#‘and I stumble beneath all the weight and know you’re Simon standing there’
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Simple Math / Part Nine
Simple Math masterlist
Ghost/Soap/female reader
4.1k words - AO3
Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Graphic descriptions of domestic violence. Medical chart from a SANE EXAM. Simon's family history, trauma. Brief sexual content. Hospital setting, nurse!reader, medical inaccuracies. Heavy emotions. Scars. Reader in pain. Hurt/comfort. Kate is a dog with a bone. Penny is cute. POV switches.
Simon and Johnny make a discovery, and a promise.
You can’t breathe.
The air is too thin, too tight, and you stand, silent, in the foyer of the home that you’ve been invited to.
A clock ticks on the wall. You count each second, waiting.
You should leave. You should run.
Simon’s footsteps echo above your head, already up the stairs with your first bag and work backpack.
He said to make yourself at home, but you can’t move.
The foyer is the foyer of a family. There is a hall tree with little shoes scattered beneath it, a tiny, pink backpack hanging on the hook. Too many wellies to count, all in pastel colors, matching a small yellow and green rain jacket that’s folded on the stairs. There’s a black hoodie, a black jacket, and a green on the coat rack, hung haphazardly with a toss. Men’s sizes, and you notice two pairs of trainers next to one pair of black boots, and two crayons hide, peeking out from under the bench, one blue, one purple, so worn down they’re almost half gone.
A home. A family.
“Hey, so up-“ You flinch. The jolt has you stumbling, one misstep over another, and he tenses, prepared to steady you, careful hand outstretched, but not encroaching.
“Sorry.” You shouldn’t be here.
“No, I’m sorry. I know better.” You blink, and the silence is heavy, weighted down like bricks at the bottom of a river.
He’s still wearing the mask.
“Can I… give you a tour?”
“S-sure.”
You lose your breath again in the kitchen.
Simon turns away to the sink, loading dishes into the dishwasher as you stare at the fridge and its collage with a tight chest. It’s covered; photos, invitations, magnets, notes, finger painted masterpieces. You step closer, studying, noticing the way they all fit together, mix matched perfectly, and even in the pictures, the three of them glow effortlessly, too sweet and smiling, happy. Together. A family. A perfect unit.
Your nose tingles, and you blink back the tears that fight forward, wiping away the two that escape and trickle down your cheek. You don’t know why it overwhelms you, why it fills you with grief.
What is it like, to be loved like that? To have a family, like this?
Get it together. You’re a guest in their house.
It’s too much, and you chastise yourself for getting so emotional over nothing, over something stupid.
You need to be alone.
Dry sandpaper scrubs the back of your throat when you swallow. “Simon?” He turns, concerned, glancing at the fridge and then back to you, drying his hands on a towel.
“What is it?”
“Can I… I’m sorry. I’m… tired.” You try to explain your needs but it’s awkward on your mouth, uncomfortable. His expression creases with sympathy.
“Of course, c’mon. I’ll show you.”
“Alright, one more step.”
“’m sorry.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for, bun. You’re alright.” In the back of your mind, you’re registering Simon’s warmth, the wilted lean that has you tipped into him, slow steps on the stairs, one by one as you fight to stay upright. He’s warm, and pillowy… the kind of comfort you could sink into, disappear inside for a while. It sounds so… nice.
But your shoulder is throbbing. The pain combined with the emotions swirling about in your heart has you on the verge of tears, top teeth dug into your lip, and your molars grind against one other with each step.
“It’s just at the end of the hall.”
You shouldn’t be doing this. Even now, after agreeing, getting in the car, getting yourself here… the desire to bolt runs hot under your skin, buzzing inside your skull, an insistent need.
You’re in their house. Where they live. With their baby.
What if he comes back? What if he hurts them?
“Hey.” Simon says your name slowly, ducking down to get your attention. Fuck.
“Sorry, I’m just… exhausted.”
“I’m sure. It’s right here.” He opens the door to a room, flicking on a light switch. The walls are a sage green, a gentle hue that matches the bedspread, framed photos organized into a gallery wall, pictures of smiles and laughter, a tiny Penny in Simon’s naked arms, a candid shot of Johnny in full military regalia, the three of them together somewhere, hiking, with Pen snuggled in a papoose on Johnny’s chest. The bed is the centerpiece, a massive king size piled with pillows, and it looks so inviting, so soft that you want to collapse into it right here and now.
“Wow.” It’s the best you can do, considering the screeching agony vibrating in your shoulder. You try to breathe through it, but the pain only shortens your draw.
“Yeah, it’s our old bed. Very comfortable.” He puts your other duffel down by the dresser, and you try not to dwell on the idea of it once being theirs, where they slept, where they’ve loved one another, held each other, their child, their- “It’s got its own bathroom, just through here.” He’s on the other side of the room, turning on a light that is far too bright, and you squint, jerking away with a gasp. Are you getting a migraine too? “Shit, sorry.” The room spins. You stumble towards the bed, limbs heavy, head full of cement, wooziness blurring your immediate sight. You’re disjointed, a mess of pain and disorientation, and you cover your eyes with a palm.
“Sorry, I think… I think I’m getting a headache. My shoulder-“ it slips out before you can stop yourself, and even with your eyes closed, you know Simon is staring at you, picking you apart with his eyes.
“Your shoulder?” You’re on a runaway train now. It has no brakes. No destination. It just barrels down the tracks, unable to stop for rational thought or pleas of mercy. It has no plan, and it does not heed you. You’re helpless. Hopeless. Lost. Reaching out for a light in the dark, a rope, a life vest, and a sob breaks through to the surface.
“It really hurts.”
“It hurts?” His voice cuts, tone worried. “Which one?” You use your good side to point, shakily.
“I’m sorry. I’m s-sorry.” You try to tell him, try to explain that you don’t mean to cry, or be emotional. You don’t mean to be making a fuss. You’re not supposed to be a problem.
A warm hand lays atop your thigh, thumb rubbing into your scrub pants.
“Sweetheart, you’re in pain. You don’t have to apologize for crying.” Your vision blurs, thick with tears, and fingers gently probe along your shoulder cuff. When you flinch, he swears. “Shhh, alright. Easy.” He’s gentling a spooked horse, carefully feeling along where you ache as you cry through it, unable to stop. “I’m going to go get some ice. We can… wrap it up, if you think that will help?”
“Ye-yeah, okay.” His steps fade, and you try to get your top off, sliding the arm that doesn’t hurt underneath your turtleneck, which is confined by the rigidity of your scrub top.
When you try the other one, the pain is so sharp, a cry bursts from your lips, and Simon sprints up the stairs. How did it get so much worse between the beginning of your shift and now?
“What happened?”
“I can’t… I can’t get my shirts off.” You uselessly tug at the hem, eyes half open, letting it fall from your fingers, stuck in a loop, frantic movements matching the increasing pace of your lungs.
“Can I help?” His face is lined in concentration, and you spot an icepack on the bed now, with a sling, and a wrap. They’re prepared. Must come home with a fair number of injuries. “Bun, are you with me?” You sniffle and nod. What choice do you have? What choice do you ever have? The pain is too much. It’s all too much, and it boils over until you need to get the shirts off, not caring that it will expose you, or show Simon the very details you’re always trying to hide. You’re too far lost now, too far gone.
If you’re here, in their home, shouldn't you let them see? Shouldn't you let them know?
The truth is terrifying, the reality of the trust you have in them. You know Simon won’t hurt you, instinctively. You feel safe here, in their home, their old bed, and when he looks at you, you show him, just for a second, the fractured mirror that is your reflection. You show him the pain and the rage and the fear, you give him everything. You shove the girl in the mirror forward, you force her into the sun and you hold her face to the light, trying not to sob as she screams at you in protest.
Just for a second.
“Okay.” He nods, and then cups your cheek. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” You nod with tears that sting, and then you slowly pull away, slipping back into yourself, hiding the girl in the mirror away, making more promises to her that you’re not sure you’re going to keep.
“We’re going to put this one,” He slowly, carefully lifts the arm with the bad shoulder until it’s resting on his own, “right here. That alright?” A whimper builds, but you give him another nod, breathing through the anguish. There are a million little needles in your shoulder, all stabbing you over and over, ripping and gnawing at the cartilage, or the bone, or the muscle… you can’t be sure. “I’m going to bring your scrub top up now. Is this okay?” his fingers peel it from the turtleneck, and when he gets to your head, you incline your neck, more tears rushing forth.
“Yeah.” You whisper, a tired, pained moan, falling from your lips without permission.
“I know it hurts; I know. Almost there, try to breathe.” He soothes you, and the top slides towards him along your arm. He pulls it free, throwing it on the floor somewhere, his hands returning to your thighs.
“Sorry.” It’s automatic, ingrained. A reaction to pain, to fear, to the idea of being a burden, something that haunts you, every day. He ignores it.
“Ready for the next?” The turtleneck comes less easy, but the two of you are in sync like dance partners. The pain shoots up your arm when you move your neck again, and Simon wipes a few tears from your cheek, carefully leaning you back into the pillows and pulling the comforter down.
There’s a sharp intake of breath, the raw edge of surprise, horror, you’re sure, and you close your eyes. You can't look at him, when you know what he sees. You know what you look like. A roadmap of foolishness. Of weakness. You know the scars are plainly on display, still raised, still ugly. Like you.
He says nothing, only sits at your side, bed dipping with his weight. “I’m going to take your shoes off too, okay?” He narrates and asks for permission with each touch, pulling your sneakers free, satisfying thunk of each one hitting the floor, and then moves on to sliding the ice pack underneath you, wrapping it firmly but not too tight, ensuring it stays in place. He’s tender and slow, thoughtful, your eyes fighting to stay closed, brain and body starting to drift off into uncomfortable sleep. “Not yet, sweetheart.” There’s a rattle, two pills being deposited into your hand.
“What are these?"
“Paracetamol.” He turns the bottle, label out, word coming into focus enough to be verified, and you swallow them down with the glass of water in his outstretched hand.
“Thank you.” The croak stays lodged in your throat, and his eyes crinkle, the sign of a smile.
“Get some rest.” It’s comfort he gives you, leaning forward, pressing mask covered lips to your forehead. Comfort that doesn’t elicit a flinch or a sense of wariness, and you bask in the shine of the sun on your skin, holding tight to it, slipping into a dreamless sleep.
“Banky.” Pen demands, hands outstretched.
“No binky, it’s lunch time. Lunch.” Simon makes the sign for lunch, L shaped pointer finger and thumb, circling the corner of his mouth. He does it a few times, accompanied with the word again and again until Penny huffs and leans back, eyes wide. “You try. You try, lunch.”
“No!” She shrieks, and he shushes her, scattering some banana puffs across her tray.
“Shhh Pen. Bun is sleeping, remember?”
“Bunny seep?” She gives him the sign for sleep, or her sign at least, a palm dragging down her face followed by very dramatic closing lids. “Seep?”
“Yes, sleeping.” Simon makes the sign to acknowledge she was correct. “Good job.” He gives her a thumbs up, and she smiles, sweetness melting away some of the tense worry that's taken up in his heart.
“Puff?” She holds one out to him, but he shakes his head, pointing at her mouth.
“For you. Eat them, eat your puffs.” He signs along with the words, and she mimics him, food in hand, eyes lighting up when she finally makes it in her mouth.
He glances towards the stairs. You’re in the guest room, far enough away that Penny’s noise shouldn’t wake you, but still he tries to keep her preoccupied, distracted from making a fuss.
He wants you to get as much sleep as possible, this morning’s discovery of your shoulder unsettled him more than he’s frankly comfortable with, and the image of your swollen, battered face and neck leers and taunts.
She’s safe now. She’s here.
“Dada.” Pen calls, and he smiles, leaning forward to brush his lips across his baby’s soft skin, wispy curls tickling his nose.
“Love you, baby girl.” He signs it too, and she beams.
“Luh.” It’s supposed to be love, and though the word is a struggle, the sentiment is the same. He doesn’t care that she’s not quite got it yet, he’ll take every word, every syllable he can get. These moments, each moment with his child, Johnny’s child, theirs… is a gift, one he never thought he’d have until Johnny. A privilege.
His phone vibrates with a text message.
>Simon
>Give me a ring when you get a chance. On the black cell.
“Thought you were on vacation?” Kate sighs, click clack of keys echoing in the background.
“I am, but if I’m too idle I start to go crazy. The wife likes it when I have a project.” Simon pauses, cocking his head. Penny’s feet kick in the highchair, baby spoon banging against the plastic tray.
“Hang on, Kate.” He drags a kitchen chair over in front of her so he can sit, pinning the phone between his shoulder and chin to twist the lid off the applesauce pouch. “Shhh, here you go." Penny gurgles with a grin at the taste of the fruit, and he smiles back at her. "So, what’s the new project then?”
“The nurse.” Simon’s eyes dart to the floor above his head.
“It’s not a good time.”
“I can talk, you can listen.” She brushes him off, sipping something with ice and then continuing. “I found it hard to believe that a civilian would be able to scrub their footprint like this, so I did a little digging. The more digging I did, the worse my fixation became.” Like a dog with a bone.Simon holds his breath. “I just needed a key, and with those photos you provided, well, things just started unraveling.”
“Kate.” He growls because he can’t manage anything else. He’s trying to keep himself still, heart pounding in his chest. Penny coos, like she notices the shift in her dad’s demeanor, and he immediately attends her, thumbing at a smear of applesauce on her cheek.
“I found a SANE exam from a few years ago. Small hospital in southern Colorado, right over the border from Texas. Patient’s name is Jane Doe, but the photos are almost an exact match.” His stomach lurches, dark clouds shadowing his vision, world splitting into blood and rage. Violence.
He didn’t want to be right.
He wanted to it to be anything, anything but this.
Who?
Is it the same person that choked you? Beat you? Tore your shoulder damn near out of its socket?
His gaze drifts to Penny.
They'll need to loop Price in, immediately.
“Can you send it to me?”
“It’s already in your email.” She speeds past, eagerly. “There’s more. I used the photo to run facial recognition on archives in neighboring states and got a host of hits from Texas. You’ll have to visually confirm, but if I’m right, I’ve got positive ID on your girl.”
“How?”
“School. She graduated high school a year before the rest of her class, ended up with a full scholarship to Rice University in Houston, Texas. Went on to get a bioscience degree and graduated from Rice early.” Pride flutters beneath his ribs, honeyed and heavy. Their smart girl. “She ends up at a different school for pre-med but drops out before the first year ends. Not sure what happened but she started an accelerated nursing program, and breezed through it. You should see her transcripts. I don’t think this girl has gotten less than an A+ on anything since kindergarten.”
“Send them over.”
“Already done. After that, she starts work at a local hospital, and then… nothing. Her paper trail stops. Her job disappears. She’s a ghost except for the sealed court records, and now the Jane Doe medical chart, but that didn’t happen until later. The aliases she’s used over the past few years, they’re in the wind. It’s really quite impressive. She’s either got a connection somewhere, or she’s CIA.” Kate is animated, talking quickly, and he interrupts her to get to the question that’s weighing on him, brushing off the latter immediately. You’re not a honeypot. He spots those a mile away.
“You know her name, then. Her birth name?”
“I do.” She’s silent for a moment, and then she gives it softly. First, middle and last.
He closes his eyes. He tries to imagine you as a girl, on the playground, playing tags with other kids, all of them shouting your name, or as a teenager, in a fight with a parent, one of them yelling your name. He pictures you as a uni student, with your friends, laughing and having a good time somewhere, one of them hollering your name over too loud music. You’ve had a whole life with that name, a whole story. You were a person with that name, and he tries to imagine the way it would sound on your tongue, on Johnny’s, even his.
You’re a ghost now, will you let them bring you into the light?
Will you let them help you reclaim it; the way Johnny helped him reclaim his own?
Kate subtly coughs on the other end of the line.
“Thanks, Kate.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll keep digging. Check your email when you get a chance.”
“Will do.”
“Oh! And the hotel, I sent that paperwork to your email as well.” He thanks her, again, tells her to try to enjoy her time off and hangs up just as Penny starts to fidget, unhappy with being in the highchair for so long without attention.
“Alright, lamb. Let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?” He pulls her free, showering kisses all over her cheeks and neck that make her giggle. “Can’t be wearin’ your applesauce and pajamas over to John and Lou’s, can you?”
Johnny is anxious. Simon can see it a mile away, even before he gets in the room, he notices how he is fidgets, unspent energy and too much time to dwell culminating in an unsettled state.
So, when he kisses him first thing, he makes it long and slow. He drags Johnny’s bottom lip between his teeth, carefully taking his time until he’s sure his partner is half hard beneath his hospital gown and blanket.
“Si.” Johnny groans, and he relents, pulling away to cradle his face between his hands, taking him in, every line, every fleck of gold in his blue eyes, soaking up the healing, healthy glow that glimmers in his skin.
His doctor says it won’t be long now, until he can come home, and Simon is counting the days.
To have everyone, under one roof, feels like a fever dream.
“Missed you.” Johnny noses into his neck, and Simon reciprocates with a kiss to his temple, his cheek.
“Missed ye too.” He pauses, squeezing his hand. “Pen?”
“Alright. Grumpy this morning. Think she wanted to see you.” She did, he knows it, but he tries not to pile it on. Johnny knows their daughter misses him, as much as he misses her. They’re two peas in a pod, best friends, halves to a whole. They’re both suffering. “Went with Lou and John fine. I’ll bring her in the morning.”
“Good.” He nods, tilting his chin for another kiss, and Simon gives it without hesitation, basking in the warmth and familiar feel of his skin.
When he clears his throat, he pulls away with a sigh. “How is she?”
“In pain. Shoulder is nearly torn out of the socket, and her neck is in poor shape. I had to help get her into bed, she couldn’t get her shirt off. Emotionally she’s… still got the walls up, but she let them slip for a second last night, before she let me help her. And I caught her crying in front of the fridge. Think the photos of Pen got to her somehow.” His stomach twists, new, horrifying possibility dawning on him. Do you have a child somewhere?
“Did she get any sleep?”
“She hadn’t come down when I left to take Penny, so I assume so.”
“Good. She needs it.” Simon agrees. After injury, after trauma, body and mind need so much more care. More rest, more nutrients, water, protein. More love.
“Kate called.” He bites the bullet, fingers flexing against his knee. “She found a loose end and tugged it.” Johnny straightens. He’s every bit the solider, even laid up in bed. Waxy, soft features turn razor sharp and focused, except instead of his practiced steadiness, he’s chomping at the bit.
“Tell me.”
Simon does. He tells him everything Kate said, almost verbatim. Johnny’s face changes from worried to enraged when he finally gets to the medical chart.
“No.” Johnny’s whisper is faint, thin, papyrus. Brittle and broken, almost washed away, and Simon doesn’t blame him. The chart is horrific for them, was horrific for him earlier, turned his stomach until he thought he’d be sick.
He’s killed. He’s tortured. But to be there when Johnny revealed the handprinted tender skin on your neck, to be there when you cried out in pain last night, when he saw the scars on your body, the cigarette burns that were so familiar, to look at these photos and know that you’ve been brutalized beyond belief, makes his vision run red and his heart ache.
There’s a ghost in these photos. A different girl, but the same, a glimpse of what he saw last night. Still their bunny, their girl. He can see her, through the broken blood vessels and compound forearm fracture. He can see her past the swollen cheekbone and broken nose, the fresh burns on your stomach and torso. The doctor’s notes indicate that you said you were mugged, and sexually assaulted, but refused to finish the SANE exam and took off.
He's not surprised.
The first time he saw the burns on your naked skin, he swore he could his mother’s screams, and for the hundredth time today, Simon thinks of her. He wonders, if she ever went to a hospital, if she ever begged anyone to help her, or them. He wonders if someone saw what was happening, how she was slowly disappearing, sinking in on herself, and tried to help. He wonders if she felt as alone as you seem to. If she too, became a ghost.
He looks at these photos and cannot fight the pain, the memories.
“Oh, Si.” Johnny cups his cheek, thumb soothing softly across his skin, trying to wipe away the tears that fall. He can’t stop them, not now, and Johnny does not ask, only holds him through it, lets him cry into his hands, pain and suffering of a small, frightened boy coming out of his body in broken sobs.
He won’t fail you. Not like he did her.
After minutes turn long, he takes a deep breath, pressing his lips to Johnny’s palm, and utters a promise as cold as death.
“We’ll kill them. Whoever it is.”
#peaches writes#simple math#ghoap x reader#ghost x reader x soap#ghost x soap x reader#ghoap#soap x reader#john soap mactavish#simon riley#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x soap#john soap mactavish x reader#johnny soap mactavish#ghost x reader
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Sometimes All I Think About Is You
Part of the 20 First Kisses Series
Summary: Baz loses a bet with Dev and Niall and has to wear a uniform skirt for a week, and it makes Simon act so crazy. He can’t handle that much of Baz's legs, and he's determined to prove that Baz is using it as a distraction from whatever he's plotting.
Word Count: 3068
A/N: This was based on this prompt that was sent to @carryonprompts. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it for a few days since I saw it, and I finally got the chance to sit down and write it today. (And of course, it fit perfectly as a 20fk fic :))
The title is from the song "Heat Waves" by Glass Animals
Read it on ao3
***
Simon
There’s a blast of magic, and the doors to the dining hall slam open.
This is a pretty regular occurrence, and everyone is pretty used to it by now, which means that I am one of the few people who look up to see who it is.
Baz walks in through the doors, sneering at Dev and Niall who follow him in. The two of them look like they’re about to burst into laughter at any moment while Baz has a near-murderous look on his face. (It’s an expression I know well.)
I’m not sure why the three of them look like that until my eyes fall down to Baz’s outfit for the day.
“What the hell?” I gasp.
“What did Baz do this time?” Penny asks in a bored tone, not even bothering to look up from
“Look,” I whisper.
She turns, and I use the moment to take in what Baz is wearing. He’s wearing his usual Watford blazer, but rather than his neatly pressed slacks, he has chosen to pair it with the pleated grey skirt that is usually reserved for the girls who choose to wear them.
Somehow, he manages not to look completely ridiculous. I would almost venture to say that he looks good in it. (Of course he does, the bastard. He doesn’t look bad in anything.)
His legs seem to stretch for miles beneath the too-short skirt that barely hits him mid-thigh, and I can’t seem to stop staring at them.
I’ve seen Baz’s legs before, of course. I mean he wears shorts all the time when he’s playing football, but this is different. I’m not supposed to be able to see his legs right now, so it feels wrong in a way. Yet, I can’t seem to look away.
“Hm. Interesting fashion choice,” Penny says, turning back to her breakfast. “I guess there aren’t any rules against the boys wearing skirts since they’re technically still in dress code.”
“Yeah, but it’s weird.”
“How?”
“I—. I don’t kn-know.” I shrug. I guess it’s just different than what I’m used to. But different isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It was just a shock to see him dressed like that. “I guess it’s not. It’s just surprising.”
My eyes follow Baz around the room as he grabs some food and sits down at his table, snickers following him as he walks. From Dev and Niall. No one else seems to really care how Baz decided to dress today.
I try to pretend not to care either, turning back to my own food, but I can’t stop my gaze from wandering over to Baz.
***
I can’t keep my eyes off of Baz the rest of the day either, no matter how hard I try. There’s just something about the way he looks in that skirt that has my eyes glued to him, and it takes my full attention to try to figure it out.
Finally, as I stumble through the lesson in our final class of the day, I figure it out.
Baz is plotting something, and he’s wearing the skirt to throw me off his trail. He wants me focused on what he’s wearing instead of whatever it is that he’s planning. It almost worked, too. I haven’t been able to think about much except that skirt.
I mentally shake myself, feeling foolish. I almost let Baz trick me. If he had managed to keep me distracted, he could have gotten away with whatever he wanted.
Now, I absolutely cannot take my eyes off of him. I have to follow him and figure out his nefarious plan.
***
I follow Baz around for the next several days, and he keeps wearing that skirt, trying to distract me. But I won't let him get away with it. I will figure out what he’s up to and stop him.
Currently, it’s Friday afternoon, and I haven’t stopped watching since the moment he walked into the dining hall for tea. (Without blasting the doors open this time.)
“I know he’s up to something,” I murmur, more to myself than to Penny, but she responds anyway.
“Simon, I mean this in the kindest way possible, but you’re being an idiot.”
“What?” I ask, so shocked that I tear my eyes off of Baz in order to look at her.
“Did you ever stop to consider that maybe he just likes wearing a skirt and that’s why he’s doing it?”
I consider this possibility briefly and silently acknowledge that she has a point, but, “It can’t be that simple. There has to be something more to it.”
“Why?” She asks, sounding exasperated.
“Because it’s Baz. He is always planning something. He’s just trying to distract me,” I explain to her for the third time in just as many days.
She sighs, like she’s giving up on me. “Fine. But consider this: your obsession with Baz’s skirt has nothing to do with the fact that he might be plotting something.”
“What do you mean? What else would it have to do with?”
She shakes her head. “Only you can answer that, and I think it will be better if you figure it out on your own.”
I frown, confused. I don’t have any idea what Penny is on about. The only reason I’m watching Baz so much is to stop his wicked plots.
...Right?
I look over to his table, but he’s gone. He must have left while I was talking to Penny, which means he’s on his way to football practice and is probably changing into his football shorts at this moment.
There’s a weird pang in my chest, almost like disappointment, but I know that can’t be right. Why would I be disappointed by Baz taking off the skirt?
I wouldn’t. What Penny said is just messing with my head.
I quickly finish my tea and scones and rush out the doors to follow Baz. I can’t let him out of my sight.
Baz
I cannot wait until this dare is over. I’m not sure that I can handle another minute of Simon’s watchful gaze following me everywhere I go. It has gotten worse this week, and I swear I’m going to suffocate under the weight of all of his attention.
Everyone else in the school got over me wearing this skirt after the first day – or rather, the first hour, but Simon seems to be getting more interested in it with every second that passes. I don’t understand why he cares so much. It’s just a skirt.
Luckily, there are only a couple more hours left of this ridiculous dare.
Dev and Niall agreed to let me change out of the skirt during football practice only if I immediately put it back on and wore it all the way through dinner and until I went up to my room for the night. (I can’t even begin to imagine what Coach Mac would have said if I had shown up to practice in a skirt.)
I already got enough attention from the skirt the first time I wore it. Everyone’s eyes were on me as I walked around the school in it. No one dared say a word to me about it, though. Probably because they knew that I wouldn’t hesitate to blast them away with just a few words and flick of my wand.
Now, as I head to the library after dinner, I tug at the skirt self-consciously, glad that I only have to wear this until after dinner. I can’t believe that I actually agreed to this bet. Or that I lost. Or that Dev just had this skirt lying around in his wardrobe.
“No questions,” he said as he handed it to me. I raised my eyebrows at him but said nothing.
I had to spell the skirt to fit me, but it wasn’t too far off from my own size. The only thing I didn’t change was the length. Most girls wear their skirts longer, but if I’m going to go through with this dare, I’m keeping the skirt exactly how Dev had it. I won’t lie, I’m curious as to where Dev might have gotten it, but I respect his privacy enough not to bother him about it.
I wish I could say the same for everyone else.
I’d probably be staring at me, too, because it’s so different from what I usually wear at school, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not annoyed. There is one person’s eyes on me that is particularly getting to me.
From the moment I stepped into the dining hall on Monday, Snow’s eyes have tracked my every moment. He was so shocked by my appearance that his mouth fell open, and he stared at me for a full minute before Bunce said something to him.
Ever since then, I have felt him following me, closer than ever before, and he looks like he wants to say something. He hasn’t yet, and I’m unsure what is holding him back. Even though I’ve been doing my best to avoid him, there have been several moments when he could have corned me and said whatever he wanted.
I am relieved he hasn’t, though, because I am simply not in the mood to listen to him make fun of me. Especially since if this weren’t so against the social norm, I might feel inclined to dress like this a little more often.
Simon Snow is the last person I want to hear making fun of me for wearing something that makes me feel more like myself than anything else.
Simon
“Would you please stop drooling over Baz’s legs and focus. You were the one who wanted to study today.”
“I’m not drooling!” I say defensively, my voice a little too loud for the library.
“You’re like two minutes away from it. You haven’t stopped staring at his legs all day.”
She gives me this look that leaves absolutely no room for argument, so I press my lips tightly together and turn my attention back to my notes. We have an important exam coming up, but I can’t focus, not with Baz sitting over there dressed like that.
I have to confront him about it. Ask him what he’s plotting.
Finally, I’ve had enough, and when Baz gets up to go in search of a book, it’s the perfect opportunity.
I stand and Penny sighs but doesn’t say anything. This is likely paired with one of her signature eye rolls, but I can’t bring myself to look her in the face right now, so I don’t know for sure.
I watch Baz disappear between the stacks and follow after him.
Maybe I’ll actually be able to get him alone this time. I’ve been trying to talk to him all day, but I didn’t want to make a big scene in front of everyone, and I could never get him alone.
I find him towards the back of the library and realize that I never actually figured out what I would say to him once I finally got the chance to talk to him, and my mind goes blank as my eyes once again fall to the skirt he’s wearing.
“What the hell are you doing?” I blurt.
Well, that probably wasn’t the best thing to say.
Baz
Simon’s exclamation startles me, but I go very still in the hopes that he won’t notice. I didn’t even know he was in the library. I thought I would be safe from him here, but sure enough, when I turn around, he’s standing behind me with an intense expression.
“What do you mean?” I sneer, trying to play it cool.
“I know you’re plotting something.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He takes a step closer to me, and my heart starts racing. My cheeks flush, too, and I’m not really sure why.
Simon’s eyes drop to my skirt as if that’s answer enough, and I’m pretty sure his own cheeks go a little red as stares at me.
That’s interesting, I think.
“You know, Snow, if you wanted to get me alone, all you had to do is say so.” I say it just to see how he’ll react. To test something.
He really is blushing now and stutters out a bunch of sounds that don’t make up any real words.
He doesn’t hit me, though. He doesn’t even deny it. His pale skin just keeps getting redder until it looks like all of the blood in his body might be in his face. It’s kind of cute but also confusing. Why is he reacting like this?
“That’s not—. I mean—. What are you planning?” He says, trying to sound fierce, but in reality, he just sounds nervous. It truly is interesting.
“Nothing. I just like wearing skirts.” I tell him the truth only because I know he won’t believe it.
He growls at me and takes another step forward. I try to back away from him, not trusting what I might do if he gets too close to me, but I bump into a shelf and have been effectively cornered by him.
“You’ve got me where you want me,” I say, a little too breathily. “Now, what?”
He shakes his head, and I’m not sure if it’s at me or himself. He doesn’t say anything, just takes another step forward until we’re mere inches apart.
I glance around us, but we’re all alone. He has me trapped, and I don’t even mind. Even if he were about to kill me, I don’t think I’d stop him. I might kiss him first, but I wouldn’t mind dying with Simon Snow this close to me.
A long moment stretches out between us as we stand like this, practically staring each other down. Then, his eyes move to my mouth then my skirt then back to my face, and I try not to shift under his gaze, try not to care.
But then something shifts in his expression, and he starts to lean in closer until our lips are a breath apart.
Simon
Maybe this is what Penny meant earlier.
I wasn’t obsessed about Baz wearing a skirt because I thought he was plotting something. It was because I was attracted to him in it.
Once that thought enters my mind, it’s like everything else seems to click into place.
The skirt isn’t the only thing attracting me to Baz. I’ve felt this way about him before, I just always buried it and threw myself into figuring out what he was plotting.
But it was always so much more than that.
I watch Baz a lot. The way he casts spells, using his magic so effortlessly. The way he pushes his out of his sparkling grey eyes when it comes loose from its slicked back state. The way his hair almost starts to curl when he gets out of the shower. The way he smiles when he thinks no one is watching, like he is truly happy.
The thoughts and realizations keep circling in my mind until I realize that I desperately want to kiss him.
I start to lean forward but stop, wondering if I’m making a mistake. What if Baz doesn’t want this?
Baz
Simon hesitates briefly, meeting my eyes, like he’s waiting for me to tell him no or push him away, but I’m not going to stop him. I don’t have that kind of willpower.
I nod at him, and that’s all it takes for him to close the distance between us.
His lips press to mine softly at first then more firmly once he realizes I’m really not going to stop him. I can’t stop the sigh that escapes me as he kisses me like it’s the only thing he wants to do.
I kiss him back slowly, afraid that this is all a dream, but it’s not. It’s so utterly real. Simon Snow is kissing me.
With that thought, I put everything I have into the kiss, tilting my head to deepen it and putting my hands on his hips to deepen the kiss.
It feels weird to feel Simon against my bare leg. I mean, it feels weird to have him this close in general, but also, it feels nice.
He’s so warm, and I didn’t realize that I had been freezing all day with my legs uncovered until Simon’s natural body heat starts to warm me up.
I smile into the kiss as one of his hands finds its way into my hair, tangling there. His other hand slides down my side until he reaches the edge of my shirt and hem of the skirt. He stops there, like he’s found exactly what he was looking for.
Damn, I think, pulling back to catch my breath, if I had known that wearing a skirt would get this reaction from Simon, I might have worn one a lot sooner.
Apparently I say that last bit out loud because Simon agrees. “You should. It looks better on you than anyone else.”
I feel all of the blood in my body rise to my face in a deep blush, and I kiss Simon again in the hopes that he won’t notice how pleased I am by his words.
I have never told anyone how dressing in girl’s clothes really makes me feel, so it makes me feel elated to hear Simon say he likes it.
This isn’t the first time I’ve tried on a skirt, but it’s the first time I’ve worn one in front of other people. Which is why I accepted the bet. And why I intentionally lost. I wanted to try it out. I wanted to see how other people might react while being able to say that I didn’t have a choice if things didn’t go too well.
This week has given me hope, though. It made me feel like I could dress like this more often if I wanted to. And maybe I really will.
I don’t think I would want to dress like a girl all the time or that I want to be a girl, but occasionally dressing like this makes me feel really good. It feels right.
I kiss Simon harder, happy that I can be myself and be allowed to kiss him when I never thought I would be able to do either of those things.
#snowbaz#carry on#rainbow rowell#simon snow trilogy#simon snow#baz pitch#snowbaz fic#my writing#20 first kisses#sometimes all i think about is you#it feels so nice to write a snowbaz fic again#i probably won't write them as often as i once did#but i definitely want to get back to writing them
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rosemary & thyme
notes: fun fact this was actually what started unspoken and as such this takes place in the same verse. i’d initially planned it to be in unspoken but sometimes things just don’t work like that. this is also self indulgent fluff for myself today bc my cramps are bad enough that i can’t stand for more than five minutes without starting to shake from the exertion lol
the third gif in this was what kicked this off the ground in the first place
title is from scarbourough fair, mostly thinking of the simon & garfunkel version.
also this is my 900th post on here lol
rating: teen. no real warnings, just fluff. maybe small hints of self-esteem issues and small hints of mostly dulled grief.
pairing: eskel/fem reader
word count: 2.5k
on a spring day, you re-paint the trim of your cottage. it is an old, old pattern, but you are determined to make something new.
“Must you?” you ask Lil’ Bleater.
You’re ensconced in a soft bed of clover that lines your cottage. The sweet, grassy scent of the clovers lingers in the air like perfume, a herald of spring. Hyacinths are dotted through the bed, swaying in the gentle breeze, their buds plump on their stalks, a promise of blooms in the soft indigo peeking through the edges of them, the last breath of a winter sunset.
Lil’ Bleater is intent on eating them.
She noses at a small clump of stalks, each tenderly green, still newly given life. The stalks break under the clamp of her teeth, and you sigh.
“Must you?” you repeat.
She glances up at the sound of your voice and considers you. Then she bleats, loud and indignant, and leans down for another mouthful.
You snort a laugh and turn back to your cottage. You trace your fingertips over the window’s trim, the wood worn riverstone smooth by the years and the rain alike. The paint has chipped, washed out to the soft blue kiss of a robin’s egg. Even the vines, each a delicate scroll of leaves unfurling, have faded into something autumnal, their color muted by nature’s touch. You follow one of them with your fingernail. They wind like the small trails in the woods, meandering yet purposeful.
Your father had steady hands. Even with you and your brother clambering over him, children gone woods-wild, his delicate brush strokes brought the forest to life in the walls of your home.
Sometimes, when the sun shines just right, you think you can see the past peeking back at you, imprints of images long painted over glimmering just beneath the coats of paint.
Lil Bleater butts against your back. “Ow,” you tell her, even though it’s only a short bite of sensation.
The goat prances around your seated form and flops into your lap, all hoof and horns. She squirms until she’s comfortable.
She’s still munching on a hyacinth stalk.
“You owe me new flowers.”
She ignores you.
You sigh and readjust. She’s a warm weight in your lap, the heat of her softened by the thick fabric of your skirts. The goat makes a miffed noise at your movement. You stroke a hand over her horns, the smooth bone cool against your skin, like a spring river just beginning to warm. She nestles down into the cradle of your skirts with a soft noise. Your attention returns to your cottage.
You touch the window trim again, lay your fingers against the faded paint once more. The small flowers - delicate little things, unfurling prettily in soft layers of petals - were your mother’s favorites. They go back to the oldest layer, you know. You trace the one colored for you, and then walk your fingers over to the one for your brother.The ache settles between your ribs, fills the hollow space there.
“It’s still here,” you whisper to Lil’ Bleater. “It’s just built upon, right?”
The goat snuffles, mouthing at the hem of your bodice.
“Yes,” you say. “It’s still here.”
You pick up your bowl, paint the color of the soft blue of the midmorning sky splashed up the edges of it, and sweep a broad stripe of it over the faded flowers.
*******
“Stop,” you tell Lil’ Bleater, pulling your paintbrush from her ever-hungry mouth. “You’re going to get paint on you, and then Eskel and I will have to give you a bath, and none of us will find that enjoyable.”
She’s relentless, butting lightly at your arm and nibbling at your sleeve. You nudge at her with a grumble.
“Trouble finds trouble, I see,” Eskel says from behind you, his deep voice lined with laughter.
“You’d best be talking about the goat on both counts, dear Witcher.”
“Of course, sweetling.”
He wrestles Lil’ Bleater off of you, gentle despite the goat’s squirming. The goat announces her displeasure loudly and butts against his knees. She darts away before he can stop her, pausing just out of reach and bleating at him before she prances off in a familiar direction.
“I really should fence in my garden,” you muse, turning back to the trim. The fresh coat of paint gleams in the afternoon light, shifting to something sea-bright, the sky melting into water.
Eskel sighs. “I don’t think it would help.”
“Me neither.”
He settles behind you, one arm looping around your waist, his thick thighs framing yours. The smithy has left its touch on him since this morning, a hint of soot scent sweeping over you. Eskel’s rough fingers flirt with the hem of your bodice, his thumb sweeping over the ridge of the embroidery. It is hard to keep apart from each other, the first few days after he comes back to you. You gravitate towards each other like small suns, anchor yourselves in each other’s space with unthinking touches. A quiet assurance that you are both here, together.
You lean into the warmth of him. He’s broad against your back, a pillar of strength, and then he softens. It’s just a hint, but you can feel the way he uncoils for a breath. He winds his other arm around you.
“Missed you,” you say.
He laughs, low and sweet, and the rumble of it resonates through you. “I wasn’t gone that long.”
“I always miss you,” you tell him matter-of-factly.
Pressed against him, you can feel it when Eskel’s breath hitches, catches in his throat.
You turn just enough to press your lips against the curve of his jawline. It is carefully placed, your soft kiss, just beyond the edges of his angry scar. He swallows, the muscles of his thick throat rippling. You hum softly, turn back to your cottage, and lean over to pick up the small stick of charcoal that’s half-buried in the clovers.
Eskel moves with you as you draw closer to the cottage. The charcoal stick scrapes against the paint as you sketch, soft clusters of yarrow flowers blooming slowly beneath your careful hands.
“This is a different pattern than the previous,” Eskel murmurs. His voice is rich against you, flows like warm, honeyed mead.
“Mhm.” You rub a thumb against a wobbly line, wipe it out of existence. “The previous one was my father’s.”
His arms tighten around you, scaffolding to keep you steady. “How many years?” he asks.
“Long before I was born,” you say, rubbing out another poor line. “He added to it throughout his life.”
“There was one for you, wasn’t there? One of the little flowers had your color in it.”
You glance back at him, at the sunrise of his golden eyes. Eskel has a gaze that strips you, sometimes, that peels away the world until it is just you and him. “Aye,” you say softly. “There was.”
He brings you trinkets, sometimes, in that same color. Little things from his journey on the Path. Nothing grand, but carefully chosen, often fitting into the niches of your cottage perfectly. Tiny curios to replace those you’d left behind in your first cottage, as if they can capture the first night he spent there with you soft in bed with him, tucked close around his broad frame.
Eskel slips a hand to your free one and slowly twines his fingers with yours. It’s almost shy, and you turn your palm skyward to better hold him. Your interlaced hands rest on the plush of your thigh, his thick knuckles pressing soft divots into the flesh.
You start to sketch again, adding a sweep of sorrel leaves to frame the yarrow, the soft curve of the leaves wrapping carefully around the buds.
Eskel is quiet behind you. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady like the tide, a cadence that feels as if it belongs solely to you.
Eventually, you pull away from your sketching. You tilt your head and examine it. It’s by no means fine work. You do not have your father’s steady hands, cannot bring life to charcoal drawings in the same way. But your months of practice have paid off. The yarrow buds match the ones speckled along the roadside, and the sweep of sorrel leaves could be the fields that surround your cottage.
“What do you think?” you ask.
Eskel shifts. He leans forward, just a hint, and touches just beside one of the veins of a sorrel leaf. Each inch of his chest is solid against your back. “You’ve practiced.”
“Yes.”
He squeezes your hand. “It’s nice.”
You laugh. “I’ll take nice,” you say. “I suppose.”
“Next time I’ll be more complimentary, then.”
“Good,” you say, and you let go of his hand so that you can wipe the charcoal dust off on the very hem of your skirt, already dirt streaked at the edges. Then you press the charcoal stick into Eskel’s hand. The small stick is dwarfed in his massive hand, and want pulses through you for the briefest breath. “Your turn,” you say. Your bold words have never sounded so shy.
Eskel stills.
That ache that fills the gaps of your ribs pulses, goes sharp at the edges, thorns against your bones.
You feel him draw in a breath.
“If you want,” you say, the words stumbling off your tongue. You keep your gaze ahead, focus on the sheen of the paint. It’s the same pigment your father used. When you crush the ingredients beneath the pestle, the scrape of it against the mortar sounds like your father’s voice. There has never been a blue that evokes such tenderness in you.
Eskel’s fingers close around the charcoal stick.
You suck in a sharp breath. It’s quiet, but not to him, you know.
Eskel always hears you.
“You’re sure?” he asks, and though the words are steady and his voice is the same mellow, deep tone, there’s something wavering in him, an uncertainty that cloaks him.
“Yes,” you say. “I told you - I rarely change my mind.”
“Rarely is not never.”
You ache to glance back at him, to find the honey gold of his gaze, to see the map of his scars against his handsome features. You know you cannot. Something ancient in you knows that if you break this moment, it will never return.
“Eskel,” you say quietly. “Not about this.”
He swallows.
He shifts forward. The motion takes you with him, carries you forward like a wave to the shores. He hesitates just as the charcoal rests against the pristine paint above your sketches.
You let your eyes flutter closed, your lashes whispering against your skin, the barest breath of sound, and feel some of the tension melt from Eskel’s broad frame. You curl yourself into the cradle of his chest. The charcoal scrapes against the wood, a brisk sound softened by the murmur of the spring breeze. The fingers of the breeze stroke through the trees, rustling against the leaves until it’s something of a melody. You listen quietly, let the song of it wash over you, feel Eskel warm and steady around you, and find yourself drifting hazily through time.
The sound of the charcoal fades. There is only the wind now, only the breeze catching in the meadows red-veined sorrel before it slips between the trees. You wait, rubbing a thumb idly over the thick muscle of Eskel’s thigh.The sun is filtering through your eyelids, lighting even the shadows of your closed eyes.
Eskel fidgets. It’s the slightest of movements, but from someone so disciplined, it rings across your senses like a skipping stone leaving ripples across a pond’s surface.
You lay your head back against his broad shoulder and open your eyes. “Well met,” you say to him as he glances down at you, and his eyes burn bright, amber wreathed by sunlight.
“Well met,” he says back, laughter tucked just under his tongue, but then his eyes flicker away.
You nudge at his jawline for the span of a breath, and then you turn your attention to the window trim.
The ache filling the gaps of your ribs fades away.
Eskel has woven sprigs of rosemary through the sorrel stalks, the sharp-tipped herb softened by the dainty ovals of thyme leaves. You can tell where he began to draw. The charcoal is lighter there, not pressed firmly down, but the lines grow darker as the herbs grow more plentiful. The black of the charcoal is stark against the blue. They’re both oddly delicate, the sky blue softened to a pale robin’s egg, and the spider web of charcoal lines lies over it like fragile lace.
His arm tightens around your waist. You reach down and lace your fingers through Eskel’s, a woven pattern strong enough to carry both of your weights. His shoulders loosen. You can feel his slow, steady heartbeat.
“Come,” you say after a moment, “you can help me with the rest of the paint.”
“Dare I ask?”
“I hate grinding for the colors,” you say, rising to your feet and clapping your hands against your skirts. “It takes too long. But your Witcher muscles must be up to the task, yes?”
Eskel pushes himself up in a graceful movement, that sleek dexterity of a Witcher. “If I’d known it was only my muscles you keep me around for-”
“You’d have stayed anyway for the sex.”
He coughs at that, but his smile is broad. “You’re confident.”
You shrug. “It’s good sex.”
He laughs, a low growl of a sound. “That it is.”
You glance his way and find yourself struck by the sight of him. The afternoon sun is kind to him, makes his dark hair glisten and his eyes practically glow. You reach out to him with a small smile, wind your fingers through his once more. He lets you tug him along.
You pause just before the threshold of your cottage, glancing back as Eskel ducks inside. The clover still carries the mark of your bodies, the plush of them pressed down where you had been. There’s a bit of paint splashed across them. You idle for a moment, let the breeze tease at your skirts.
Things will be different once you cross the threshold.
With Eskel’s softly sketched herbs spun in a delicate web around your yarrow and sorrel, your cottage is no longer just yours.
You inhale softly, let the scent of the clovers wash over you. It’s grassy and sweet, with a hint of earthy dirt just beneath. It smells like home.
You turn around and go inside.
taglist: @tutuwho @witchernonsense @whitewolfandthefox @riviawitch3r @hina-chans-stuff @restingnurseface @raspberrydreamclouds @ambivertomnivore
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Merry Christmas, @music-magic-mayhem!
Merry Christmas! Hope you enjoy the fic!
Read on AO3
*****
A Change in Seasons
Derek lifted his head from his book as he heard the loud rumble of Stiles’ jeep approach. He set his book down beside him, got up and went into the kitchen to start making some hot chocolate, just as his boyfriend had requested. He listened patiently to the pounding of footsteps on the stairs and smiled when Stiles walked in.
“Hey Der,” Stiles greeted, returning his smile with his own bright one.
“Hey,” he replied, turning the heat on on the stove and setting the pot full of milk on one of the burners. “Sorry the hot chocolate isn’t ready yet. I lost track of time.”
Stiles shook his head. “You and your books.” Derek chuckled and walked over to his boyfriend, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist. “How’s your day been?”
“Quiet. I owe Ms. McCall one.”
Stiles gave Derek a light kiss on the tip of his nose. “Two horny teenage werewolf boys in one house during a big holiday? Oh yeah, you do.”
Derek smiled and pulled him closer, Stiles’ putting his own arms around Derek’s neck. “How’s your day so far?”
“Busy,” Stiles groaned as he learned all of his weight against him. “I’ve been wrapping presents all morning and then I had to run to the store to get last minute groceries for dinner tomorrow night. You’re still good to come over, right?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Can you believe this is will be our third Christmas together? I can’t. Nearly three years...Time flies, huh?”
A feeling of unease settled in his gut, but he internally shook it off as he stared into molten amber eyes. “It does, yeah.” He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Stiles’ lips before he turned around and checked on the milk.
“Why the pause?” Derek focused on pouring in the cocoa powder for a moment before he glanced back at Stiles.
“What do you mean?”
“You paused after I mentioned how long we’ve been together? Is everything ok?”
Derek’s wolf huffed as the scent of nervousness permeated in the air. He hated it when Stiles was anything but happy, both he and his wolf. He set the spoon down and turned to face his boyfriend. “Everything’s fine, Stiles.”
“Then why did you pause?”
Derek sighed before he leaned against the counter and stared at the floor. “I didn’t realize how long we’ve been together, honestly. It all just seems like a blur. A good blur, but a blur nonetheless. We’ve had so many ups and downs that it all seemed to rush by so fast.”
The tension in Stiles shoulders that had appeared after Derek had let go of him seemed to dissipate and he hopped up on the counter beside the stove. “Yeah, I know what you mean. My dad keeps asking why we aren’t just married yet.” Stiles let out a quiet chuckle, but Derek stilled, the uneasiness returning. He turned back to the stove and just mumbled out his agreement.
“Well, I hope you don’t mind me staying a little while this afternoon,” Stiles said as he stretched, shirt riding up slightly. “I need some hot cocoa and a good cuddle.
Derek smiled as he turned off the stove and gestured to where the mugs were so Stiles could pull some down. He forgot all about his unease until Stiles put in a movie after rambling for a good hour. He just couldn’t get one thought out of his mind: why we aren’t just married yet.
~
Nearly two hours later, Stiles stumbled to his feet, yawning. He turned and wrapped Derek in a hug once the werewolf was on his feet. “Thanks for letting me visit, babe.”
“Any time,” Derek replied, nuzzling into the side of Stiles’ neck and breathing in his scent.
Stiles giggled and pulled away enough to kiss him. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Yep.” Derek walked Stiles to the door and gave him one last kiss before sliding it shut after him. He turned and shoved a hand through his hair as his gut twisted, his mind racing.
Was it really okay for him to propose now? Wasn’t it too soon? What if Stiles wanted more in life later on? Surely he’d tire of playing with werewolves and want a life of normalcy.
“Are you being stupid again?” Derek froze, shifting slightly and digging one set of claws into his thigh. Pain raced up his leg and he grimaced. Slowly, he turned and saw her standing a few feet away. The young woman looked just as she had before Derek had lost her, eyes sparkling with mischief, lips quirked up in a grin.
“Erica,” he breathed. “But how? I didn’t even sense you.”
Her expression grew somber as she walked over, heels clicking on the floor. “I’m not actually here, Derek.”
He lowered his brow in confusion. “Am I hallucinating? Or dreaming?”
She snickered. “Nope. I don’t know how I’m here, honestly. But someone wanted me to show you some things.”
“What? Who?”
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” he replied quickly. “You’re my pack. I always did. You never did anything to-”
“Woah.” She raised a hand, stopping him, her own eyes wide. “You’ve been spending way too much time with Stilinski. Come on. They showed me how to do this, but I didn’t get to practice. And I only have a certain amount of time.”
“Wait, what?”
Erica grabbed his bicep and closed her eyes. He stared at her, not knowing what to say. Well, he had many things to say and ask her, but just didn’t know where to start. But before he could, the room started spinning, the sound of wind billowing past him rushed through his ears. It became too much so he squeezed his eyes shut, willing his stomach to calm.
Not a second later, it stopped. He slowly opened his eyes and met Erica’s gaze. She was staring up at him before she turned her head away. It took him a moment to realize the lighting had changed and they appeared to be standing a completely different place. A strong, familiar scent hit his nose and he turned in the same direction Erica was looking, heart pounding in his chest.
“Derek, I’m sorry, but we can’t stay,” a woman’s voice reached his ears.
“I hate it!” Derek glanced back at Erica questioningly when he heard his own voice, but it sounded far younger than now. She only gave him a grim look and nodded, gesturing him forward as she let go of his arm. He looked back toward the direction of the voices and walked down the empty hallway. An orange light flickered against gray brick walls ahead and he went toward it.
“I know, Der-bear.” Derek’s eyes widened in disbelief and he peered around the door frame. His legs nearly gave out when he saw his sister standing behind a younger version of himself, hands on his biceps. “It’s for our own safety. Mom would want us to survive.”
“But it’s Christmas, Laura! No one would even bother coming after us! They’re all too busy with family.”
Laura shook her head. “You know that’s not true.”
His younger self dropped his head. “We just got here, though. Do we really have to leave again?”
“Yes. The alpha in these parts don’t like rogues like us.”
Derek leaned against the far wall as he watched his younger self look back up at his sister, anger in his eyes. “But we’re not rogues! We’re pack! He’s just stupid!”
Laura’s soft laugh echoed throughout the small room, causing warmth to blossom in Derek’s chest. He wanted to close his eyes and cherish the sound, but he couldn’t look away.
“You’re right, we are pack. But to other packs, we’re not.”
“You’re my alpha. That has to count for something.”
Derek’s lips twitched up in a smile as he watched his sister hug his younger self tightly. “It does. However, it’s not enough for us to stay. We were told to leave tonight. I’m sorry, Derek.”
An ache replaced the warmth in his bosom and Derek turned away, glancing at Erica, who had followed him down the hall.
“Why am I seeing this?” he inquired, rubbing at his chest.
Erica shrugged. “I told you, I’m just here to show you stuff.”
“There’s more?”
He smelled sadness waft off of her before her expression reflected the emotion. “Yeah, there’s more. Are you ready?”
Derek sighed and stepped toward her. He felt her hand rest on his shoulder before the sensation from earlier happened once more.
“Derek,” Laura’s voice reached his ears and he followed it to a bedroom in a different building, the walls barren and bed neatly made. His sister was sitting on the edge of it, staring down at the half packed bag at her feet. His younger self, slightly older than the previous memory, sat down beside her. “I know we have to go. Those hunters are getting closer and closer. But…I think I’m love with Simon. And he’s so great. Did you know he believes in the supernatural? He could come with us!”
“You don’t want to put him in danger,” his younger self responded, tone void of emotion.
She sighed. “You’re right. But what if I turned him?”
“Laura, you can’t. We’ve been here too long. It’s too dangerous, for all of us.”
Derek’s heart clenched when he saw such raw emotion in Laura’s eyes right before she turned her gaze to his younger self. “Are you packed?” His younger self nodded and she slowly got to her feet. “Alright. Let’s go then.”
Derek stood and watched her finishing packing her bag before she led his younger self out of the house, sparing one last glance at the place they’d called home for eight months. Erica appeared beside him as the door shut, reaching out and giving his fingers a light squeeze.
“Simon was her first love since we lost our family,” he said softly. “He really was a great guy. He didn’t know we were werewolves, but he would rave about the possibility of their existence to her. She thought it was adorable.”
“How long did you two stay in one place?” Erica inquired, her voice just as soft.
“No longer than five to six months. Simon was the reason we stayed so long. She was in love by the third month.” A small smile reached his lips as he remembered Laura gushing on and on about the human down the street.
They stayed silent for a few long moments before Erica gently squeezed his fingers again. He glanced at her and frowned. “More?”
She nodded. “Unfortunately.”
Before he could respond, the world rushed past him, faster than the other times, and he inhaled sharply before he felt the ground settle beneath his feet. When he opened his eyes, they were in his childhood home. Charred walls, remnants of burnt furniture and the terrifying scent of smoke assaulted his senses. He stumbled back, swallowing down a whine as his heart sank.
“Derek?” Erica’s voice sounded so far away now. His senses were too overloaded and he could hear blood rushing in his ears.
He saw his younger self, just a few days prior to meeting Stiles and Scott, standing at the bottom of the staircase. He could feel the misery, nearly suffocating in it as his younger self was.
It was his first year back from running with Laura. He’d just found her corpse. She’d only just left him in New York two weeks ago.
He watched his younger self slowly glance around the room then turn and sit down heavily on the one of the steps. He buried his face in his hands and just sat there. Guilt tugged at his chest as he remembered the thoughts racing through his mind at that moment.
It was his fault. If only he’d convinced Laura to let him go with her. Then she wouldn’t be dead. Not only that, but it was Christmas Eve. His first holiday alone.
Derek turned and rushed out the front door, barely noticing he went right through the wood. He stormed down the front steps and practically ran into the forest. He could hear Erica calling after him, but he couldn’t stop. He just felt the strong need to get away, to run and never go back. Just like how he’d felt so few years ago sitting on that bottom stair.
“Derek!”
He came to a quick and sudden halt when Erica appeared a few feet in front of him. He lost his footing and fell back, staring up at her in surprise.
“How did…?” his voice was quiet, raw, as if he’d been screaming, before it trailed off.
She blinked and glanced around, clearly as confused as he felt. “I have no idea.” She shook her head and folded her arms over her chest. “That’s not the point. Look, I’m sorry you had to see that. I was just told what to show you. I didn’t know it would affect you that badly. But my time here is up. I need to get you back home.”
Derek scrambled to his feet and moved closer to her, reaching both hands out. “No. Don’t go. Please.”
Erica peered up at him, her face growing somber. “I have to.”
Before either could say another word, the wind picked up and Derek closed his eyes as his vision blurred. When it was over, he found himself back in the loft. Alone.
“Erica?!” He turned and looked around the spacious room. He couldn’t even pick up a trace of her scent. Not that he had been able to since she first appeared, but still. The all too familiar sense of sadness and guilt settled over him and he let out a low whine.
He collapsed on the couch and shoved his hands into his hair, his mind reeling. His heart ached as the memories of his time with Laura seemed to trickle in. He had an inkling as to why Erica had had to show him such hard things, but he could barely focus on it. It was all too much, too fast.
At least he’d been able to see Erica one last time.
“Derek.” His muscles tensed as the guilt overcame him and twisted like a knife in his gut. He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t face this one. He had no idea what to expect, but this wasn’t it. “Derek, look at me.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms against them. “No, you’re not real.”
“I am.” A large warm hand landed on his knee and he jerked, pulling his hands away and looking right at him.
Boyd.
Derek’s eyes stung as he rapidly blinked back tears. Images filled his mind of the young man falling dead in front of him, of Boyd’s blood coating his fingers, of the boy’s last words whispering in his ears, “It’s okay.”
“Boyd, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, unable to trust his voice.
The hand on his knee tightened its grip. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“It was. Boyd, I-”
“I’m sorry, Derek, but that’s not why I’m here.” Boyd crouched down in front of him, a small smile reaching his lips. “I’m here to show you some amazing things. Things that will help you forget about what happened to Erica and I. But you have to know that none of that was your fault.” Derek swallowed slowly and nodded. “Close your eyes.”
Derek did so and tensed slightly, anticipating the same sensation as when Erica was there. Then the sudden quiet buzz of voices reached his ears and he slowly opened his eyes. He found himself sitting on a bench beside the sheriff’s office, other officers and deputies milling about.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Derek,” John Stilinski said as he walked outside of his office. Derek stood to greet the man, but halted when he saw himself walking over, a smile on his lips. His other self shook John’s hand and they walked into the sheriff’s office, shutting the door behind them.
Boyd led them inside the room, walking right through the door. Derek blinked and slowly followed, looking directly at John and his other self, both seated on either side of the desk.
“…passed,” the sheriff was saying as he set a small stack of papers down on the wooden surface. “Best score I’ve seen in quite some time.”
“Thank you, sir,” his other self replied, sounding humble.
“Well, I’d like to start you as soon as possible. I think it’d be a great Christmas present for Stiles if you started on Monday, don’t you?”
Derek blinked and stared at his other self, watching a big smile appear on his face. “I completely agree.”
John smiled back and reached into a drawer at his side. He withdrew something shiny and Derek’s eyes widened. John set down a Beacon Hills deputy badge on the desk, close to his other self, with a gun and holster. “Welcome to the Beacon Hills sheriff Department, Deputy Hale.”
“I knew you could do it,” Boyd stated beside him as the two men at the desk continued to talk. Derek turned to him with a raised eyebrow and Boyd grinned. “You’re a good man, Derek. This just proves it.”
“What even is this?” Derek questioned. “It hasn’t happened.”
“Not yet.”
That just confused Derek further, but then he felt Boyd’s hand on his arm and he looked down at it. In the next instant, he could hear a child’s laughter and he spun around. They were standing in an unfamiliar house, one that smelled of pine and cinnamon, of family and home. A little boy came running past them and into a large living room across the hall. Derek glanced at Boyd before he followed the little boy, jaw dropping at what he saw.
A large Christmas tree stood in the corner of the room, two small couches set on either side of the walls. Three stockings full of toys and treats were scattered across one of them with wrapped boxes settled neatly under the pine tree. The little boy was dumping everything out of the stocking onto the floor, a huge smile on his face.
Footsteps sounded behind him and he looked back to see Stiles in sweats walking into the room, rubbing sleep out of one eye. A slightly older version of himself followed his lover into the room, and they both sat down on the empty couch to watch the little boy rip apart the wrapping paper to get to the treat inside.
“Think we did a good job?” his other self was whispering to Stiles, leaning in close and playing with a ring on Stiles’ finger.
Stiles rested his head on his other self’s shoulder, yawning. “Yep. If we didn’t, I don’t think he’d be this happy.” His other self chuckled and turned back to the little boy as he ran up to the couple, showing them a toy airplane he’d just unwrapped.
“Boyd, what is all this? Where is it coming from?” Derek asked, unable to look away from the scene before him.
“All of this that I’ve shown you can happen, Derek,” Boyd told him, clapping him on the shoulder. “You just have to do something that scares you.”
That had Derek tearing his gaze away. “What do you mean? What something?”
Boyd only smiled and brought them back to the loft. Derek barely had the chance to reach out before he was gone. Derek clenched his jaw in frustration, wondering what the point of all he’d just seen had been. But it's not like he could do about it, though. He glanced around and sighed, despondent. He turned to the kitchen to clean up the hot chocolate he’d made earlier.
As he cleaned out the pot, he thought about everything Erica and Boyd had showed him that night. From his past to a possible future, it got him thinking about what could’ve stirred this up. He walked over to the couch and picked up the mugs. He paused when he stared down at the one Stiles had used.
His breath caught in his throat at the sudden realization. He thought back to what Boyd had showed him when the unease from earlier came back. Could everything he saw really happen if he proposed to Stiles, if he took that big step in their relationship? His wolf yipped in his mind at just the thought and a sense of calm washed over him.
A smile touched his lips and he set the mugs down before he pulled his phone out of his pocket. Nine hours left. With a sudden urgency, he grabbed his keys and threw on a jacket before he rushed out of the loft.
~
The early morning helped wake Derek up as he stepped up to the Stilinski’s front door. He lifted one hand to knock when it swung open to reveal Stiles, still clad in his pajamas. A huge smile was on his face as he met Derek’s gaze and stepped forward, pressing a kiss to the wolf’s lips.
Derek smiled. “Can I come in?”
Stiles blushed slightly. “Oh yeah! Yeah, come on in.” He stepped aside and Derek walked in, shrugging off his leather jacket. Stiles took it from him and hung it up on the coat rack before intertwining their fingers. They walked together into the living room where John and Chris were sitting on the couch, a present on each of their laps.
“Merry Christmas,” Chris greeted.
“Merry Christmas,” Derek replied as he sat down on the floor. Stiles sat beside him, brushing their shoulders together.
“Please tell me you didn’t get me anything vegan, Stiles,” John mumbled as he started to unwrap his gift. Laughter filled the air and Derek couldn’t help but gently squeeze Stiles hand in happiness. Stiles looked at him curiously, so he only shook his head and turned to the other two men.
John finished unwrapping his to find a new sheriff’s jacket. Derek knew Stiles had Lydia and one of the deputies down at the sheriff’s department make a new one. Hadn’t even been delivered from another company. John gave his son a grateful smile and slipped it on even though he didn’t have a shift until later.
Chris received a new gun holster from John. The two older men shook hands, small smiles on their faces.
When it was Derek’s turn to receive a present, John tossed him a small box. He unwrapped it to see a new phone inside, grinned, and thanked him.
It hadn’t been a big Christmas, especially since Chris had just returned from Italy last week. Stiles had decided a month ago that it was going to be similar to secret Santa, but everyone knew who was giving them a present. It was a last minute decision to invite Chris over since he had no family to celebrate with.
Speaking of Stiles, Derek watched his boyfriend stumble to his feet and disappear upstairs. He returned a few minutes later with gifts that he handed off to Chris and Derek. His father scolded him for getting more than one present, but Stiles just waved him off.
Derek leaned back against one of the couches and watched Chris open his present before he opened his own. It was a photo album of Stiles and the pack, starting all the way back to when Derek had first asked him out.
Derek smiled and wrapped an arm around Stiles, kissing the side of his head. Then he shifted to his knees, pulling one leg up and withdrew a small silver band out of his pocket. The room fell into a hush and Stiles stared at him, wide eyed.
“Derek,” he whispered. “Wait, this isn’t because of what I said yesterday, is it? You totally don’t have to do this to win my dad over. He already loves you!”
“What did you tell him, son?” John asked in an accusatory tone.
Derek chuckled. “This isn’t because of that at all. I’ve been thinking about doing this for a while.” Stiles swallowed nervously and settled back, eyes glued to the ring in between Derek’s fingers. “Stiles, I’ve loved you for a long time. We both know that I was in denial about it in the beginning, but you just grew on me. Like a fungus.” Low laughter followed and his smile grew, confidence and hope blooming in his chest. “You are the smartest, bravest, most passionate man I have ever met. You’re loyal and kind and see things as they are. When you fell for me, you knew it and you didn’t let me forget it. I wouldn’t want anyone else to spend the rest of my life with. Mieczyslaw Genim Stilinski, will you marry me?”
Tears filled those amber eyes that Derek had fallen in love with, bottom lip trembling. “That’s a stupid ass question, Derek. Of course I’ll marry you!”
Derek’s face split in half with a huge smile and he slipped the ring on Stiles’ shaky finger. He rested both hands on either sides of his lover’s face and pulled him into a deep kiss.
Stiles pulled away, hands resting over his, as the other men started to talk amongst themselves. “You promise it wasn’t anything I said yesterday?”
“I promise. I had a few…friends visit and chat with me, though.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” A happy sigh slipped past Derek’s lips. “Just a few gentle reminders of how I don't have to be afraid anymore.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Of having you being a part of my pack.”
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Twice Reminded
@benefitcrhazard & @studiesofobsidian
(With love from Onionmun. Might be a two parter as I didnt exactly follow the kiss prompt and because I'm awful. Disclaimer: I have very little clue of your behind-the-scenes ship and I forget what augs Mae has in that verse. Nonetheless, enjoy?)
In a discreet corner of the old world town, above a quaint, French cafe, sits a small one bedroom apartment with arched windows twice as tall as they are long. Raindrops from grumbling thunderclouds patter against their cool panes, frosting the corners of the thick glass with a thin mist that fails to obscure the light of a spindly street lamp outside. Its soft, buttery glow casts long, slanting shadows across the stucco ceiling and the dark, wooden floors, dimly illuminating the corners of the abode’s common room.
It is quiet there. No one is home. Yet, by the state of the dishes in the sink and the shoes stowed at the door the one who lives here will not be gone for very long. Indeed, not ten minutes past the strike of eleven, do heeled steps ascend the stairs. Two tones of gentle, bubbling laughter join their sharp, rapping echoes.
There is a jangling of keys and a number of hushed giggles before the door finally opens, sparing the room another, stronger golden beam of light. A dark haired woman with droplets of rain like pearlescent beads upon her brow twirls inside. Her taut cheeks flush pink from girlish merriment and a chill outdone by the warmth found in her expressive, dark eyes. Casting her purse aside she turns and holds out her hands, beckoning her companion through the door's threshold. Her smile reaches her eyes as the other abides: a woman with flame coloured hair that spills across her shoulders like long, satin ribbons. They are of the similar build and height although one cheats two inches with a pair of black shoes. It is a detail they enjoy as they lock hands and pull each other close for a kiss.
It is not the first time they allow their lips to know one another's, nor the first their slender hands trace over each other's shoulders, neck and jaw, nor the first they relaxed in each other's arms. Nonetheless, they both sigh as if releasing a weight or a mask they tied about their heads.
Their fevered movements slow even as the raven-haired one pulls her companion further into the room by the lapels of her ruby red coat. Their breaths, warm from passion, whisper within the cool air, and brush against each other's chins if not their cheeks and pouting lips. Those halted pants they share speak a thousand words of joy, and growl of a greedy peace that burns into a primal desire. Soon the other's hands join in wandering and their coats fall to the floor.
"My room," the brunette pants, catching the flash in her lover's shadowed eyes, "follow..."
But the other only smiles as bright as a sunlit moon, and steps forward, purposefully leading them closer to the table beneath the tall, misty windows. "You sure," she questions then laughs, like bells, at the blush upon her counterpart's face for the implied boldness. "Of course," she whispers, conceding and kissing that worried brow. "I, too, have discretion, Dr. Auzenne."
The nerves within the psychiatrist's belly stir at the tease. "I know. I know..." A nervous glee surmounts beneath her flesh, which she smothers under a deepening kiss and a press against the other's breast. Her eyes grow heavy and she begins to correct them towards the bedroom door just as the door to their left begins to open.
She does not understand the slow line of light creeping across the floor nor the rigid, tomb-like shape burning the corner of her consciousness. Not at first. It takes a shiver and the prickle of goosebumps across her lover's slender neck before she recognizes what is being let in. A face watches from the hall.
"Mae," she croaks, her hands curling, like the courage in her heart, at the other's soft hair. Her dark eyes grow wide and wild and she wishes she had something other than words and air to separate them from the shadow that remains motionless just outside the door.
Possessing a calmness the doctor believed she should have had, the red haired Mae stiffens but does not stumble over her words nor whirl around in fear. Instead her hands softly squeeze at her companion’s shoulders and the delighted curl at her lips is replaced by a tight purse. “I know. I know,” she soothes, copying the doctor's earlier trust though her voice trails into a quivering silence. They pull away but not by far to face the one stepping through the door.
Darkness resumes with a click, and where there was once two now stands three: two women and a man with grey eyes that catch the withered light bleeding through the rain soaked windows. Besides his expressionless brow the outline of his form is all they can see, but they can taste his presence: a poisonous entity of gunpowder and violence that thickens in the small room.
His voice, a purr, cuts through the dim, and rakes down their spines. "Putting in extra hours?"
A frown grows upon the doctor’s lips. She recognizes that voice, that stance, that callous disregard and knows what the man's appearance means. Indignation burns at her cheeks just as much as fear arrests her breaths. She thought she had been careful. Discreet. But someone must have disagreed. Why else would the enforcer of her creed stand between them and the door - between them and their quiet unions. “Sim--” she falters at the Illuminatus's disapproving, hollow gaze at the use of his name. “Simons. This is outside anyone's business, especially your own. Leave. You’re not welcome here.”
“I was not addressing you,” the man interjects, darkening, his eyes flicking from the doctor to Mae who’s hands slowly lower before her. “But on that note I beg to differ."
Auzenne feels her companion shift under his scrutiny. "No. She is a welcome guest. My welcome guest."
"One that you have bought," the one named Simons retorts, a warning edge to his level tone. "And she is just as easily bought again."
Auzenne's face pales.
His chin lifts as does the tenor of his voice. "You have indulged her - and in her - far too thoroughly. Had it been a casual encounter, a rare weakness of the flesh, I might have overlooked the order to seek you out." His unblinking glare returns to the doctor, though his briskly hissed words are meant for both. "But it appears that feminine sensibility of confusing the physical with the emotional overrides the logical yet again. Leave us, Mae, but don't be foolish." A finger lifts and motions a quick, wide circle in the air. "I ask only once."
He knows her name. He knows her name. Of course he knows her name.
The redhead whips her head around, her mouth and hands pleading to the hostess, whose lips part in a confusion of reactions. "It's not as he says," Mae whispers, giving the brunette a reassuring squeeze. "Not like that."
"You know him?" Her voice strains against the cold air, her heart a wild, galloping prey. Wild, fearful fantasies beat against her mind like leathered wings. "Has he..."
Mae shakes her head though her lips pull in on themselves in shame. "It's not like that..."
Like what? The doctor wants to scream, though not in anger - never in anger towards the woman plucking her coat off the waxed floor. Maybe she should. Yet she watches only in trepidation as her companion nears the door.
Mae's steps are slow and cautious for each brings her closer to the shadowed man in white and black, and further away from the comfort found in gentle, understanding arms of the woman behind her. She pulls on her coat, a small shield against the chill set in his eyes and the heat of his proximity as he remains motionless before the door. It is purposeful. She knows. She has to twist just to pass him by.
Thus she should not have been so surprised then when his arm crosses before her and stops her in her tracks. Nonetheless, she does not know whom gasped louder: herself or the doctor six paces back, who cries out an angry plea. "Don't hurt her!"
He does not - not physically. He is nothing but gentle when his hand slips gently across her collar and rises up the column of her neck. His fingers tangle only slightly in her red hair, as he pauses to watch the tresses cascade between his knuckles like rivlets of blood. Only when his palm reaches her cheek does she finally lift her eyes to his. Their stare is empty, mechanical, and though she stands a few inches above his shoulder she feels small and rabbit-like beneath them. And cheap. She breathes softly. Painfully. It is a lesion left behind by her profession; one that he reminds both women of by the way he sensually scrapes a smear of lipstick from the lower curve of her delicate mouth with the nail of his thumb.
"You'll wait downstairs," he commands in a whisper before releasing her, "least you be flagged by our drones for breaking curfew." His attention settles on the raven-haired Illuminata before him. "I won't be long."
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Sawney - Part 38
Chapter Masterlist
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Warnings: disturbing ass gore, some smut at the end.
Their home was opened up from the outside — not by biters, but by vandals looking for food. They bashed in the windows and plied away the wooden beams. Four of them — Desa’s mother was in hysterics, still. She couldn’t get her husbands blood out of the carpet.
Desa retrieved her father’s handgun, cocking it as her sister demanded that Jack hide in the closet upstairs. She had a crowbar as a weapon. The minute the vandals burst through, Desa fired. Blood spewed and the floor became painted with crimson.
Bullets flew. One pierced Desa’s leg and she cried out. Her sister had no time to swing her crowbar before she was shot in the neck, the buckshot piercing through her throat and out the other end. Another hit her leg. Then another in the chest, and she fell.
Desa screamed and fired, and fired, and fired, until blood filled her mind and her brain and—
“They’re gone. They must have scattered,” Laura said. She sighed, glancing around the room before saying softly, “We didn’t see Drake. We would have…put him down if we had.”
“That’s not your job. Don’t worry about it,” Negan mumbled. Laura shot him a saddened look, before excusing herself. The meeting room was empty — Gavin and Eugene were out reinforcing the gates. Chairs that would have once been occupied by Simon, Regina, and Drake, were empty.
Rick’s people had found them, bloody and stumbling along holding a barely conscious Carl. They’d taken the boy, leaving Negan and Desa to fend for themselves — which Negan didn’t hold against him. Had Laura and Arat not rolled up a few minutes after….
Negan didn’t want to think about it. He still remembered Desa, blood coming from her mouth, leaning against him for support as they considered their options.
You could never make the hard decisions.
Negan shook his head, standing and grabbing Lucille. He headed up towards the parlor. He had no clue which of his wives had decided to stay, and which had crawl back to join the workers. At this point, he really didn’t care.
Sherry, no longer clad in her black dress, met Negan at the top of the stairs. In a low voice, she said, “I tried bringing her food. She won’t eat.”
“That’s not your fucking job, Sherry—”
“I owe it to her. I was nasty towards her, because of Tanya…she saved us,” Sherry blocked Negan’s path, and he rolled his eyes. “None of the others girls are staying. Neither am I.”
“Dwight sure as fuck won’t take you back, but by all means, go and try,” Negan scoffed.
“I don’t want him to take me back. We’re done. It’s over,” Sherry replied bitterly. “So are we. But we’ve been over.”
Sherry bypassed him, heading towards the lower levels. Negan watched her go, lips pressed into a thin line. Part of him couldn’t deal with her bullshit. Not when Desa was in his room and in pain. But he had enough space in his heart to feel remorse for the way he treated her.
“Shit,” Negan pinched the bridge of his nose. As he entered the parlor, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the mirror — haggard, hair disheveled, dark circles under his eyes pronounced. He looked as if he'd aged ten years in a week. He was certain Desa wasn’t any better, and when he entered his room, he found her buried beneath the covers of his bed.
She stirred, lifting her head. And in that moment, Negan nearly collapsed, for she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And he’d almost lost her.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Desa mumbled. She reached for him as he shed his jacket, sliding into her arms. He nuzzled the side of her neck, inhaling, closing his eyes as her small hands reached up to touch his face. He kissed her, sighing into her lips.
“Sherry said that you won’t eat,” Negan murmured. “What’s wrong?”
“Can’t sleep, either. Nightmares.”
“About what?”
“Just…my family. My sister,” Desa shrugged. “It’s not anything new. I’m just letting them bother me.”
Negan’s fingers dipped beneath the hem of her shirt, tracing the bruises on her hips and ribs. She flinched, hissing. “Did Carson take care of you?”
“He did.”
“Good,” Negan murmured. They sat in silence, enjoying each others embrace. After a while Negan said, “You can’t fucking beat yourself up about Drake.”
“Everyone is dead,” Desa replied, her voice hollow. “Everyone that I know…that I knew,” she sucked in a breath. “Alpha, the leader of the Whisperer’s…she called me an animal. She said that I belonged with her people because I’m meant to survive. I am, and I hate it. I hate that I’m not human anymore—”
“Then what does that fucking make me? Huh? I’m still alive,” Negan cupped her cheek. “If you’re a monster, then I’m a fucking monster. No fucking shame in living, Desa. None at all.”
Desa didn’t reply. Then, in a soft voice, she asked the question Negan knew would eventually come.
“Where’s Simon?”
“Dad has a gun.”
Desa lifted her head. Jack’s eyes were wide with terror. His lower lip quivered, big, fat tears threatening to fall from his eyes. He was standing a foot away from the corpses of their invaders, and the corpse of their sister, which were beginning to rot and decay beneath the blankets that covered them.
Desa was halfway from her chair.
A gunshot.
The boarded walls of the home shuddered. Candles, the only source of light in the room, wobbled. Then, the unmistakable, horrifying sound of Desa’s mother shrieking. Desa was quick to lose track of Jack — she assumed he’d stayed in the living room.
Nothing would prepare her for the sight of her father, sprawled out across the floor, with half his head blown off from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
Desa awoke screaming. Negan had to pin her thrashing body to the bed, his weight atop her as he cried her name.
She fell still.
“Nightmare,” Desa gasped. “I’m sorry.”
Negan peeled himself away, reaching over and flicking on the lamp. His bare chest heaved and he stroked Desa’s hair, murmuring, “I’m here. You’re safe.”
In an attempt to distract herself, Desa rolled atop him and kissed him. Her hands travelled across his body, from his neck down passed his navel. She missed him. She missed his body — everything. And between feverish, hungry kisses she verbalized that.
“Missed you,” Desa murmured. “I need you.”
Negan smoothed her hair back, and away from her face. Desa hastily shed her nightshirt, rising to her knees so she could kick off her panties. Negan watched, slipping two fingers beneath her folds. Pinpricks of pleasure shot from her core, throughout her sore body. Her mouth opened in silent bliss when he lifted his head to take one of her dark nipples into his mouth, humming at the contact. With each stroke of his fingers, Desa found herself getting closer and closer.
“That’s it, baby, that’s fucking it,” Negan groaned. Desa clenched, hard, around his fingers, eyes squeezed shut as white-hot sparks of bliss and pleasure shot through her entire body. She whined when he pulled his fingers away, sucking them into his mouth. Desa sat up, straddling his waist and staring down at him with her eyebrows raised.
Negan stared, tilting his head ever so slightly. Wet fingers rose to stroke Desa’s cheek, and in a low voice, he murmured, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Desa hummed, nipping at Negan’s lower lip, suckling on the skin. She could feel his erection straining against his boxers, but when she reached for it, he stopped her.
“You need to rest.”
Desa whined again, grinding her core against his clothed cock. When he stopped her again, she moaned, “Why?”
“Tomorrow,” Negan replied. “Tomorrow I want to spend the entire fucking day with you. Just us, in bed. Eating food, fucking, doing whatever the fuck we want.”
Desa slumped atop Negan, tucking her head beneath his chin. He gave a content sigh, wrapping his arms around her.
“Love you,” Desa mumbled, already feeling the clutches of sleep take her. Her body felt sated, satisfied. She had no idea if she even had another round left in her. So she closed her eyes, and prayed that there would be no nightmares.
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So as usual you can read this standalone. But if you’re interested this all started here.
"Why don't you show everyone how it's done then?" Alec smirks.
A laugh bubbles out of Magnus' chest before he realises Alec is actually being serious. He crosses one leg over the other, placing his hands purposefully on his knee as an idea starts to form.
"On one condition." Magnus responds and is delighted with the genuine surprise that moves over Alec's features.
"Okay." Alec agrees without taking the time to think through the proposal. Magnus pretends not to hear Isabelle's snort, she's far too deceptive and no doubt already has an inkling of his plans.
The fingers of one hand dance across the other, accompanied by the metallic clink of his rings as they brush past one another. "You go first."
Alec's mouth opens, before closing, no words spoken and his eyes dart to Isabelle who merely laughs at his expression. When he levels her with a stare, she shrugs, holds up her hands in defence and turns back to the current singer.
"Up there?" Alec asks, referring to the spot where a Seelie is currently singing about lost love.
Magnus quirks a brow, leans forward, using his arm to rest his weight on his knee. He's a breath away from Alec, the kind of close where you might whisper a secret and he sees Alec's eyes dart down to his lips. He's only slightly smug about the effect he knows he's having.
"But you're a Shadowhunter, Alexander." He teases. "You battle demons on a daily basis. What's one little song?"
And just like that the challenge is set.
Convincing Alec to sing had been a lot easier than talking Alec into leaving the loft.
They'd both had long, unforgiving days and Magnus had wanted nothing more than to curl up with his boyfriend on the sofa. But the set of Alec's shoulders, the frustration that had manifested itself as tension evident in all of his movements had changed Magnus' mind.
It had been a gruelling few days, with the threat of the missing soul sword hanging over everyone's head. Magnus knew the unease Alec was carrying was partly to do with him. He hadn't said the words, but it was one of the things that had drawn Magnus to Alec it the first place, so he couldn't help but see it. Alec was worried. Carrying the responsibility of protecting Mundanes, Downworlders and Magnus himself, well that was a heavy burden to bear.
He knew he couldn't change who Alec was, in all honesty he didn't want to, but he wished Alec could care about his own well being as much as he did everyone else's.
"We're going out." He'd told Alec no sooner than he'd removed his Jacket.
Alec had huffed a sigh. "Can't we just stay in."
"No." Magnus had told him, then softening his voice, he'd taken one of Alec's hands into his. "There's always going to be a crisis and you're always going to be standing in front of it, but, Alec, sometimes you need to take a little time for yourself."
He'd pulled away to get their coats, Alec's still warm from wear. "This." He'd said, pressing a chaste kiss to Alec's lips when he came back to him. "This is why you win."
There'd been no more protest from Alec, well, not until they'd discovered it was actually open mic night at Hunter's Moon. Somehow he'd manage to coax Alec into grabbing a seat at Isabelle's table. She'd come to support Simon, who'd put in a session earlier before it had descended into essentially, just Karaoke.
"So what did you decide on?" Magnus asks Alec.
Being a supportive boyfriend, Magnus had helpfully suggested a song for Alec to sing, but when Alec had looked at the words he'd blushed, gloriously, and stammered 'I can't sing that in public.'
'But you'd sing it in private?' Magnus had flirted back, embellishing the line with a wink. He'd been teasing. Mostly.
Seeing Alec's distress, Isabelle had kindly offered to choose a song for Alec and they'd been talking in hushed whispers ever since.
"You'll have to wait and see." Alec tells him and Magnus can't be frustrated when Alec gives him that full smile of his.
Standing behind the microphone, Magnus notices Alec is nervous. His thumb is rubbing into the palm of his other hand, a tell tale sign of his anxiety. He clears his throat a couple of times, the microphone feedback is harsh and unforgiving.
It's strange for Magnus to see Alec like this. He's become so used to seeing the Shadowhunter, the Soldier, the Leader in action that it can be easy to forget that this softness, this vulnerability lies beneath.
Alec's eyes stare at the ground as the music begins to play. There's a heckle from the left and both Magnus and Isabelle stare them into silence. Alec's voice, soft and hesitant draws him back as he sings the first line.
'I must've walked these streets about a million times.'
He stumbles slightly over the words, them and the rhythm of the song are clearly unfamiliar to him.
'I thought I knew them well but maybe I was blind, 'Cause everything's brand new.'
As he makes his way through the first verse Magnus sees the nerves slowly edge away, sees Alec's confidence begin to grow and then he lifts his head from the screen, eyes locking on to Magnus' as he sings the next words.
'Is this love... really love?'
It sucker punches him. His focus narrows to Alec. Just Alec. He's behind the beat, chasing it. It isn't perfect, wouldn't win him a record deal, but his voice is sweet just like the smile he's aiming at Magnus. He ducks his head again to find the words and Magnus is spell bound to just look and watch and listen.
He's been heading down this path, more like hurtling, since the moment he'd first seen Alec. He's afraid of wanting so much so soon, of feeling this much this soon. He'd told Alec that he wasn't the only one that felt vulnerable, that he was worried about rushing this, that he might lose Alec if they did.
"Good choice?" Isabelle's voice pulls him from his thoughts but he doesn't take his eyes from Alec as he hums an agreement.
'So all these demons I'm letting go, 'Cause I can see what is beautiful, It finally feels like I'm coming home.'
The final words ring out and Magnus can't help but stand up as the crowd claps, somewhat less enthusiastically than himself and Isabelle whistles her approval. Alec smiles as he makes his way over to their table, hand reaching for Magnus' as he joins them. And there in the middle of a Downworlder bar a Shadowhunter and a Warlock kiss.
#malec#malec fic#malec fanfiction#shadowhunters#shadowhunters fic#I apologise for this I was super unmotivated and this is what happened#oh look I wrote a thing#because everyone should do Karaoke once in their life#fic rec#drabble
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What You Desire | What You Deserve
Rating: K+
Summary: Jellal’s POV of the almost-kiss scene~
"I don't see the old Jellal before me! He was full of life, and would never give up without a fight!"
"Maybe he's dead now…"
Erza nearly snarled in her righteous anger. Her hands moved from his shoulders to his collar and she yanked him to his feet.
"Why you-!" She growled through her gritted teeth.
"Erza…"And then they were falling.
AO3
Jellal didn't know why he was speaking so freely. It was as if his tongue had previously been weighed down, but being in Erza's presence once more had lifted that weight, and he couldn't help but vomit the truth. Maybe it was because these had been the dark and tragic thoughts on his mind that he knew would be painful… or annoying... to Ultear and Meredy. It was useless to speak to them of such things.
No, these were words he wouldn't have thought speaking to any other person but Erza.
Being near her once more, it was a roller coaster of emotions he was barely able to conceal. It was the most elated he'd been since before he could remember, and it was simultaneously the most self-loathing he'd felt in a while. She reminded him of that perfectly brilliant light which she carried within, pleasurable to behold, and tragically contrasting the darkness he saw within himself. It made everything he'd done up to that point feel so… pointless. After seven long years of fighting the darkness, trying to atone and gain back that light he knew he had once had… he was still stained by it. His hands felt dirty as he clutched them together in his lap. There was nothing he had done which felt like he had been cleansed in the slightest.
"Perhaps it would be best if I did die…" he muttered, letting the self-pity and despair control his words.
And then she struck him. The sharp pain startled him for a moment, but really he should have seen it coming. If he'd heard something like that from Erza, he wouldn't be very happy either. Not that she would say that. Her lot was light and life. Death for her was a tragedy, not a release.
"You'd be satisfied with the coward's way out?!" Erza exclaimed, her sense of strength and justice seeping out of her, even as he looked away, his eyes narrowed and hard at nothing.
"I'm not as strong as you," he replied as if it were an excuse. "I'm…"
"You think you need to be strong in order to live?"
That is the very definition of life, Erza. It's harsh and it's full of heartache and disappointment. The only way to live is through strength of heart. And he was feeling very weak.
"You're wrong!" She continued, as if she could hear his thoughts. "Life itself is what gives us strength!"
He didn't reply, keeping his glare down from her fiery stare.
She gripped his shoulders, and for a moment he thought she was going to literally shake him. "I don't see the old Jellal before me! He was full of life, and would never give up without a fight!"
It had been so long since he'd been that person, he was barely certain that child existed in more than memories. It was certainly not the person he was today. He turned his face to her, but kept his eyes down. He could feel his shame and self-loathing radiate out from him, and Erza could most certainly feel it too. "Maybe he's dead now…"
Erza nearly snarled in her righteous anger. Her hands moved from his shoulders to his collar and she yanked him to his feet.
"Why you-!" She growled through her gritted teeth.
He could barely look her in the eye, even as she held him there. His eyes shut, and he nearly coward away from her as she pulled him close to her raging eyes. "Erza…"
And then they were falling, to both their surprise.
Painfully, they rolled down the dirt hill together, Erza continuing to grip his collar. He shut his eyes, unable to think fast enough to stop their descent.
When they did finally stop, he was on his hands and knees… with Erza lying beneath him. His eyes opened wide as he gaped at her. And she gaped right back. All the anger had gone from her as had his weak bitterness. It was as if the awkward tumble had stripped them of the argument.
She lay right before him, her eyes catching the dazzling lights surrounding them. In her eyes was amazement as a blush spread across her cheeks. She was so beautiful… so incredibly beautiful he forgot himself and just stared, unable to tear his eyes away from the stunning woman accidentally pinned beneath him. He wasn't even sure if he could breathe.
At that moment, he knew he wanted to be everything she saw in him. He needed it, wanted it because she was so full of that light. It was impossible to escape his own desire for her. Now, he felt it inside his heart, the desire for light… and love. A day ago, he would have never imagined he'd feel so raw and so alive.
His eyes softened from his startlement, looking down at the woman who constantly turned his world upside down. "You always know what to say… don't you?"
A smile graced her lips. "That's not true at all," she replied, a breathless chuckle in her voice. "I just stumble through life one day at a time… that's all."
"Erza," he spoke, not knowing how else to respond, save for her name, which rang with her glory and light.
Slowly, she moved her hand up to her eyes, shielding them from his gaze. "I… never thought I'd see you again…" there was a quiver to her voice and her chin trembled, tears falling from her covered eyes.
He watched them fall down her cheek and past her lips… he felt ready to burst and all he wanted was to be closer to her. She'd wanted to see him again, and so he wanted to never leave her side again. He would give her the world. Anything and everything.
Slowly, hesitantly, she reached up and grasped his face between her hands. She was so close… and Jellal wanted nothing more than to close that distance, and press his lips to hers.
"Jellal…" her voice was barely more than a whisper as she spoke his name. He could hear the unspoken request, feel it. After so long struggling with these years and feelings, to kiss her, to confirm what both of them already knew. He wanted it more than he could ever comprehend.
Tears flowed down her face again. Almost instinctively, Jellal lifted a hand to her skin, wiping away the stream of water. Her face was so soft, so warm to his touch… he couldn't let go if he wanted to. Closer...closer…
He tilted his wrist, lifting her face closer to his, and she willingly followed, continued with a small smile on her lips. He moved closer as well, slowly closing the gap between them, and his heart raced. He was so full of the immense love he had for her, so full that his heart felt heavy, pulling him down to her. Time seemed to stand still, as if there were miles to go before he could press his lips to hers.
You don't deserve this, a voice from within him snarled. All the death and misery you've caused, you think you deserve her?
He knew he didn't. In the moment his mind had been solely on her, but the reminder was like a punch to the stomach. He didn't deserve her.
Even as she sat up, slowly coming closer to him with a smile on her face, he could imagine where he touched her was growing dark with his taint. His hands were covered in blood; he was staining her and her wonderful light for his own desire. He desired her, and it sickened him.
Simon will never experience this, the voice continued. So many lives will never have what you're desiring… because of what you did.
He knew, and yet he desired her all the same. His stomach churned with disgust.
And yet, she smiled, and he didn't let go. He moved to her as she did to him.
You've deprived Simon of this. You knew he loved her too…
He could feel her breath against his lips, her warmth surrounding him.
You're disgusting.
At last, his lips met hers in a soft, timid kiss. But his elation was gone, marred by the truths circling around his mind. He wanted to melt into her, bathe in her radiance, bask in her glory, and to never let this wonderful moment escape them. He'd wanted this for so long! But cold spread through him instead. He had told himself he wanted to give her this, but in truth… he was merely taking what he wanted for himself.
You will never deserve this.
Overcome with the self-loathing anew, he pushed her back, severing their muted kiss. He shut his eyes and turned away, fearing the hurt on her face.
She'd wanted this too. He knew… she felt as he did. She'd been practically glowing with joy. She deserved that joy, that love… she deserved someone not bathed in the blood of her friends.
But she loved him. He had trapped her once again. I'm so sorry, Erza. I don't deserve to love you.
"I can't…" he said after the silence had felt like an eternity. Still he couldn't look her in the eye. What a useless fool I am… "I have a fiancée…" Utterly pathetic.
He regretted the words as they left his mouth. What a ridiculous and blatant lie. But it was the first thing he could think of to let her move on, and cause her the least amount of pain… hopefully.
She suddenly pushed him away, and he gasped in surprise at the movement. Still, he couldn't face her. He let his head droop as he grasped his shoes.
"Oh-" Ezra said frantically. "I didn't mean to make you think that I- er we should- you know… uh…"
"No! I- I'm the one who should… sorry…" Really, if he could just die of embarrassment that instant, it would be a relief to say the least.
Erza blew out a breath, "A fiancée! That's a surprise! Well congratulations! That's great! Mmhmm, I'm really happy for you…"
She sounded very much the opposite of that. If he was a bad liar, than she was worse. Please just let me die…
He kept his eyes down, his face tomato red, he was sure. The whole situation couldn't have been going worse than it was currently. I'm sorry I'm such a fool, Erza.
"Do you love her?" Erza asked, her voice so incredibly gentle.
His eyes widened, his heart filled with that warmth once more. Even though she asked it of a fictional fiancée, the one woman he did love was sitting in front of him… and she definitely wasn't engaged to him.
Do I love you, Erza?
"Yes," he replied firmly, honestly. Even though it was under a guise, it was a relief to admit aloud to her.
"Then live… for her sake," Erza continued softly.
Jellal felt a smile spread across his face. It lightened his heart a little. The past six years since he'd regained his memory it had been difficult to find a reason to continue on fighting, and there wasn't a reason to stop either. But for Erza… that was reason enough.
"I can do that."
Hello~! So I first watched the anime dubbed, so when I was writing this I wasn't sure of which dialogues to use... so I studied the scene in the manga, subbed, and dubbed to get the best combination. I hope it wasn't annoying to anyone. Thanks for reading!
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That’s Us: Chapter Four
Chapter Four: But You Know What You’ve Lost
Word count: 5,157
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Pre-epilogue: translation of song-lyrics | Epilogue
To read on AO3 click here.
Trigger warnings: Listen, this chapter is really fucked up angsty and I'm sorry. There's also suicidal thoughts and like a sort of, spur of the moment, half-attempt at suicide. It's comparable to the forest scene in its nature (so using fire and not anything bloody and also relatively spontaneous rather than thought out), but it's a lot longer and angstier and more explicit. So if you're triggered by these things, please be careful or don't read it at all.
Now
Baz
“Baz.”
For a second his eyes light up before quickly dying out again.
“Simon.”
It comes out as more of a breath than an actual word.
Instinctively, it seems, Snow rises to his feet, but halts at that. We remain like this, looking at each other, frozen.
I haven’t seen Simon in more than two months. I haven’t seen him since the day we won the trial. Although, I didn’t really see him at the trial either. I avoided his gaze as if my life depended on it. Maybe it did.
It might have been the hardest thing I’ve ever done and standing here, seeing him standing here before me, it feels like the world has been lifted off my shoulders. Even though there is this unfamiliar and void look in his eyes, he is still Simon Snow.
It hurts to see him without his usual joy and spirit, but I know it will come back. It must. He may have lost a lot already, but I won’t let him lose that, too. Not that there’s much I could do about it. So, I’ll just hope.
After a few more moments of staring, Snow clears his throat.
“Baz,” he says again, “Hi.”
“Snow.”, I reply.
He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. A helpless sigh escapes and he bows his head, before looking back up again.
“Sit down,” he starts, before adding a soft “please”.
My instincts scream at me to bite something back at him about doing whatever the hell I want, but I know it’s not the right moment (as if it ever was) and nod silently before walking over to my bed and sitting down. Simon moves to sit across from me on his own bed.
Snow seems to be struggling for words again, so I decide to start the conversation.
“Why are you here?”, it sounds more antagonistic than I mean it to, but Snow ignores it.
“I needed to get the last of my stuff before Watford closes for the summer.”, he says.
“You couldn’t get the Bunces to do that for you?” I’m not even surprised anymore at my own instinctively snarky tone, but while I’m panicking inside, Snow ignores it yet again.
“I also wanted to talk to you.” He says, and all I manage is raise an eyebrow in response.
Instead of continuing to actually say what he apparently has to say to me, Snow seems to kind of zone out, staring right through me. The void in his eyes terrifies me.
After a few moments, I decide he needs to snap out of it. I hope the Bunces rarely let him out of their sight if this tends to happen every few minutes.
When I cough softly I can see his eyes focussing again and some of him flooding back into them.
Simon
“So,” Baz snaps me out of my usual daze, “what is it you wanted to talk about.”
I can hear that he is trying to go for a mocking voice, he has even quirked his eyebrow in his usual spotting manner, but all of it falls flat. We’re just too tired for this. I think we might have been for quite some time, even before the battle. I guess I never recognised our mutual exhaustion, blinded by my own paranoia.
But I’ve done some thinking on my walks, so instead of taking his half-hearted bait, I give Baz a small smile.
“I wanted to thank you.” That surprises him.
“Okay.” He breaks our gaze, fidgeting with the bottom of his uniform jacket. I’ve never seen him so uncomfortable. I ought to just get my stuff now and get out, but I know that there is more to say and more to do. Crowley, I’ve been so blind.
“Baz,” I say, “look at me, please.”
When he doesn’t respond, I get up from my bed and crouch on the floor in front of him, forcing him to look at me.
“Thank you,” I hold his gaze, daring him not to let mine go, “for everything.”
It feels like I’ve been waiting for his response for ages, keeping our eyes locked, when he finally manages to choke back the tears that were welling up and nod slightly.
And then, because I’ve missed him such an awful lot, I bring my hand up to push a string of his hair behind his ear before softly cupping his cheek. And, because I’ve missed him such an awful lot, I marvel at the way his eyes close, eyebrows furrowed, as he leans into my touch. Because I’ve missed him such an awful lot, I lean forward to rest my own forehead against his and let my eyes close, concentrating solely on our breaths mingling. With my eyes closed, I see him again, standing in the field, opposite me, his eyes void and resigned. Sad. A silent goodbye. A silent declaration. With every breath I take, I try to, hope to, lift some of it all off his back. With every breath I release, I try to, hope to, pass over everything that goes unsaid.
We’re both so broken. Forced enemies. So alike.
Baz
With Snow here, touching my cheek, his forehead pressing against mine, it really hits me how much I’ve missed him. It’s not like we ever used to talk about our problems. He was never someone I could rant to, lift some of the weight off my shoulders. But his presence was always familiar and comforting in its own way. Knowing he was alive and just a few steps away.
I wouldn’t admit it to her face, but having Bunce here definitely helped. It was, however, nothing in comparison to how comforting it is to have him here right now. I know that, if I’d open my eyes, I’d be able to count his moles again.
Even though he is completely silent, I can feel everything he’s trying to say. I know he means well, but his gratefulness weighs me down. I don’t understand it. I don’t deserve it. What I did made sense. It was nothing extraordinary. Nothing to deserve this.
Everything he’s trying to say weighs me down. His gratitude and love press on my skin and make me feel dizzy. Instead of feeling relieved, I feel guilty. How could I deserve any of this? Doesn’t he know that I’m a monster? Doesn’t he know that what I did was selfish?
This should not be happening to me.
So, when he leans in, his nose softly bumping mine, I turn my head away.
Simon
One second, all my senses are filled with Baz. I feel him, foreheads pressed together and noses brushing softly. I hear him, uneven breaths and the faint pounding of his heart (he does have one!). I see him, through heavy-lidded eyes, I see his frown and his lips. I smell him, cedar and bergamot. The next second, when I lean in to taste him as well, he moves away and in the span of barely a moment my hands are empty and the air around me is cold.
Once I open my eyes again Baz is standing by the window. The moonlight shining through makes his skin seem even paler and it sparkles where it reflects in the thin path a tear has carved down his cheek.
For a moment, my heart sinks and the world feels so big, while I feel so small. Maybe I saw it all wrong. Maybe it was merely a trick of the light that made it appear like the look on his face, when I finally lost control over my magic and almost killed him, was one of love. Maybe all the conclusions I drew from his protectiveness over me during and after the battle were all wrong. Maybe this thing is one-sided after all. Maybe truly all I do is losing.
But then I remember how everything suddenly fell into place. Once I deciphered that one look, I deciphered the many looks before that. Which helped me decipher all his actions and all my actions and all his words and all my words. Everything fell into place and nothing has ever felt more instinctive than this. I can never truly rationalise why we are the way we are and why we work the way we work. We just are. We just work.
We would, at least. If he’d let us try.
“Baz,” I start, standing up. I walk over to him and move to thread my fingers through his. His fingers freeze beneath mine and he pulls away.
“Just- just don’t,” he sneers. The “please” that follows is desperate and painful and barely audible. I pull my hand back and step out of his space, sitting down on the edge of Baz’s bed.
I wish I knew what he was thinking.
Baz
I don’t know what I’m thinking.
I have wanted this for years. Fifth-year me would probably kick me in the balls if he were here. The amounts of time I spent imagining him leaning in, imagining his fingers reaching out for mine. And now my imagination is turning to reality and I cannot stop sabotaging myself.
“Why?” Snow echoes my own thoughts. And, for once, out of the two of us, it’s me who explodes.
“Are you seriously that stupid?” Initially, I turn around to spit it right in his face, but when I see him sitting there on the edge of my bed looking like a lost puppy, I have to turn back to the window to be able to continue.
“Why don’t you-,” I start, but stumble. Why does the truth never come out fluently? Have I become that used to lying? I growl in frustration.
“Why don’t you understand that you’re wrong about this? You’re not supposed to thank me.”
“You saved my life at least three times.” He sounds surprised.
“And now you’ve lost your magic.”
“Yes,” there is a pause for a second, “but I’m alive. And that is still more than I had ever hoped for and I got to because of you.”
“But,” Crowley, I need him to stop saying these things, “you’ve lost your magic.”
“A sacrifice I was willing to make for my life and your life and everyone else’s life. That was my choice! That was not your fault.”
“Simon, please stop.”
“Baz, you saved my life. I cannot even imagine the consequences for your own. You deserve at least a thank you for that.”
“Please, Simon,” I hate the crack in my voice, “will you please stop talking?”
His voice is small. “No. Thank you for being there, Baz. Thank you being here. Thank you for saving me.”
“You don’t understand. I was just being selfish.”
“What made saving my life selfish?”
“I knew that I would never forgive myself for letting you die, let alone actively killing you.”
“That means you care about me.” He states, as if it is truly that simple. “How is that selfish?”
“You just don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand!” He has risen to his feet in frustration. In barely two long strides his face is mere inches away from me again, as he repeats softly, but insistently, “make me understand.”
I don’t know what gives me the strength to do it. Maybe it’s knowing that he has known for years anyway, maybe it’s knowing that nothing really matters these days anymore, maybe it’s knowing that I’m tired of hiding.
As I pull my lips slightly back, exposing my teeth, I let my fangs pop out.
“I’m a monster, Snow.” I hiss. “Is that enough of an explanation for you?”
He shakes his head determinedly. “You are a vampire.” Correct. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with being selfish.” Wrong. It has everything to do with being selfish.
“Being a monster is selfish, Snow,” I spit, “because I’m being.”
He frowns at that.
“What in Merlin’s name is that supposed to mean.”
A frustrated noise escapes my throat as I step a bit closer.
“It means,” I say calmly, “that I should not be existing.”
That startles him and I can’t help but feel that tiny spark of victory whenever I manage to shut him up for a second. Whenever I manage to force him to be the first to look away like he does now.
I raise my hand, letting flames erupt just above. Snow’s eyes snap up. I can’t help but be glad the void has been replaced by panic and frustration.
“Baz, you’re flammable.”
“Crowley, Snow, do you think I’ve forgotten? Isn’t that the whole point of it? Don’t you get it?”
There’s also sadness in them and I feel his and mine reflected in how roughened my words sound.
“All it takes is fire. Just a tiny flame and I’m done. The one thing I’m best with is fire. I should’ve been done years and years ago. And yet here I am. Alive. Or as alive as I can be. I’m a monster and I can’t even bring up the decency to end it all myself.”
I hate how the body’s reflex to stress and anger seems to be to start crying. I can’t stop myself either way.
“That’s why I’m selfish.” I avoid Snow’s eyes, trying to fix mine, “I should’ve been dead all along.”
“You cannot honestly believe you should be dead, just because you’re a vampire.” Simon says, and I can hear in every word that he truly cannot imagine believing that. It hurts.
“She believed it.” I didn’t quite expect our conversation to go here. Although, right now it feels like it was inevitable all along anyway.
“Who?”
“My mother.” That startles him.
“What do you mean?”
I sigh and I feel the frustration leaving my body. I’m just too tired to be frustrated anymore. Of course, he doesn’t understand, if he doesn’t know the full story. I planned on keeping this piece of the diary to myself, but now I can’t anymore.
“In the diary of the Mage, he didn’t just describe planning the vampire attack. There is also a summary of the report of the attack of one of the vampires that survived.”
Simon stills. The flames are still dancing between my fingers and I ponder them for a second.
“It was her,” I say, “She did it.”
I want to avoid truly saying the words, but Simon’s confused look tells me I’ll have to, if I want to make him understand.
“She killed herself.”
He starts at that and takes a step back and I’m glad for that. After all, he is flammable, too, and I can’t help but let the fire grow as I speak.
“She was bitten during the attack,” I explain, “She hunted vampires for years and years before the attack. So, when she was bitten, she ended it.”
I lift my hand, the light of the flames flickering in the dark between us.
“Tyger, tyger.” I whisper without putting magic behind the words, my eyes fixed on the flames. I close my eyes and imagine my mother, standing in the nursery, making the decision to kill herself. She hated vampires so much, she couldn’t stand the thought of being one herself. She could stand that thought even less than the thought of leaving me behind. That’s how much she hated them.
When I open my eyes, they automatically find Simon’s and I hate to see how his face is tear-stricken, how his eyelashes have stuck together, how his bottom lip trembles. I want to spare him the conclusion of my story, but I know I need to push through.
“If she’d known,” He starts shaking his head and I’m tempted to shut up, but I don’t. “She would have taken me with her.”
“No.” Is all he mutters. “No. She loved you.”
“She did,” I say, “But she would hate me if she knew I was carrying on like this.”
“Baz, she was your mum.”
“Exactly! I should have made her proud by doing the right thing.”
“Dying is not the right thing.”
“She thought it was,” I say and then, “And it is.”
“That is ridiculous, Baz. Penny told me you’ve never bitten a person. You deserve to live.”
“How do you know?” My voice cracks with frustration. “How do you know I deserve anything? I may never have bitten a person, but who is to say I won’t? Accidents happen, Snow. I should avoid them in the only way I can.”
“Baz, please, stop.” Simon says, but I can only let the flames flare harder and higher and closer to my fingers.
“Yet, instead, I’m still here,” I didn’t know it would be possible, but my eyes avert from his to become transfixed by the fire. “And what even for?”
“For living, Baz.” And I might have lost myself in the beauty of that answer, if I’d really heard what he said. Instead, in my mind, his voice is blurred, just like his eyes, flickering gold in the light of the fire.
“My mum is dead,” I sob, instead, “I have nowhere to go, because my father won’t let me into the house.”
Snow just doesn’t understand. I know so, because somewhere in my mind I register him arguing against me, asking me to stop, demanding it when I ignore him.
“I haven’t seen my sister…,” I usually don’t even let myself think about her, “I haven’t seen my sister even once, since the battle.”
Why doesn’t he understand? There is nothing left for me here. All I had, I’ve lost.
“Fiona is letting me stay at her place, but I know I’ve disappointed her,” I picture the looks she gives me when she is too tired to pretend, “She only took me in, because I’m her sister’s only son. Crowley, if she knew what my mum would have wanted…”
I’m sure she would have taken it upon herself to end me. Why doesn’t Snow get it? Why is it so hard to understand?
“Why don’t you understand, Simon?” It’s more of a whisper, “I’m supposed to be dead.”
And through my blurred eyes I see his face shape into a whole pallet of emotions. Anger. Frustration. Sadness. Fright. Worry. And so much love. And it weighs me down. It feels like the air pressure has suddenly risen and every inch of the room is pressing into every inch of my skin. I can’t breathe.
“And now you’re here with your stupid face and you’re trying to give me everything I do not deserve and I can’t. breathe. I should be dead.”
I want to argue my point further, but all I can manage is murmur the same thing over and over again.
I should be dead
I should be dead
I should be dead
My fingers seem to have a mind of their own, playing with the flames. Dancing.
Only this dance is fatal and I vaguely register Simon’s panicked outbursts as I let the flames come closer and closer to licking my skin.
For one last moment, I let my gaze flicker up again and fix his blue eyes. Even though they’re red from the tears and the blue is still as ordinary as it’s always been, they are the prettiest things I’ve ever seen and they remind me of my one promise to myself. I will die looking into Simon Snow’s eyes.
As I let the flames get closer, I take in every inch of blue. Although I can still trace a hint of the void look he had in his eyes, when I entered the room, I can also see some of his usual power in them again.
For a second, in my mind, I thank him for looking so alive while I’m dying.
I slowly move my thumbs towards the palms of my hands, where the flames are still erupting from thin air, as I lose myself in Simon Snow’s eyes. What a pity I never got to kiss him.
“Simon…” I start, but then he lunges at me and all I can do is let the flames die out and let myself be pushed into the nearest wall.
Simon
“Just shut up!” I growl as I grab his wrists, pushing him into the nearest wall. I knew he would let the flames die as soon as I got too close. After all, I’m flammable too.
“I should be dead, Snow, just let it go.” He tries to hiss back at me, but there is no fire behind it. Just sobs.
He’s not exactly saying what I want to be hearing, but at least he is responding again. He hears me again.
“Stop it!” I yell, closing in on him. Wrists pressed against the wallpaper, chest to chest. From here I can see the patterns his tears have trailed down his face. Some are still going.
“I’m a monster, I’m a monster, I’m a monster.” He sobs.
“Shut up, Baz, you’re not a monster.”
“Yes, I am, I am. I should’ve been dead. I-“
“Stop it, you’re not supposed to be dead. You don’t have to die.”
“Yes, I do! She would’ve killed me. If only she’d known,” his words are bare murmurs, clouded by his tears, “she would’ve taken me with her.”
And then he’s back to murmuring the same things over and over again.
I’m a monster.
I should be dead.
I’m a monster.
I should be dead.
I should be dead.
I should be dead.
I feel the palms of his hands warming up again, ready to summon fire, and I need him to stop. Every word seems to drill itself into my skull. Every sob seems to rip a tear in my heart.
I need him to stop.
So, the next time he cries out for his own death, I growl my own cry for him to shut up between my own lips pressed to his.
Baz
Simon Snow is kissing me.
For a second, my mind clears of everything but the desperate press of his lips against mine. For a second, I let myself feel all of it. Even now that his magic is gone, his skin still feels like it’s on fire. Maybe he’ll be the one to end me after all.
Even now, he still has my hands pressed against the wall, but his fingers have slipped in between mine, so now he’s holding them, rather than trapping them. (or maybe just trapping my palms underneath his, so I won’t light them up again)
For a second, I let myself respond. I’ve never kissed anyone (afraid I might bite), so it’s clumsy and imperfect, but it’s so good.
For a second, I let myself forget everything. There is nothing but him and me. Just two boys kissing. So simple.
But then I remember who he is. I remember who I am, what I am. And I slip my right hand out of his grasp and place it on his chest and push him away softly.
Simon
His eyes are still closed when I open mine. Once he does open them, he immediately directs his gaze to the ground.
“You shouldn’t.” He whispers.
“Why not?” I counter him. His hand is still resting on my chest, so I put mine over it, slip my fingers through his. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t hold on either. Instead, he shakes his head.
“I’m a monster, Snow. You deserve better than that.” I scoff at that.
“You’re not a monster, Baz,” the space between us is choking me, so I lean my forehead back against his and let my eyes close again. “Why would I want to kiss a monster?”
I feel rather than hear Baz’s chuckle. “Because of its dazzling personality?”, I can’t help but grin at that. I’m glad to hear some of his sarcastic old self. The relief is enough for me to move just the slightest bit more forward to brush my nose against his, before pulling back again.
“You’re not a monster, Baz.” I repeat, and I hope that one day he will believe me. For now, he just scoffs, before he replies.
“Tell that to all the animals I have to drain every other night in order to survive.”
“Well, I’m hardly a vegetarian either.” I scoff back at him. It’s barely audible, but I hear something akin to a chuckle through his sniffs.
“The sun burns me.”
“Don’t you remember when I returned to school after that summer the care home I lived in was near the beach and you teased me for weeks, telling me I looked like a lobster?” Now the laughter is a bit more audible. “The sun burns me, too.”
For a second there is just the sounds of sniffles washed out by soft chuckling and I can’t help but laugh with him. In the end, though, the tears always seem to come back. They always seem to win.
“Simon,” he says, “I’m technically not even alive.”
Even if the hand that’s holding his couldn’t feel his heart pounding in his chest, I’d still be able to hear it, it’s beating that fast. So, I lean in and give him another eskimo-kiss, feeling his heart accelerate yet again and I smile.
“Your heart speeding up every time I do that seems to prove otherwise.”
“Shut up.” Is all he replies.
“I think that the fact that neither of us can seems to be the reason we always end up in this position.” One backing the other into the wall. Just like the night before the battle, only we’re on opposite sides now.
Maybe it’s our own patterns that make us laugh, maybe it’s the exhaustion and the stress, or maybe it’s the relief. It takes a while before we finally stop and I revel in the feeling of laughing with him. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to do that before.
“Baz,” I whisper, once the laughter has subsided, “do you think monsters are capable of love?”
It takes a while before he reacts, but when he does, I feel him softly shake his head against mine.
“But you love your mum, right?”
He sighs deeply, defeated, before nodding slightly.
“And you definitely love your little sister. Mordelia is her name, right?”
Again, he nods. I open my eyes just the slightest to study his face through my whimpers. His eyes are still closed, but the frown between his eyebrows has loosened the slightest and I see him smiling through his tears. I can’t help but let my own lips form a smile too.
“And that crazy aunt of yours, Fiona. I know she annoys you to hell sometimes, but I bet you love her, too.”
This time he lets out a full-out laugh. It’s such a pretty sound and I almost want to hear it coming out of his mouth again and again and again as badly as I want to kiss that mouth again and again and again.
“And I think,” I start and I take a deep breath, “that you might love me.”
He stills. I can feel his heart pounding against the back of my hand as fast as I can feel my own heart beating in my chest. After a moment of deafening silence, he opens his eyes, immediately fixed on mine on instinct. I never imagined grey could be such an interesting colour.
This time his nod is accompanied with a “Yes, I do” and it makes my heart sing and my stomach flutter and my lips pull into a smile.
I hold his gaze as I flash him a satisfied grin and answer.
“Good,’ I say, “because I love you, too.”
This time, when I kiss him, he immediately responds.
Baz
Simon Snow is kissing me. Again.
And he doesn’t believe I’m a monster.
Maybe one day I’ll learn to believe that myself, but for now it might be enough to know he believes it.
For now, I let myself acknowledge that in this moment I’m living. And right now, it’s a damn charmed life.
Simon
I kiss him and I kiss him and I kiss him. He keeps kissing me back.
Knowing that he probably won’t attempt to set fire to the room anymore, I let the wrist I still had pressed to the wall go, and finally let myself grip his hair. Once I acknowledged my feelings to myself, there were suddenly lists and lists unfolding in my head that had probably always been there describing everything I wanted to do to Baz. Touching his hair was very high on each and every one of them.
So, I let my hand relish in the softness of it all. My other I hand I keep tightly wrapped around his, our hands pressed between us. Mine against his chest, feeling every heartbeat going just a bit faster than usually, his against mine, undoubtedly feeling the same.
Baz’s lips are way colder than Agatha’s and at first I think it might be because he is a boy, but then I realise it’s because he is a vampire. I’m actually kissing a vampire. With fangs and highly flammable skin and probably super senses. But Baz is also just a boy and I decide that I like the cold, compensating for my own constant heat. The heat didn’t end when my magic did.
For a moment, I lose myself to the thought of my magic being gone, but then I snap myself out of it and instead concentrate on all the sounds Baz is making and lose myself in those instead.
Baz
By the time we break apart for air, my free hand has found its way to cup his face and I let my thumb graze the moles beneath his eye. They’re even prettier up close and I count them over and over and over.
After a few seconds, Simon opens his eyes, too. For a second, we just look at each other, and I can’t help but smile at his smile. Then, with his weight no longer holding me up against the wall, my body catches up to how overwhelmed my mind is, and my legs give out. I slide down the wall to the ground.
Luckily, Snow follows.
We sit like that for what may have been hours. Backs to the wall, leaning on each other. Crying. Tears for everything we have lost. Tears for everything we still might. Tears for everything we got to keep. And tears for everything we have gained.
When our heartbeats have slowed down again and our tears have run out, we just sit there, drowning in our own thoughts.
For a while, that is okay, but when I remember the void look in Simon’s eyes, I know that there must be limits to this. Drowning in our own thoughts should not become actual drowning.
So, we talk.
Thank you all for reading the fourth chapter of That’s Us! This chapter has been such a challenge to write, since it’s so hard to convey what Baz is feeling. I know how it feels to believe you don’t deserve anything when it comes to love and gratitude. It’s not a rational thing, so that’s why there are these massive holes in Baz’s theory as to why he does not deserve Simon’s love or gratitude. You cant explain it. You just feel it.
Anyway, this was the last official chater. There will be an epilogue in which hey do some more talking, but plotwbut plotwise there’s nothing new. So if those kinds of chapters are not your thing, you can skip it if you like. I’ll post the translation of the song lyrics and some comments and analyses I have on them on AO3, once I‘ve posted the whole story.
Again, thank you so much for reading this far! Please let me know what you think, because your comments make me so happy and motivated :)
#snowbaz fanfiction#snowbaz#carry on fanfiction#carry on#my writings#my writings: that's us#Thank you for reading guys!#I really hope you enjoyed it#please let me know what you think!#I'm still fixing up the epilogue#so it might be a while before I post that
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