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drgnflyteabox · 10 months ago

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the lusty cabin-dweller

pairing: ghost / Simon riley x fem reader summary: your life gets wider when you find an injured man outside of your cabin. tags/warnings: Skyrim!ghost, secrets, graphic injuries, some angst, facial injuries, nursing Simon back to health one stew at a time <3, listen to this for the vibes, vaginal + anal sex, oral (f), animal attacks, blood, processing an animal for meat and fur, violence, death (non-major), mention of Skyrim racism, softdom!Simon, some backstory, please hmu if i forgot anything, one bed trope, simon backstory adapted to skyrim lol (so past abuse, murder, theft, domstic violence) but nothing graphic w.c: 5k

Honey-nut is squealing again. Some days you think she might not be worth the milk and cheese she gives you for all the trouble she causes. A high, strange bleating cuts through the chilled night air like a knife, sharp and terrifying only for a moment.

She's been at this since Frostfall. Maybe it was the weather causing Honey-nut distress - she was getting old, after all. For a goat.

In the time it takes you to trudge out of bed, pull on a wool shift and a fur, two things happen: one, Honey-nut stops bleating, and the woods surrounding your cottage becomes deathly silent.

Two, a crunch.

Just one, but it's enough. Someone is outside.

For a brief, hysterical moment, you worry for Honey-nuts safety. Have they hurt her to be quiet? No, you'd have heard that at least. Your breath comes fast, chest squeezing. Bandits? Probably not. It's a decent hike up to your wooden cottage. But it is nearing winter, and soon it will be Sun's Dusk. It's not unheard of that they'd be looking for a place to take over for the colder months.

Your hand goes to your heart, fingertips touching your throat. Be calm, you tell yourself. You aren't helpless, look. The axe, leaning by your front door. You can see in the dark well enough, and you're more familiar with your homestead than they are.

The axe feels right in your hands. Too-familiar, weighty, deadly. You touch your ear to the door, trying to reign in your fear. Nothing. Then, a wheeze, strangled and restrained like whoever it is can't afford to be heard. But you have heard it, and you push the door open.

"Show yourself!" You shout, voice surer than you feel. Your knees quake a little, but your grip on the axe is strong.

The animal pen is a mere few steps away from your front door. Past the front garden, it's wide open aside from the little shelter you built the past Mid Year. A foot sticks out, clad in armor.

"I'm armed," you add. "You're not getting anything from me!" The world is dark, the woods quiet. Adrenaline burns in you, bright enough to guide your steps.

"You gonna kill me with that, girl?"

Gruff voice, like scraping rocks. Coming into view, you see that this man poses no threat. He's half dead, slumped and pale, clutching his side.

"Who are you? What's your business here?" The axe is a deterrent, now. Just for show. You hold it above him, but nearly drop it when you see his face. It's sliced right through the middle, from his forehead to his jaw. "Oh, gods-"

"Mind yourself with that," his eyes flit to the axe. "Or put me out of my misery now."

Your shoulders dip down, lowering your weapon. Guilt crawls into your belly and settles there when you notice that yes- his feet are armored, but the rest of him is dressed in miners attire. White, coal-dusted shirt. Workman's pants, tucked into woolen calf wraps. God, he must be freezing. Maybe that's saved his life, staunched the bloodflow. It's tacky on him, not shining wet like you expected.

"What's happened to you?" You cringe at the sound of your voice. It's gone from fierce defensiveness to cloying concern, staring only at the blood staining his skin.

He breathes hard, staring at you a moment. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, what he's feeling. Outside of obvious pain. Leaves around you shiver in the breeze, a light snow beginning to fall when he finally speaks.

"Bandits," he grunts. "An ambush." Every word is a fight, a wheeze. Empathy drives away caution and you drop your weapon in favour of kneeling beside him.

"Come on, then. Let me help you," lifting him is a monumental task, even with him helping. He's as big as horse, thick as one too. Legs like tree trucks that hold him up just barely, feet sliding weakly on the uneven ground.

Looking back, Honey-nut watches you bring him through the doorway with a judgmental twinkle in her eye. Maybe it's time for goatherd pie.

///

Your bed is too small. His feet hang off comically, and the wood creaks under his weight. It'll have to do. Your mother would have beaten you black and blue for this - for inviting a stranger in, for settling him in your bed without so much as a what’s your name? But you know how to stitch and turning away someone in as bad a shape as he is would weigh on your conscience.

You light the sconces along the wall, and then a lantern to keep by his bedside. Warm, orange light fills the cottage, flickering every so often, inspiring calm.

"I'm no healer," you warn him. "Nor an alchemist." It’s not necessarily a lie. You had done a brief stint as a volunteer for the temple of Kynareth, lending your hands and your time to help nurse wounded soldiers. There had been supervision then, though. Guidance.

"I’m shit out of luck for choices, sweetheart,” his facial wound leaks a little when he speaks, blood running down the side of his face in thin rivulets. The wound at his side, however, is what worries you the most.

“Let me,” you murmur. Your fingers find the edge of his shirt, pulling them out of his pants, and up, up, gently. Looking him in the eye, watching his pain win over his weariness.

Another gash, swaddled in cloth wrapped sloppily around his middle. Without moving him you have to cut them off, slicing off his shirt at the same time. This one bleeds sluggishly, skin shredded, like he’d been dragged over coarse rock.

He words slur, energy leaving him. Mumbles under his breath things you can’t make out, and don’t try to. You’re busy rinsing, cleaning, and patting his ribs dry. Tensing every so often, he breathes hard through his nose to offset the pain. Mumbles some more, hands making fists.

It’s bad, but he’ll live. Exhaustion might trump over all, anyhow, what with how his eyelids have begun closing. Through the slit of them his eyes are pale, like sunlight through deep blue ice. Blonde lashes, stark against the dirt and coal smearing his skin.

You work in silence, letting him sleep through this one so he’ll hopefully be unconscious for the work you have yet to do on his face.

“Who did this?” You whisper to no one. You’re a breeze in the night, alone, hunched over this man and wiping his face with a cloth.

Clear of blood and grime, you gather a sewing needle and dip it into the lantern flame. Stitching is easy, but on his face? You falter a moment, worried, until you think of how proud men often are of their scars. Boasting battles won and creatures slain.

It’s that thought that pushes you through to the end, weaving the needle through until he's sewn and clean of blood.

///

Sweat and iron. The smell of it, sharp and salty, sea foam and earth, is the first thing you're aware of.

Then, the light of morning. Pale, almost white, invading through the windows in rays. A chill. Your eyes open with a not insignificant amount of effort, back twinging in different places as you become aware of the world again.

"Awake?" You startle, jerking up. It's the man from the night before, laying as he was, a little curled against the pain and big as an ox. "W's startin' t'think you'd sleep all day."

"It's morning, is it not?" You're not used to talking this early - or at all. "How's the- how are you feeling?"

He grunts, shuffling. His wrapped side has some blood peeking through, little spots of leakage, not enough to lose your head over. His face has swelled some overnight though, and you're awake enough now to hear the muffled quality to his voice. Part of the cut pulls his upper lip tightly. You wince.

"Just wait. I have something for the," you pause, crossing your space on stiff legs to find the bookshelf. Clay pots, glass bottles, books. Ah, here it is. "For the pain." It's some elixir. Purchased the last time you'd made the trek to Markarth from Muiri, the alchemists apprentice. It brings forth a distant memory of pain, of twisting your ankle running after Honey-nut.

Your ankle hadn't quite healed right, but this was good for when winter came and stiffness made the pain worse again.

He eyes you wearily as you approach. Suspiciously. As if you haven't been helping him out of the kindness of your heart…

"This will help," a promise.

"Don't need'it." He slurs, then cringes as it pulls his lip again.

"You'll recover faster if you're in less pain."

In the end he acquiesces, if not just to take the edge of the purpling that's beginning to show on the edges of his bandage. Broken ribs, maybe?

///

Chores need to be done whether or not there's an obstinate patient in your bed. Honey-nut needs to be milked, and she fights you every step of the way. You discover her pen open from last night and sigh with relief that she's still there.

The chickens have laid eggs for you, and you collect them diligently in your apron. Then, the garden. And finally a sweep of your traps in the woods.

Just one rabbit, but it's enough. You hope the man likes stew, and that his swelling goes down enough for him to tell you his name.

///

He tells you his name is Ghost. Strange, but you've heard stranger. Maybe he's a follower of Namira, you wonder not without an inkling of apprehension. Ghost is quiet, even as he heals. After you'd made yourself a straw bed on the other side of the cabin, you'd wake to him sitting up and stretching. Testing himself. Always silent.

The exhaustion was the worst of it. One nearly empty bottle of elixir later, the swelling on his face has gone down significantly. His ribs sore but on the mend. It was sleep that he needed, and lots of it.

Days passed like this. Switching bandages, wiping and cleaning, cooking enough stew for two. Nearly a week until he was up and about insisting to help around the cottage.

"No need," you tried to gently push him back into the warmth of the open door. He was too big, and having none of it. "You'll be better in no time."

He was just so tall. Were he to stand still at your doorway, half his face would be covered by the top of it. Despite his condition, you could tell that your initial comparison to a horse was completely on the nose. Stocky as a boar, arms thick as mammoth tusks. Hairy like blonde wheat shining in the sun. You'd noticed as much, watching him rest, watching his eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as he dreamt.

///

Ghost works like you're paying him in gold. He sweats, arms swinging down over and over again above the chopping block. There's enough wood to last three winters now - maybe four. Every job he takes is finished to excess. Your roof has never looked better, re-thatched in rotting places and swept clear of mildew. The old wood fence in your garden? Replaced.

Honey-nut finds her new favourite person when he dismantles what he calls shoddy work, and rebuilds her a shelter twice as big. The chickens are still weary, but enjoy receiving the kitchen scraps he tosses.

"There's really no need for all this," you insist again, because he's come back this afternoon with an elk on his back.

"Didn't need to fix me up, either, did'ya?"

You break it down together. Ghost does the harder part, while you take cuts of meat to dry for jerky. The rest will go into a venison casserole, with juniper berries.

"Hey- Ghost?" You call. He's skinning the rest of it for furs. "I'm off to gather some berries for dinner."

A nod, and you're off.

Your basket is old, woven, carried once by your mother and now you. Silly, but special all the same. It's stained with many years of berry collecting, many years of winter nights spent tucking into fruity crostatas or summers full of juniper mead.

The hills are rife with the low, rough trees. They grow like weeds here in the Reach, mountain pocked with patches of light green and little blue berries. Once, as a child, you'd made the mistake of eating one straight off the branch. Bitter as burnt coffee, it was lesson you'd learned through tears of laughter with your mother. A happy memory.

Does Ghost have a family? You wonder again about him, about why a man like that is wasting his time mining. He could've climbed the ranks as an imperial and been a General or - divines forbid - a stormcloak. You prayed he wasn't so craven as to follow Ulfric and his band of Nord supremacists.

It's this distraction that leads you right into the waiting jaws of a sabre cat. Quick and silent, it reminds you of your patient for an absurd moment before you're tripping backwards, basket full of berries scattered and forgotten. Your hip makes contact with the ground hard, pain lancing through your joint like a spear.

Fuck, how could you be so stupid? This was a mountain, leagues away from the nearest town. Sabres, bears, wolves. You'd always, always used awareness as a first precaution. Sight, sounds, keeping your ears tuned to the slightest crack in a twig. If not, there was the bow and arrow stowed away under your bed.

Now, you were caught unawares. Muscles under it's fur rippled, a low growl in it's barrel chest, creeping toward you. Adrenaline burned through you like a fever, hot and electric all at once, freezing you in place by the weight of your heart in your stomach.

Stendarr's mercy, dying from an animal attack after living years on the craggy peaks of the mountains, avoiding ambushes and robberies. Living on goats cheese and chicken eggs, nothing yet achieved. What a waste. Miserable, hopeless tears prick at your eyes. Your breath leaves you in quick, desperate puffs. Running wasn't an option - it would only encourage the sabre. Sovngarde, here you come-

"Aaarghgh aaaaa!" A roar. Loud, ringing in your ears, as fierce as a cave bear. It's Ghost, jumping through the brush towards you with his arms above his head. "Bugger off!" He's screaming loud, voice cracking a little, the stitches at his lip tearing just enough for droplets of blood to fall.

"I'll put you down!" It's nonsense, but it's loud, and he's massive. Taller than the sabre even if it stood on two legs. When he reaches you, he steps in front of you. Shields you.

The face-off is likely less than a few minutes, but it feels like time moves as slow as honey. Ghost faces of the sabre, screaming like a madman, beating his chest and waving his arms. It creeps backward, hissing and fighting, but is cowed by his stance and size.

When it's disappeared through the maze of juniper trees, he turns to you. Extends a palm rough like bark.

"How long have you lived here, again?" His voice grates as usual, made worse by his shouting.

Your face heats in embarrassment. "A few years. I'm not usually so distracted," you dust your dress, patting yourself. Twigs and dirt fall from the wool. "I swear. I got lost picking berries."

He snorts, like you're stupid. You feel stupid.

The basket is half empty when you call it quits, tired from fear. Ghost is hunched beside you, holding his ribs again, rubbing his lip almost compulsively.

"Stop that, you'll get a thicker scar," you reach for his elbow.

"Don't care much about that, love," he shrugs your hand away.

Dinner is made in silence. It's a miracle you have the energy, but while you're physically drained your mind is running in circles. You watch with concern as he sits gingerly back on the bed. The pain in your hip pulses with sympathy, pulsing heat travelling down your leg and up your back.

"Need me to take a look at anything?" Besides his obvious discomfort, you'll have to fix his face back up. You'd prefer for him to be in a welcoming mood.

"I can handle it," Mr Stoic over here. "Did'ya take a fall?"

You drop dried frost mirriam into chopped, boiled potatoes. Then a pad of butter.

"Yes, but I'm alright," the cream sauce comes together, ladled over the venison. You're out of eidar cheese, but Honey-nuts goat cheese crumbled over everything is perfectly fine. Ghost eats like a furnace taking coal, anyhow.

"Let me see," he's up close. Again, you've been taken unawares. A sharp inhale like a gasp, heart beat picking up, breathing in the smell of him. It's gone from bloody to pine, to earth, to fresh wood. His hands find your hip and you hiss, trying to jerk away. In doing so you press your side into his chest, curled close, warm not just from the fire. "It's alright, sweet girl." He murmurs into the top of your head.

This tenderness is new. His fingers are as gentle as you've seen them in the last few weeks, pulling up the thick skirts of your dress and assessing the tender skin. It's a little hot to the touch, painful. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against you softly, making you whine.

His lips brush your hair, not quite kissing you, but affectionate nonetheless. You're close enough to see his throat bob when he swallows.

"Just a bump, huh, sweet girl?" He takes over, mashing the potatoes, setting out plates at your little wooden table, guiding you by your lower back.

You eat in relative silence, thighs brushing, a tension bubbling to the surface like stew on the fire. He spares you a few glances between bites, still wincing whenever he has to bend down.

"I'll take a look at that again before bed," you speak through a mouthful of creamy venison.

Sure enough, he's reopened some of his stitches. Not worst case scenario, but you spend a few minutes hunched over and bandaging him up again. He stares at you intently, eyes so clear and focused you wish he wouldn't. It makes your hand shake.

Moving to get up and back to your straw bed, his arm shoots out as quick as an arrow and takes your wrist in his hand. His stare is the same, squinting at you like he's waiting for you to confess something. Like he's waiting for you to give in.

"You're not sleeping on the floor," he says, sure, chest puffed. "Not with your hip. Come on now, come lay down." Gently, he tugs you down. Protests make it to the tip of your tongue and nowhere else, not with the promise of a mattress on your sore muscles and screaming hip.

It's too small though, much too small. Already he was hanging off, shoulders taking up the entire width. You curl forward, on your good side, facing away from him and into the dark. The cabin is still warm from cooking dinner.

His breath puffs on the back of your neck, hand finding your arm and stroking up and down. Soothing you. He curls around you, following the natural bend of your body.

"Simon," he whispers.

Your brow almost touches your hairline. "That's not my name."

"No," his reply is half spoken, half physical. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, bicep under you, cradling you, his big bear paw hugging your shoulder. A stray pinky ventures dangerously close to your nipple, fingers spread. "It's mine."

The world widens. "Yours?" You breathe in, out. It's trust, is what it is. He's giving you a piece of himself, this stranger, for you to hold. "Simon," you taste it in your mouth. "Simon."

He laughs against your hair. "Was watching you," he confesses. "After we got- after the ambush. Walked for days, till I found you."

"How long did you watch?" You're curious, if not a little suspicious. "You weren't casing it, were you?"

"No, nothing like that. Couldn't keep walking," he sighs loud like a dog. "Hadn't eaten, hadn't drank. Needed to know if you were somewhere I could stay."

"That's why Honey-nut was losing her mind," the realization is half funny, half scary. By the eight, you really hadn't noticed someone living so close-by for so long?

"Honey-nut?"

"You've met her, Simon. She's the goat."

"Ah," he snorts. "I've been calling her Molag-Bal, for how she's got us in the palm of her hand."

"Simon!" You shriek with laughter, shaking until he squeezes you from behind. So close his heartbeat taps against your back.

///

A week goes by, and each night is the same. You wake together, sleep together, eat together. Simon regains his strength and his wounds turn into scars. His face is deeply marked, but you've never known him another way. Truthfully, it adds to his handsomeness. There's a ruggedness there that one can only develop living in the rough.

The air gets colder, frigid in the mornings and nights. Light snows have begun falling, and Honey-nut begins her bleating until you put up the winter wall of her shelter, boxing her in. The chickens slowly cease laying eggs, bundling together, clucking at Simon when he checks for the seasons last bounty.

The time to make a trek to Markarth is creeping. You need dried goods, grain, seeds for spring, dried meats, elixirs - everything. It'll be your last trip before you're stuck in the freezing mountains with nobody but Honey-nut to talk to.

Books are your salvation during the cold months.

"I have to get supplies soon," you break the news to Simon early in the morning, when the light just barely creeps over the craggy peaks of the mountains. "In Markarth."

There. It's over with - telling him. You know you're being a coward by not asking directly, but you need to know. What is he going to do now that he's healed? Spend a few more months with you? You're still mostly strangers, practicing domesticity together, but strangers nonetheless.

"Can't go to Markarth," he says.

"Why's that?"

Simon looks at you then, eyes hard and tender at the same time. He grimaces a little, scar twisting wit his expression.

"Used to work there," A pause. "Used to… mine there."

"What?" Cidhna mine is for prisoners. You take a small step back, shaking your head. "What?" You repeat. Cidhna mine? Is that how- oh. His injuries, his waiting to see who you were before approaching. By the gods, you've been tricked!

"You tricked me-" you start, upset. Was he a killer, a robber? Images dredged from the recesses of your mind float to the surface. Men, fire, your mother cut down before you.

"No, no," he interrupts. He's shaking his head, not quite stepping forward but leaning toward you. Eyebrows drawn up, palms facing you in supplication. "Sweet girl, I," he looks around then, as if the words will appear written in smoke from the hearthfire. "Listen to me please," he pleads.

"Tell me what you did!" It's a near-shout, but you're upset. He's been cozying up to you while running from the law. Not that you're a total stickler for rules, but the men at Cidhna mine aren't there without reason.

The most secure prison in Skyrim.

"I will, I'll tell you. Just sit down please, sit with me." He pats a chair, sitting in the one beside it. Beseeching you. "Cm'ere, sweet girl. M'sorry."

///

You sit quietly while he tells you, choking a little on the rising tide of emotions. The biggest question is should you believe him? This story of his past, his father, a childhood spent learning to steal and bully to survive. Elixirs for a brother hooked on skooma, food for a mother grown sickly from her husbands abuse. Eventually getting rid of his father altogether, and wining up in Cidhna.

"If what you say is true," your voice wavers, throat tight with emotion. "Why not tell me?"

He shrugs his shoulders, looking up for a moment as if asking the divines for guidance.

"You never asked."

For a moment, you want to be indignant. You laid with him, cooked for him, wiped blood and sweat off his brow.

But he's right. You never asked, never thought to - just wondered, minded your business, content to help someone in need of it. The feeling of betrayal loosens in your chest, releasing it's vice grip on your heart, a calmer acceptance taking place.

The position it leaves you in is awkward, even if you're content to believe him. You've been too yielding since you met him. Accepted him into your home, accepted his story. Ambushed by bandits? A silly lie, now that you think of it. Vague, believable. Easier than explaining that guards had slashed him as he escaped imprisonment. That he couldn't go back because he was so recognizable.

You don't speak as you get ready. It's not an angry silence, but one brought by embarrassment. How stupid he must think you are, cozying up up to him like that.

The question of where he'll go burns still in your mind, in your gut. You're nervous, fingers shaking a little as you wrap long strips of warm wool on your calves, forearms, and between your fingers. Your dress is double-layered, boots sturdy.

It's a trip and half, lugging everything. You're on foot until you reach the nearest inn, and from there you rent a horse and cargo carriage. Easier from there, with Jazbay the white mare to pull you along.

"I know someone in Cidhna," Simon interrupts your thoughts. He's always tall, imposing, a little intimidating. Now he looks as sheepish as a man like him can look. "Could you…" He extends his hand, a letter clasped in it.

You grimace, but nod curtly.

"Thank you, honey," he breathes a sigh of relief. Honey. That ones new. It fills you with warmth.

"You're welcome to stay with me," you blurt. Impulsive, stupid. Brought on by the familiarity of his affection. "For the winter, I mean."

He's across the cabin in two steps. He presses his front to yours, hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs gently rubbing your cheekbones.

He kisses you, then, and everything slides into place. Your stomach tightens, hands coming up to grasp his shoulders, gasping into his mouth. It's wet, lips smacking noisily, the only sound in the near-frozen forest. Acceptance, sweet and buttery. This is a man whose never had a home.

"I can't stall any longer-" you try. He interrupts you with his mouth again, long kisses like it's reviving him, revitalizing him. "I gotta-"

"Shh, sweetheart," he hums lowly. Gods, you've never been this wet. It soaks into your cotton underwear, clit pulsing in time with your heart. "Let me take care of you, yeah?"

///

He's so solid, firm muscle and hard cock. It leaks between his legs, bobbing with his abdomen where he's kneeled on the floor, face in your cunt.

"Simon!" You're shouting, unabashed. Years have passed since anyone's touched you last, and you're sensitive as a maid, gripping his too-long hair almost meanly. Simon licks you like a starving man, slurping, letting you drip and then sucking it off your skin. His fingers find the entrance of your pussy, fitting himself in two at a time.

Once you've begun, you can't stop. He fucks you on the bed, letting it creak dangerously. Bends you over the table, cock dragging in and out of you deliciously. You shake and shiver in his arms, wrung out and insatiable all at once.

"Can I have you here, sweet girl?" He thumbs at your other hole, dipping in, kissing your inner thighs.

"Yes, gods yes, Simon," you drag his name out. Si-i-mon. It sounds good that way, breathy, not spoken but moaned and screamed. It's late evening, dark, colder now that you haven't lit the fire.

No need, when his cock is as hot as coals and slides between your arsecheeks like a divining rod. Your pussy is aching and hot, too-sensitive. You're belly down on the bed again, hands gripped in the sheets.

When you deliberately relax your muscles, he fits his fingers in your ass using come as lubricant. Spits down onto you, watches you start to rub yourself into the bedding desperately.

"None of that," he pants, pulling you up by your hips. A whine builds in your throat, which he shushes by pushing his other two fingers in your cunt. You yelp, moving toward him and away from him. He keeps you still, firmly holding your hips.

You come, tears beginning to leak into your sheets, when he presses his cock against the notch of your hole and pushes in.

A long, deep groan from the pit of his stomach starts and doesn't stop until he's sheathed. You're frozen, stuck in a gasp that doesn't end, filled to the brim.

Simon begins to rock, shallowly, stealing your breath and breathing it back into you with every thrust. It's then that you begin to make sound, crying out and fisting the sheets, rocking your hips with him. He reaches around, leaning down to kiss your shoulders and play with your clit at the same time.

"Not gonna last," he says into your skin. "Gonna come inside you again."

You're easy - so sensitive that if he breathed on you long enough you're sure you'd peak. His fingers twisting and pinching your clit is pure madness, and you tighten like a vice around him as you yowl your last orgasm of the night.

His hips snap into yours roughly, abandoning your clit for the flesh of your hips, pounding, dragging, grunting into you as he finds his own release.

Half-asleep, you fell him roll over onto his side and turn your head to face him. He's smiling lazily, stroking your skin, still sweating from exertion.

"I'll come with you tomorrow," he whispers.

"I thought you couldn't come to Markarth?" Confusion prickles at you, brows coming together. He finds the furrow with his thumb and smooths it away.

"I can't, honey. But I can come down and wait for you."

"You will?" Hope rises in you, in tandem with affection.

"Always," his voice is a soft murmur.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow. Goodnight, sweet girl."

#cod x reader #cod mw2 #task force 141 #141 x reader #drgnfly writes #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #skyrim au #i truly don't know but i had fun writing it #hehe #cw dubcon #tw dubcon #cw murder #idk what else to tag #i love skyrim #i dont know shit about goats #genuinely this is jokes but i've been playing a ton of skyrim so here you go

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s-ccaam-era-crepe · 5 months ago

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queer people i need you to live. Live how ever you can but just Live. Live out of spite. Live out of hope. Live out of necessity. Live out of love. Live out of anger. Live out of anything you can muster up and if you genuinely can't find anything, live because i'm here thinking about you, and i know others are thinking about you and i don't want to lose anybody to this. I want you to live. I love you. Please live. Live. Live. Live.

#camera talks #us politics #queer #idk how to tag this.#please. live #i dont know what else i can say but please i love you so much live #i know how scary it is right now #i've been crying a Lot.#but we have to live. we have to exist and we have to do it together #we will make it and we will make it together #thank you everyone who has been here for me and continues to be btw #i love you all lots and lots especially rn

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bellspun · 2 months ago

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Messing with his design. just fancying him up a little

#I'd like to deck him out in gold but let's see how that turns out #You hear him before you see him ☝️#Which on the battlefield. im thinking. is a little terrifying #oh boy here he comes #greek mythology #sthenelus #sthenelus son of capaneus #I dont know ehat else to tage #He looks a tsd too young here thats what Ill tag #too young #bellspuns art

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feketeribizli · 2 months ago

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hey, dont cry. marci and his trainer getting faggy with it, ok?

#asking again if his semi is apparent enough. it should beee #iliya is used to it by now... jokes about not expecting having to work with three legs when he got marci lol #something feels off so maybe iliya is also tall. like i dont think i managed to communicate his height here at all 🧍‍♂️#anyway. breeding positions questionmark #f1 oc #marci #iliya #this is the ocs tag #random details: iliya got the matchy bracelet :-) marci isnt wearing his Yet #oversized team59 tshirt probably doesnt belong to iliya. as the adidas one marci is wearing isnt his either #matching shorts...#his freaky thin waist... now that i managed to communicate lol #what else. maybe they should get matching tattoos for miami. but of course we dont know yet how thatll go do we #my art #rm59

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w1ld-k4t · 1 month ago

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‎‎‎‎‎Panty Thief Conundrum

CONTENT WARNING: Yandere!Caleb being a freak, like incredibly so. Stepcest is a given with this guy when MC is involved. Panty/Bra/Clothes stealing, sniffing and... other things. He's a creep here, I was not nice to him. Manipulation, mention of punishments. Please be aware, loves.

SYNOPSIS: Caleb can't find any of your underwear in the laundry because you've started going commando most of the time.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have never written for the lads before, let's be clear. Let alone Caleb, let alone fandom Caleb. I apologize for any OOC-ness. That said, this shit just ripped itself from my subconscious and forced itself through my fingertips.

Preposterous.

Evil. Cruel and unusual punishment, really.

He finally has the girl of his dreams back, the love of his disgusting, perverted little life.

And yet, as he rifles through the laundry basket with growing desperation (ripping past any articles of clothing he’s not interested in, really), his dirty heart nearly cracks in two.

WHERE are your panties? Your bras, even?

He hates himself for it. He really, truly does. But ever since you finally accepted him back into your life, your home and, stars, your fucking arms, he can’t deny that this is something he’d been looking forward to for a while.

Doing your laundry for you again. Out of the kindness of his heart, is what he wants to tell himself.

But the pair (his favorite pair) he’d kept with him after he’d left lost your scent a long, long goddamn time ago. Maybe it would’ve kept longer if he hadn’t soaked it in his cum nearly every night while he was away. Hell, he tore a hole in them after the explosion. After he was sure he’d never see you again.

So where, pray tell, are your FUCKING panties?

He can’t just… well, maybe he can ask. If he words it right, plays the role of the concerned, loving gege. Then he could get his answer.

It doesn’t have to be awkward. Or perverted. Just… looking out for you, like he always did. Does.

Will. Whether you like it, are aware of it or not.

So when you open the door to your room after hearing him knock and he’s standing there with his usual, lopsided smirk and the emptied laundry basket in under his arm, you shouldn’t really suspect a thing. He already has the laundry going, audible from down the hall.

“Heya, Pips,” as he leans against the door frame, using his free arm to prop himself up against it. You’re having to look up at him, as usual. The bastard.

“Not to, uh…” his elbow bends, scratching awkwardly (convincingly, he hopes) at the back of his neck. He makes an effort to move his eyes away from your own, despite the confusion etching into your features, “Not to pry much. But are ya washing yer under-stuff separately or somethin’? Or did’ja just forget to throw em in?”

And when you blink, brows furrowing, his heart spikes in anxiety.

“I just got back to takin’ care of ya,” he tacks on quickly, “Would hate to mess up again already.”

Your silence doesn’t help his racing heart. He risks a glance up at you, and-

You give a small, amused snort? Cute... but what’s so funny?

“You’re fine, Kay,” you shrug, giving him a relaxed, trusting smile of your own. Trusting, he notes, having his heart race for a different reason, “Neither of us missed anything. I just don’t really wear any these days.”

What?

“Not unless I really have to.”

He stares at you for a moment, lips floundering. His eyes nearly glance downward at your breasts, your crotch, holding his gaze on your face with great effort. Were… Were you not wearing any right now? Something about that has his blood rushing straight to his cock, a heat rising to his cheeks. But, stars, has he gotta pull himself together.

“Really?” He huffs back with his own amusement (a habit he’d learned from you… he has a lot of those), “Can’t say I really get it, but whatever makes ya comfy, Pipsqueak.”

The smile you give him is nearly his undoing as you return back into your room. He lingers, though, his eyes trailing down to the curve of your ass in those damn too short pajama bottoms. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip, eyes wide in curious wonder and… Well, his cock was starting to hurt in his jeans. Let’s say that.

“By the way,” he trills after a moment, needing wanting a reason to stick around a little more and imagine what your bareness must look like. How he could slip your shorts aside so easily and-, “Whatcha thinkin’ for dinner today? I’ll make whatever ya want. Call it a… reunion gift.”

You want to deprive him of fucking the remaining scent and discharge that lingered on your underwear? Layering it over his nose while he pumped his cock to the imaginary rhythm he uses to fuck you in his head?

That’s fine. He can punish you for it later. Once he has the ball rolling on your guys’ relationship.

For now, though, he’ll compromise. Improvise, even, and just fuck his cum into the crotch of your shorts and pants after you get done wearing them for the day.

He’s not picky.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I hope you liked this, whoever may be reading. It was fun. It's fucking haunting me that this is the first thing I wrote for my blog, but it was fun nonetheless. I'm a whore anyway, so it works.

CREDITS: Almost forgot since it's past midnight. The dividers are from thecutestgrotto. Eye banner is from the Harper's Bazaar x LADS Collab. All writing is done by me, w1ld-k4t.

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halflifebutawesome · 21 days ago

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genuine question am I the only one around here that sees the gman as actively antagonistic or am I the outlier

#transmission #Like besides the point of I'm so unsettled by him that I've considering blocking his damn tag like. Looks around?#Like I understand the idea of Like. Spooky alien grandpa😋 silly weirdguyyyy #And I don't want to be raining on anyone's parade and ultimately that's like fine who's cares. I don't care.#But I feel like a lot of people are missing the mark here on like. Gman as a character #Idfk I feel like I'm being an asshole this isn't to say you can't have fun #But like. Goofy shit with Gordon and Adrian and ALYX especially puts me so on edge sorry #Like I understand his motives and lack thereof I understand narratively what he's doing and what purpose he serves #But is like. Does nobody else see all of his actions as like super fucking sinister😭😭#He manipulated and coerced all of them he's using all of them as his weapons and attack dogs and it just. Feels scary #Adrian was TWENTY TWO.#Like does this not creep anyone else out #And I don't know if this is my place to speak on it. As a white dude.#But splash brought it up the other day and it's like.#The Gman. Someone in a great position of power. Actively and continues to manipulate and threaten a Black man and his daughter .#It's not lost on me and it kind of baffles me that people kind of. Look over that??????#He fucking steals Alyx away at the end of HLA . He uses her emotions against her in a very threatening and upsetting way.#He kind of all but threatens Eli in HL2E2.#I DONT KNOW. I DONT KNOW. he feels fucking scary.#He kept Gordon in stasis for TWENTY YEARS. IM twenty #Presumably Addy is STILL IN STASIS.#Like I don't know. It's bugging me #I don't mean to rain on anyone's parade or say ohh you can't do this or that like who cares .#But I feel like you need to take a step back and recontextualize his actions and how he does things .#Especially in the context of Alyx and Eli.#I don't know. Whatever. Sorry #half life

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mercurymacaroons · 10 months ago

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arrives 15 min late with a latte

......sup

#yosuke hanamura #persona 4 #cool now that its done i can ramble in the tags #fellas im surprised hes here and done #did not think that was gonna happen #fuck i forgot smth #eh ill fix it before i make my print #anywho i might make more i might not who knows not i #yukiko is the next one i have half an idea on but also i have some shining nikki designs rattling around with my sole braincell #i also made a shadow alt for the back but idk if i like the mouth so yall arent gonna see him #also i need to find a gold foil guy that does odd sizes and like moq of 1 #bc i wanna do this in gold foil #and its tarot card size bc im dumb as hell #but i want a print for my wall and i know sure as shit no one else will want one hence the moq of 1 #my heart wants to make the whole major arcana for p4 but my past completed works says °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 𝑛𝑜 °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･#so whatever gets done will get done #also im gonna reblog this a lot bc i put in too many hours to get a singular note by me so like if you dont wanna see it block me lmfao #if you have any hot takes for future cards please share with the class bc i only have ideas for yukiko and a full cast she does not make fr #so uh yeah yeehaw #idk what else to ramble about but like cannot believe yosuke fucking hanamura is the first chara to get a completed piece in 5 years #im not fucking kidding #the rest were all quick graphite or abandoned #hes not even my fave in p4- thats naoto protag chan kou and nanako #boys lucky to hit top 5 #he just kinda crawled into my affection like some kind of sad pathetic creature idk how it happened either #maybe hes overprocessed now that im looking at it #nope i looked too long this is it this is how he is #ill do better by the women i promise

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ro4dlj · 7 days ago

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rant out your troubles

can be viewed as platonic or romantic :)

Stay fresh!

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mediumgayitalian · 3 months ago

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prev chapter

———

A shrieking ring pierces the air, and Nico damn near ascends, he jumps so goddamn high.

"What the fuck," Will hisses, panting.

The ring sounds again, louder, this time, and through his disheveled, half-conscious flinching, Nico recognizes it as the vibrating plastic phone right next to his eardrums.

"What kind of fucking hotel," Will mutters, rolling back over and pulling a pillow over his head. "Leave it!"

Nico stares. Something twinges in the dead center of his chest. Slowly, all on its own, his hand reaches out and wraps around the handle, pulling the receiver to his ear. He doesn't bother with hello.

Will's pillow lowers.

“You know,” drawls the voice on the phone, “runaways pack their things.” A pause, a yawn. “Fugitives do not.”

Nico swallows and says nothing. The pause stretches, until it becomes a silence, until it becomes a line, drawn from him to the Keys, woven threads pulling just before they snap.

“Imagine my surprise when I ring the cellular phone your mother so graciously bought you —”

The words shove their way out of his roughened throat on reflex.

“My mother is dead.”

Will, kneeling on the rumpled sheets, startles, eyes wide — his Italian may be bad, but he has read enough medical textbooks and paid enough attention in Spanish to recognize Mamma and morta.

Hades continues unbothered.

“— and the buzzing leads me right to your bedroom. Which is a mess, I should remind you. I expect it clean by Friday or I’ll hire someone to clean it and do not care what they keep.”

Friday. Nico doesn’t even know what day it is, frankly. Wednesday? Maybe? They left on a Monday, he thinks. He sees Will mouth out ven-er-di, nose scrunched up as he tries to place the world. The ghost of a smile flashes on Nico’s face, despite his straight back, despite his clammy hands; Will could live in Venice for twenty years and still not get it. Italian eludes him. It’s the Texan, Nico is pretty sure. His mouth cannot for the life of him retain the sounds.

There’s a flinty sound from the other end of the phone, a crinkle, and then a long, smooth breath. Nico’s nose twitches and he coughs slightly, glancing down at the holes in the receiver’s plastic, half-expecting smoke to pour through.

“I’ll be too busy Saturday morning, but meet me in my study after noon when you return. I need to give you the papers for your new card, some stronzello stole yours and is buying things up in Georgia.”

Nico goes very, very, still. His breath goes stale and hard in his lungs, and his blood turns to concrete.

“Father,” he says, very carefully.

“I cancelled your old one but you really must be more careful, Nicolò. I was not so brazen and thoughtless at your age; I am successful now. Consider.”

The line clicks, and the stretched out whine of its deadness echoes in the twilit hotel room. Nico hears it run in parallel to the rushing of his ears, to the uptick in Will's breathing.

"Nico?" he whispers, quiet, urgent. "Nico, what's going on?"

Quickly Nico glances at the dusty alarm clock, balanced dangerously on the bedside table between them. 5:12 blinks, blinks, blinks; 5:13. He glances out at the window.

Four hours. Sweat dries along his temples, next to the bruises under his eyes.

"Will," he says, or hears himself say. He feels the shape of the word, for maybe the first time, really feels the weight of the w and the drag of the vowel. He breathes, quick and shallow.

When he looks over, he finds Will already staring, blue eyes light with the brightening sky and wider than the heavens.

"We gotta go," he murmurs. He breathes in again, inhale, inhale, shaking himself at the final click of the echoing phone, the deafening silence. He pushes off from the stiff hotel mattress and stumbles to his discarded sneakers, half-hearing Will's whispered, jumbled questions.

"My father," Nico answers, finally, mouth dry. "He -- my credit card. Our funds."

Will gets it, he thinks, before he finishes, before he says it. He inhales sharply, quick and silent, and stands without a word, sliding his flip-flops on and grabbing the keys.

"Hey," he says. Nico jumps at the sudden heat of his wide hand, curled around his clammy one. He glances up and freezes at the warmth of his smile, the gentle scrunch of his nose. Will squeezes their hands. "Let's move fast. There's -- it's a chain hotel, there'll be a fire exit we can duck outta somewhere. We'll take the stairs."

He stares at the door, waiting and breathing, willing the air to come all the way in and go all the way out, feeling the jerk of their hands every time Will grabs something, loading bags and maps and a sleeve of Ritz crackers on his long arms. One more jerk and this time Will is pulling, dragging him gently through the barely-open door and inching it closed behind them.

"C'mon."

Will has never been coordinated. Not in the myriad of sports tryouts he dragged them both to every season, not dashing across the giant dead 2 a.m. roads across the ice cream parlor, cackling, not dragging himself upright, face burning, across the commencement stage to hollers and jeering, not damn near falling two stories down a flower lattice. But he is quick down the carpeted, liminal hallways, lightfooted across doorways and hand gentle small of Nico's back, nudging him through heavy emergency doors.

He trips down the stairs though, once. Over his damned flip-flop.

"Shut the fuck up," Will hisses, face flaming hot enough Nico could count each freckle clear as stars in the night sky. "Shut up, do you want to get us caught --"

He doesn't, but he can't stop, crouched over cracking concrete and gasping into his hands until tears drip down his face, until the pass of air through his mouth is completely soundless.

"Nico, dude, the breakdown has to wait to the car, okay, you gotta pull it together. Choke it back. Get up. Oh my God."

"Every time," he wheezes.

"I am going to leave you behind --"

But he doesn't, because he wouldn't, and eventually Nico gets ahold of himself or at least mostly and manages to limit himself to a giggle and half the next time Will trips. It's over the doorway, anyway, so Will can roll his eyes and shove Nico through, herding him into the night and running until he's giggling, too, until the barely-rising sun and frigid morning air gets to them both and they're bent over in the stupid fucking empty parking lot, and it's not funny, it's not, and if they're caught they're so fucked, because Nico didn't check the card reader all that closely but he knows that hotel chains starting with H, despite the dankness of this specific location, are not particularly cheap, and neither of them are technically independently wealthy nor incredibly adept at weaseling their way out of trouble.

"Okay, fuck, oh my God, just -- get in." Will stands first, still holding his stomach, tossing their shit into the (still open, oops) back and swiping a hand down his face to force away the smile. "Okay, Jesus, fuck." He untwists their fingers and reaches for the passenger door, holding it open, and it takes Nico a half-second too long to realise he is waiting.

"My car my drive," he blurts, stumbling backwards.

"Wha --" Will starts but Nico darts forward and snatches the keys and crawls straight over the gearshift, settling against the seat, missing the ignition three times before sliding it in.

Will straightens to his full height. He cross his arms across his chest, and when Nico makes himself look over he is scowling.

"No."

"My car," Nico repeats. "I'm driving."

"In a few hours, sure."

"Will," he says, exasperated. A light catches their attention -- a window labelled 'OFFICE' brightens, a shadow passing along it. "Fuck. Get in the car."

Will hesitates. Then sliding front doors open and a uniformed figure steps out, and Will jumps forward, slamming the door shut; "Oh, fuck, go go go --" and Nico stands on the gas, yanking the gear shift as hard as it will be yanked and tearing out of the parking lot, engine revving above shouts for them to stop.

Nico holds his breath along the roaring highway, waiting for Will to fall asleep.

He doesn't.

The needle slowly dips past quarter tank, then damn near drops to zero the second it passes an eighth tank, because the fuel gauge is a piece of shit no matter how many times Nico has replaced it in the last two years. He waits for the prim direction next to him, telling him which exit to take, but nothing comes. He hits the turn signal and coasts down the first one he sees, watching Will out of the corner of his eye. He looks resolutely ahead, straight through the windshield, eyes sharp and mouth pulled into a thin line.

He pulls his credit card out on reflex, climbing out of his car. He doesn't realise until he's already at the counter with the card reader in his hands, cashier tapping her long nails on the edge of the register with increasing irritation.

"Oh, fuck," he mumbles, "I can't --"

The bell rings at the door. Nico and the cashier both turn around to face it, and Will walks up to the register, handing over a few bills.

"60 on register seven," he says lightly. "And, uh --" he reaches over, grabbing two spotty bananas and a couple of hot rods. "These too, please."

The cashier rings him up quickly, yawning, nodding out the window when the payment goes through. Will leaves without another word, walking over to the Jeep and climbing into the passanger seat, arms cross, eyes trained to the side.

"Yeesh," comments the girl. "You're in trouble."

Nico scowls. "Am fucking not."

He stomps out the store, knowing he is.

He takes his time pumping the gas, which he has done maybe never, really shaking the pump and ensuring every drop of the expensive bullshit drizzles into his stupid tank, pressing the cancel button a couple times when he's done, even though he's already paid. He really twists the gas lid back on. It would suck if it popped open on the highway or something.

"If you don't get your ass in this car in the next five seconds, I'm gonna whoop your ass."

Nico exhales heavily, swinging into the driver's seat and turning the key. It is not in the ignition. Consequently, Will is facing him, keyring tight on his finger, pinky tapping on his bicep. He feels, a little bit, like he is in the principal's office. His stomach flips, something hot churning in his guts. He shifts in his seat.

"You couldn't beat me up if you tried," he retorts.

Will does not dignify that with an answer, because it is true. His fingernail reflects the sun a little bit, tap, tap, tap.

"Nico," he says, or warns.

Nico scowls. "Don't talk to me like you're my mom."

"I'm not -- trying to!" He throws his hands up and damn near tosses the keys with it, finally, finally cracking, face heating, shoulders snapping. "I'm just -- I'm frustrated, Neeks! And I'm nervous! We just -- we committed fraud, technically, okay, and I've never done that before, and also I don't think I'd do very well in jail. I'm kind of picky and I think I would die in a shiv fight. I would just -- God, I'd get stabbed, wouldn't I. First day in. Rest in fucking peace."

"That's what you're stressing about," Nico says, fighting back his smirk and failing. "You're -- stressing about shivs."

"I don't know how to make a shiv, di Angelo! I tried to follow the YouTube tutorial and failed!"

"You're not serious, Solace!"

Will's shoulders droop. "I am, a little bit. I don't know. I'm all over the place." He screws up his mouth, glancing over. "And I've had a full night's sleep."

Nico winces. "Look."

Will waits.

Nico says nothing.

"Look?" Will hedges, leaning against the window. He reaches behind the seat and grabs a banana, flipping it upside down and peeling it from the bottom.

Huh. He, uh. He really would get shived immediately, wouldn't he.

"Look what?"

Nico sighs.

"I don't need all that much sleep, Will."

"False. You do not have Short Sleeper Syndrome, you were late every single day for homeroom for four straight years."

Nico opens his mouth. Will raises an eyebrow. He closes it.

"Touche," he manages, finally. Will nods haughtily and takes a bite of his banana, carefully avoiding the bruised bits. "I just -- you don't even like driving, Will. I do."

"You were freaking," Will points out. "I would say anxiety attack but you're gonna get all scowly and defensive if I do, so I won't. You were just coincidentally hyperventilating and sweating and shaking et cetera."

"Only nerds say et cetera."

"Oh, look, there's the defensive mocking. Right on schedule."

"No, I'm just -- I'm just." Nico drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "I don't like you driving my car."

"I am not that bad, Nico."

He can hear the hurt in Will's voice and winces, rushing to double back.

"I don't mean it like that. I just mean that I." He takes a deep, rattling breath. "If something happens, I want it to be my fault."

"..Oh."

For a hot minute there is nothing. There is the wind rustling through the open windows, and the sound of their breathing. There is the rush of the highway a mile away. There is the click and quiet calamity of the gas station. There is the sound of someone trying to very quietly chew a banana.

Nico looks over, unbelieving. Will very slowly peels the second banana.

"Are you serious."

"I'm -- hungry!"

"Can you not for two sec -- is that my fucking banana."

"Um, none of this breakfast is yours, on account of the fact that I bought it."

"You? Fucking hound?? Give me a fucking banana??"

"No! Get your own!"

"Give me the fucking --"

He lunges, and Will shrieks, and he is longer and taller but he has the combat instincts of a pretzel stick and just kind of flops his free hand in Nico's direction, which is easily dodged, and when Will keeps squirming Nico scowls, pinning him against the window so his elbows are pressed against his chest by both of Nico's hands and his mouth is free to lunge forward and snap up the fruit. Nico chomps down, snapping half of it up and chewing victoriously.

"Ha," he brags, garbled. "You would die in prison, you selfish dope."

He tears off the rest of the banana and looks over, smirking, and as he chews he feels the rapid rise and fall of Will's chest, and the jackrabbit pace of his heart, and his very, very wide blue, blue, blue eyes.

Nico throws himself back at the speed of light and sound.

"So!" he shouts, voice cracking. "So, there, and give me the second hot rod too. Fucker."

Wills hands it over without looking. Nico tears it open, freezing right before he bites it and ripping a piece off instead, eating that. Will's hotrod remains in his lap.

Or -- the fucking. The meat stick.

The processed pole of plastic-wrapped pork.

Jesus.

The thin snacking sausage.

The. The fucking. The elongated beef jerky.

Nico throws the rest of his snack out the window. Will follows suit, aiming for the trash can, missing, opening the door, walking over to the fallen -- snack, picking it up, walking to the trash can, throwing it out, and standing there facing the wall of the convenience store for several minutes.

When he finally returns, sliding into the passenger, they both stare straight ahead, arms to their sides.

"Alright," Nico says, clearing his throat. He shifts. "We gotta -- plan."

"Right."

Neither of them moves.

"You know you can't, like...stay here," calls a voice, head popping out of the convenience store doors. "It's a gas station. You're meant to leave."

"Sorry," Will frets, ears burning again. "We're, um, we're just finishing up."

The cashier raises her eyebrows. Nico turns his eyes up to the heavens and prays for death.

"Okay, she's gone, look at me."

Nico turns his head to the side and Will is red again, around the ears and splashed over his cheekbones, and Nico's own cheeks are still pretty hot but he smiles, anyway, he can't help it; there is the little furrow of determination in Will's brow and his eyes narrow every so carefully and Nico is reminded of every midterm, every exam season, every forced library study session and pinching fingers every time he complained. Some of the weird, thick air between them drains away.

"This is the plan, okay? We got -- 300 or so miles on this tank. I know where we are. And I, uh, I know a place." Will swallows and keeps his eyes trained on the gear shift, ignoring Nico's tilted head. "So what you're gonna do is switch with me. And I know --" he holds up a hand to Nico's protests -- "I get it. I think." He looks up, finally, meeting Nico's eyes. The determination in his face softens into something much sweeter, something gentle and prodding all the same. "I know it sucks," he says softly. "To -- think of her." He reaches over and brushes his fingers, barely, over Nico's tight knuckles. "To blame yourself, believe me."

His hands don't linger for long. The heat of them does, thought, and Nico loosens his hands, exhaling, feeling it.

"Just a few hours," he says, finally. "Okay? And -- I can't promise I'll sleep."

"That's cool." Will smiles. "For what it's worth, I'll be careful. Okay? I'll drive slow and in the right lane and everything."

"I know, you grandma." Nico opens the door, heading around to the passenger seat. "I trust you."

———

next chapter

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