With Sugar On Top (Russia x Reader)

It is absolutely freezing.

On your way home, you were not expecting a sudden freak snowstorm to drop pretty much on top of you. You hunch into your jacket, wanting to break out into a run to close the distance between you and your lovely warm house, but you don't for fear of slipping and falling on your butt, because that's just the last thing that you need. Your jacket is doing little to provide you with adequate protection from the biting chill. You really have to stop being so optimistic just because you've started seeing the slow emergence of spring flowers- it's still technically winter, and it seems like Mother Nature is only too willing to remind you of that fact.

You fold your arms over your chest and slowly exhale, a cloud of vapor gathering in front of your slowly-reddening nose as you do so. You have to settle for trudging- a fine dusting of snow is fluttering down onto the ground, and although the white gets promptly swallowed up by the wet concrete, more of its brethren come to join it. Your sneakers squelch unpleasantly as water seeps through the material of both your trainers and your socks and you grimace in disgust at the feeling.

So it is with obvious relief when you finally reach your house, light pouring through the slight crack in the curtains. With shaking hands, you fumble in your pockets for your keys, ears straining for the familiar jingle. A moment of panic grips you when you can't find them- you knew you should have done something about the tiny hole in your coat pocket! - But just before you genuinely start to panic, the sleek feel of the keys greets your palms and you sigh with sheer relief. Today has been filled with minor trifles and annoyances and losing your keys would really be the trifecta of annoying hassle.

"Gotcha!" you hiss triumphantly, finally getting them out of your pocket.

As you fish them out of your coat, you flinch slightly as the icy air nips at your exposed skin. Why oh why don't you have your gloves on you today?!

Still, it doesn't matter- you're home now. Noting that the kitchen light is in, you peel off your trainers with your opposite toe (even though you have been told repeatedly growing up not to do this, because it supposedly ruins the shoes, but fuck it).

"Welcome home~!" a voice calls from the kitchen, as each sneaker smacks off the opposite wall- bam, bam.

"Hey, Ivan!" you say, padding into the kitchen, stopping to peel off your wet, icy-cold socks with a disgusted sigh.

The kitchen is pleasantly warm and brightly-lit. The whole thing is painted a deep, golden yellow, which was Ivan's idea when you marshalled him into helping decorate. (He can reach the ceiling better than you can, for one thing) Of course, the color is not wholly dissimilar to sunflowers...

You stand up on your tiptoes to give Ivan a hug, and his arms envelope you in a warm bear-hug, nearly squeezing the breath out of you before he puts you down. You're used to your feet leaving the floor and having to gasp for air whenever he does this, so you don't complain about it. You nuzzle into his shirt for a moment before you're let go.

"Why are you having the long face?" Ivan asks, as you slouch dramatically into a nearby chair.

"Isn't it obvious?" you grumble in reply.

Ivan chuckles a little as you begin to undo your coat, looking slightly like a wet, bad-tempered cat. Your hair has gone a little spiky in the cold, wet air. You shoot Ivan an irritated look, but it doesn't last for very long. It's quite nice to have somebody to come home to, actually. Although you really need to warm yourself up somehow- despite being in the warm kitchen, you still can't quite feel the tips of your toes. You're almost tempted to just shove them into the fire.

As your eyes wander dispassionately around the kitchen, you suddenly get an idea.

“Oh!” you exclaim, pounding the table in your enthusiasm, as if you've figured out quantum mechanics. “I’ve got it!”

Ivan glances at you, slightly bemused, one eyebrow raised.

“Da?”

“What I need,” you say, dramatically. “Is some hot-chocolate.”

“Hot chocolate?”

You stare at Ivan so intently that the huge Russian actually looks a little flustered.

“You don’t know what hot chocolate is?” you ask him, slowly.

Ivan shrugs an expansive shoulder.

"Da, I know what it is, but I've never really had any before."

"WELL," you say, rather dramatically. "THAT SETTLES IT."

Before Ivan can question whether or not you have some kind of cold-related mental trauma, you chivvy him into the living room. You're going to make the best hot chocolate there ever was. Or, you'll at least try not to burn the house down. That's pretty much the same thing, right?

Humming to yourself and now totally forgetting about your still-wet feet, you begin rummaging through the cupboards. No marshmallows (you have been way too tired to go shopping, especially since you don't have a car yet and you'd have to trudge home in the cold carrying shopping bag, and who needs that? Luckily, you do have cocoa powder in, as well as milk, whipped cream, sugar and some clean utensils to get started. You're getting a little excited, actually- it's always nice to introduce people to new stuff, especially stuff as nice as hot chocolate!

A bit later, you come into the living room, walking at a trudge since you don't want to spill.

"Here we go!" you say, in a singsong tone of voice.

Ivan accepts one of the mugs from you with a slightly bemused air- maybe you overdid it a little with the tower of whipped cream? But that doesn't matter- he won't know what hit him! You smile and plonk yourself down next to Ivan, cuddling up against him and taking a sip from your own. Damn, you did good. There's a tang of vanilla in there- you found a little bottle of vanilla essence at the back of the cupboard, probably a leftover from one of your random baking sprees. You glance at Ivan from beneath your hair, silently, eagerly waiting for an answer.

Ivan is blinking down at his own mug like the meaning of life is written at the bottom of it.

"What?" you ask, nudging him with your elbow.

"This is really good!" he says, turning to you with one of those big, goofy, childlike smiles that Ivan manages to make work despite his enormous frame and occasionally unsettling demeanor.

"Don't sound so surprised." you snicker at him.

You glance down at your toes, wiggling them, pleased to note that you're finally getting the feeling back into them- when Ivan suddenly leans down and pecks you on the lips.

"Hey-!" you protest, blushing, as he nonchalantly goes back to sipping at his hot chocolate, like nothing even happened.

“You had some foam on your lip,” Ivan replies, teasingly.

You snort at him, tempted to flick cream at him, but that would be a waste of some perfectly delicious hot chocolate. So you retort by lightly head-butting his arm (which you doubt he even feels), and snuggle down with Ivan, the hot chocolate warming you both inside and out.