stare at his broad back while he zips the jacket up, the sound of it so loud in the silence.

“Thanks for spending the day with me.” Your voice is almost a whisper, anything more felt too harsh.

This makes him turn around. He nods in acknowledgment, then stills afterwards. Inky eyes consider you. His breathing measured.

There’s a long pause before he actually speaks. “I’m just a call away, you know.”

Your heart is racing, yet there’s no good reason for it to. “So am I,” you try to keep your voice even, giving him a barely-there smile. “I just didn’t want to bother you—“

“You never do.”

You feel your skin prickle with pleasant goosebumps. There’s something in the way he said it. You blink rapidly. You set your sights a little off to the side of him, not trusting yourself to look him in the eye right now. The energy is frenetic despite the slowness and quietness of the conversation itself.

The two of you stand listlessly in the dining room for a moment longer before Simon marches out towards the direction of the front door, though not before beckoning you to follow with a nod of his head.

You trail behind him.

He’s quick about putting his boots back on. Tying them without fumbling even once. Utilitarian, efficient. Your eyes go downwards then upwards when he rises to his full height after securing the boots in place.

He still hasn’t put his mask back on yet.

He says your name. You expect him to say his goodbyes but instead he shifts his weight on his feet. You can almost see the thoughts cycling through his head, but you’re not privy to any of them. His jaw clicks, a decision made.

He takes a step forward. It’s tentative. Tentative in an aware sense, not from lack of confidence.

The anticipation that was gnawing at you makes itself known once more. Your tongue and mind are not cooperating enough to make a sentence, and even if they were, you wouldn’t want to break whatever spell you found yourself caught in by speaking.

The following steps are more sure, less slow but still languid. He stops right in front of you, well within what would be your personal space, stopping just short of your torsos touching.

You thought that your mind was pandemonium in the car ride back home; that was nothing compared to what you were feeling now, standing so close to him.

Simon murmurs your name again, barely above a whisper.

“Can I?” The word is forced out past his lips, like the very question itself was foreign on his tongue, stilted. His voice was so forcibly even that it barely sounded like a question at all.

You nod before you even know what you’re agreeing to. All you knew was that he was close and you wanted him to remain close.

You only realize the amount of tension in his shoulders once they relax. In your peripheral you see his arm shift, coming around you—

It isn't quite a hug.

He sort of cradles the back of your head, his touch wary and slow. The deliberate carefulness of it gave you more than enough clearance and time for you to back away. You don’t, you don’t think you ever would want to. His wide palm rests there.

Simon is soft when he pulls you to him, so cautious that it is you that leans forward and fills in the gap.

Your head nestles against his chest. A key fitting in a lock.

And just like that, the anticipation eases and fades away. Your heart is still pounding but it is more of a steady drumbeat. You are awash with relief, more than anything.

You feel more than hear Simon exhale heavily; like one would after finally dropping something heavy.

You feel small, coveted. Simon is all encompassing, you feel sheltered in the vastness of him. Something far older than you in the fabric of your subconscious shudders, pleased.

Your arms, which are more flimsy and shaky than they ever have been, reach up to clutch your equally trembling hands into his jacket. You hold on, squeezing. Then squeezing tighter.

His paw smooths down to the back of your neck, he rubs a slow circle on the atlas of your spine, each pass sending quakes in the pit of your fluttering stomach.

His head dips low, then lower.

His lips brush across your hairline when he murmurs. Not a kiss, but similar enough to be an approximation of one.

“I want to see you tomorrow.”

“I do too.”

Your voice is so quiet that you are anxious that he didn’t hear you.

He pulls back away, his hand shifting from cradling your neck to just barely cupping your cheek, his thumb by your ear. His eyes are half-lidded again.

“Good.” He heard you. You feel a rush of relief.

Hands fall away from one another, neither of you step away just yet.

Simon reaches in the pocket of his jeans to retrieve his mask to put it back in its rightful place, he’s done it countless of times and you can tell by the ease and efficiency of the movements.

He gives the bottom of the fabric a one last tug to settle it over the bridge of his nose.

“Tomorrow.” He ascertains.

“Tomorrow.” You affirm.

He stands there for another moment, almost contemplative, almost stalling, then he nods.

He turns and is out the door, a cool breeze snakes its way in as he does so, making you wrap your arms around yourself.

The door closes slowly with a resounding click. You’re still standing there in the hall, and if you allowed yourself to you would still feel the intoxicating goosebumps on your neck from where Simon held you close.

Eventually you pad away from the front door.

You don’t think friends held each other like that.

You turn off the TV, you turn off all the lights on the way to your bedroom, you turn on your night light and redress into pajamas.

You peek out of your window, the one by your bed, your fingers delicately slide between the blinds and slowly pull them apart. Where Simon’s car was parked is now empty.

His absence is now a presence in of itself.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Thank you so much for all of the continued support on this story, it makes me so happy to see people enjoy what I’ve written, you have no idea!!

I’m trying not to rush certain things with this story and letting things unfold at a pace that feels natural to me. I had to save a few scenes and ideas I had in mind for a later chapter because it felt awkward to try to shove it all in this one. ;;__;; (The slow build tag really applies here…)

The song that was playing in the car is Hometown by Cleopatrick if you were curious!

I didn’t make up Simon having an axe-wielding skeleton knight tattoo by the way, it’s actually one of his tattoos in the game! (As are all the other tattoos that were mentioned!)

Thank you so much for any and all likes or reblogs! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

[vaguely-humanoid-form]

CRINGETOBER 2024 DAY 1: SCREENSHOT REDRAW

yessssiiiirrrrr i am doing cringetober this year. I am so excited for this !!!! I haven't really done or even attempted a monthly art challenge thingy since I was a kid so this is really exciting !!!! I may not keep up with every single day but I'm gonna do my best without spontaneously combusting :3

[dreamlogic]

hello fellow tumbleweeds. does anyone else get like.. absurdly fucked up from the local anesthesia injections at the dentist.

[verndusk]

re-drawing a Bad Batch scene a day until season 3 comes out (or i forget): day 28

[icewindandboringhorror]

sneepy cozy....

[hardrockshrimp]

[seenthisepisode]

~~~

[liesonthefloordramatically]

classes are over but unfortunately the only thing my brain wants to do right now is knit so rip to everything else I could be doing I guess

[wellenklavier]

(you hear keys in the door jangling desperately and i stumble in sputtering and covered in blood & viscera of unclear origin) what tfucking. where am i. oh god

[olessan]

I love the fact that I can work as hard as I can manage with a broken tooth and a dying tooth (one on each side, I've been chewing on the cavity for a year) and I still cannot save even $10 towards getting dental treatment (2 impacted wisdom teeth, + tooth broken off under the gum, + bad cavity) because I barely make enough to cover my food and board and the insane energy bill

[bunnyb34r]

How the fuck did I spend THREE HOURS in the craft store?? And we went to one literally two days ago too??? I was supposed to just grab two things and LOOK at stuff for craft shows (got a LOT) like 😳

[eudikot]

would soil from zhongli’s meteor be able to grow plants

Oh a question about my favorite Genshin man and plants... hmm lets see.

Now, I'll preface this by saying I'm not a space scientist so I don't know every detail about meteorites, but from what I could scavenge one type of meteorite has metals such as iron, which plants need to grow, and scientists have been conducting experiments to grow plants on ground up meteorites which seem to be showing promising results. It seems that the composition of meteorites can support plant growth, so the question now is if we can translate this to a fictional character.

Clearly Zhongli's meteor does not resemble a typical meteor, looking more like a glowing six-piece burr puzzle. And while his meteor and his pillar look to be made out of the same material, there is no information (from what I could find) about what they could be composed of. However, that does not discourage me because while I was studying meteorites, I did stumble upon the Esquel meteorite:

I don't know about you, but the dark stone surrounded by yellow gems that glow when hit by light... looks awfully familiar to me. I would be willing to say that, all fictional logic aside, that if Zhongli's meteor was real that it would be made out of the same stuff as this meteorite.

So, what are Esquel meteorites made out of? Well, they belong to the class of stony-iron meteorites, known as pallasites, which means they're mainly comprised of an iron-nickel mixture. Those gems embedded in the meteorite are peridot (birthstone shout out). This gives us a lot to work with in terms of chemical composition. We already know that there will be iron and nickel, but the peridot adds magnesium, another essential plant nutrient. Some other components of Esquel meteorites are schreibersite, troilite, and phosphates, providing phosphorous and sulfur.

This makes up a lot of the essential nutrients plants need, except two big ones are missing; nitrogen and potassium. Another component of Esquel meteorites are pyroxenes, and since no specific pyroxene was mentioned we can assume they could add a lot of other beneficial nutrients, such as calcium, zinc, and manganese but not quite what we were looking for. Turning to what else could compose the stony-iron component of the meteorite, carlsbergite contains CrN, or chromium nitride, and feldspar, which has a potassium variant, can also be found.

Putting all of this together, we have all of the major nutrients and most of the micronutrients that plants need. However, there is another component to this that I have not discussed; the availability of each of these elements. For the plants to have a base to grow on, we'd have to assume that Zhongli's meteorite has eroded into a soil-like composition, but just because big rocks turn small does not mean that their compounds are automatically available. These plants would almost definitely need some sort of bacteria or other microorganism to break out whatever compounds don't leak out into the water, or even produce it themselves so the plants could survive. Microorganisms have been seen living on meteors, so in a completely isolated environment this is not out of the question. Regardless, assuming that the meteor landed on Earth or somewhere similar, then microbes from the soil it lands on could colonize the meteorite, helping to support the plants when they land later.

So, to sum this analysis up, I believe that after erosion and with the help of a few microorganisms that yes, plants could grow on Zhongli's meteorite.

[blessedshortcake]

Pants update

[lunaetis]

my muses at the back of my head : *poking and pulling at me to let them out so they can spend time with their loved ones on v-day* me : I AM WORKING AT LEAST WAIT UNTIL I CLOCK OUT GDI