#my throats always sore from smoking and i hate that my things smell like ash or smoke and thats like one of the only other reasons to quit

[majesticcowboy]

Want to quit smoking weed...

[redstainedsocks]

Human Again

For @amonthofwhump’s March Madness for the whump trope: choking

Here’s my whumpee Zach having a very bad wake up call. I know the previous four Zach pieces have been post-escape but, and hear me out here, he was just in need of some whumping. So have some out of context, out of order, pain. (Read more high up the piece for vaguely referenced thoughts of noncon)

Warnings: Forced nudity, implied torture, implied past noncon, choking, noncon kissing, shotgunning cigarette smoke, smoking, cigarette burns, manhandling, antagonistic language, blindfolds, captive whumpee, nausea mention, food mention, prisoner denied food

Zach woke up naked. He woke up stiff and sore, and though he knew he was on the thin mattress that was granted as his bed—he could smell the musty stink of it—he had no idea how or when he got there. 

The two things combined were enough to turn his stomach, and bile crawled up his throat. There were fuzzy memories, blurred indistinct ones of beatings and being bent over a table… but was that the last thing that had happened? Or was there more? Was that even yesterday, or two days ago? It all mixed up together, and he couldn’t work out what had happened when, or which thing it was that had made him lose consciousness. Was it drugs again? An electric shock? Or just the accumulation of pain and fatigue and he’d passed out naturally?

He only knew he must have been out a while to have been brought back to his cell. Not knowing if anything more had happened while he was unawares he shivered and curled up, wishing for a blanket to cover himself with. As he moved he felt the protest in his bruised ribs and moaned as he clutched his side. 

“Ah, he lives,” came a smarmy, grunt of a voice. 

Great, Mack, of all people, was here. 

Zach opened his eyes to better defend himself against whatever Mack had in mind and found something still blocked his sight. He groped for his face, arm numb from his own dead weight crushing it. 

“Leave that,” Mack said. “Don’t you fucking dare touch it, that’s your first rule of the day.”

Zach swallowed, groaned again and pushed himself to sit up, hyper aware of every inch of skin on display. He smelled Mack’s cigarettes before he heard the man move, felt the stale smoke waft over his face and another roil of nausea that it brought with it. He lifted a hand to rub his nose and coughed onto the back of his hand to try and rid the smell and the almost-taste of it from his body.

Mack’s hand—probably, unless someone else was here too—caught his wrist and squeezed painfully. “You deaf today or some shit, I said don’t touch your fucking face.” Mack twisted his hand until the skin pinched beneath his grip, and the joint protested. Zach hissed in pain and lurched into action to try and grapple his hand free, digging nails into the back of Mack’s hand.

Mack held on for a few more long moments before he shoved Zach, freeing his wrist, and he scooted further away from where he thought Mack was crouching.

“Actually you said not to touch the blindfold,” he replied tersely. “Try thinking before you speak it might help you get your point across.”

Mack grabbed the back of his neck, fingers curling into the ends of his hair and yanked his head back. Zach hadn’t known to brace for it and the jerk sent a wave of pain that ricocheted down his neck and jarred something in his aching hip. “Far too mouthy you little shit. If it were up to me I’d sew that mouth of yours shut.”

“But then how would we have these little chats I know you love so much?”

Another puff of smoke rolled over his face and he wrinkled his nose, stomach churning. He needed food, water... he needed proper rest, not just to pass out after some torment or other and wake up bruised and sore. Resigned to not getting enough of any of those things he focused on the slight sense of satisfaction of irritating Mack instead.

He heard the hiss of the cigarette being dragged on and hoped it was nearly gone. It was fruitless hoping when fingers gripped his jaw until his lips puckered, the heat of the cigarette sizzling far too close to his skin, held in the fingers that gripped him. Then Mack’s lips were on his and he sucked in a breath of surprise only to inhale a mouthful of smoke.

He sucked it down, drawing it into his lungs in surprise, hoping and hoping for clean air to come on the back of it. Mack’s lips were a seal over his own that breathed the filthy, cloying stuff from his own mouth—expelled it forcefully right to the back of Zach’s throat. 

Zach’s lungs grew tight and full and he needed to exhale but Mack’s mouth was still smacked over his own and his tongue was in Zach’s mouth too, invading and claiming and bitterly acrid. Zach grew dizzy, swayed forward as his lungs tried to force the shotgunned smoke back out, he coughed and wheezed and batted at Mack weakly. Over the sound of his own hacking coughs he heard Mack’s laughter. Why was it always funny to these pricks? Why did they have to delight in making him suffer or making him ill? 

The weight of it all was enough to drive him flat back onto the mattress, gasping for breath, aware he wasn’t going to catch a break here. Not even given a moment to try and process and remember the previous day’s horrors before the current day’s began.

“Your mouth has other uses too, I guess. Wouldn’t want to miss out on those,” Mack’s shoe nudged him.

He was about to respond when Mack’s heavy weight descended on top of him, driving more air from his lungs. The hand was back and it caressed his jaw as he grew tight as a bow string, muscles locked like he could fight this, change whatever was about to happen by being ready. Mack’s calloused hand slipped lower and closed around his throat... and squeezed. 

It trapped the air in his lungs, stopped the coughing in its tracks and he arched up, kicking his legs looking for the pressure to lessen. Mack held him on the knife edge of breathlessness until he went limp, allowed him a precious few wheezing breaths and then closed his hand again while he blew another round of smoke into Zach’s gasping mouth. 

Zach squirmed as his chest failed to expand and his lungs didn’t fill, the black behind the blindfold going haywire with flashes of light and colour and then fading to grey. There wasn’t room for breathing or thinking, he was only animal—desperate, hungry and directionless with the fear that came hot on the heels of being pinned down and choked out.

He clawed and kicked, begged with soundless words as he tried to make the shapes and couldn’t find enough air to give them voice.

Mack pressed tighter one more time and then released. Just as Zach thought it was over a burning, blinding pain sparked to life on his shoulder. He writhed, still sputtering inhaled smoke while a scream—half surprise as well as pain—was forced out of his throat. He smelled his singed flesh as well as the ashes of a cigarette on his shoulder. With a heavy hand he blindly flicked the hot ash from his skin, feeling it smear on his fingers with intense heat. He knew the scent would linger on his hands for a while, like some sick sort of reminder of the mornings activities.

“I’d miss that scream too, oooh man, you’re like a little girl sometimes. Can’t handle a little ciggy?”

Zach grit his teeth while tears swelled hotly behind his eyes and he only hoped to keep them at bay. He felt sluggish, no idea if it was from whatever knocked him out, or the lack of breath in his body, or just the general exhaustion and constant suffering. He almost began to laugh, and caught it before it turned into a pitiful whine. Drawing more attention to himself for being strange wouldn’t help him now.

“Think fast,” Mack said and a thud of something heavy landed on his chest with a slosh and a thud. “Drink up. Boss wants you in the training rooms today.”

Grateful for the fresh bottle of water, and hating that he was, Zach fumbled to screw the cap loose. The water soothed his abused throat, settled his stomach a little. Made him feel, briefly, more human. 

Mack pulled him off the mattress and to his feet and shoved a pair of loose trousers into his hands, holding him steady with a thumb pressed firmly on the spot Zach had just been burned. Zach steeled himself and ignored the sharp pain. He stepped one foot and then the other into the trouser legs, leaning on Mack for balance while he couldn’t see.

“Now you’ve got your modesty let’s fuckin’ get on with it, step to it Griffin, time to go see what else you’re good for today.”

With tired, heavy feet Zach followed where Mack steered him. Whatever dregs of human decency he was given were always taken away sooner or later. He wondered if today would be a day he remembered, or if it would fade and be lost to some indescribable pain like the day before. He shuddered, unsettled by the idea that maybe it was kinder if he forgot; if the memory was choked out of him into oblivion so he could sleep deeply and soundlessly. If all the days bled into one, would he really be living them? Or could he float through them like the moments he drifted, lacking in oxygen, somewhere between consciousness and sleep. 

He hated that that seemed appealing and wrapped a tentative hand around the bruises forming on his throat and pressed down, just because he could, just to feel the pain because he chose to for once; just to remind himself he was still very much alive, awake, and human, and that was worth fighting for.

[witchfall]

universal constant

Rated: M Words:  5,711 Read it on AO3 (Wolgraha. Mild sexual content within) 

beta’d by @vaniccio

G’raha’s world ends. She dies. And then, inexplicably, she doesn’t. The Echo, he comes to realize, is a callous master.

-----

The first time G'raha sees her go down in a fight, he forgets how to breathe.

It is only a fraction of a moment. The air is knocked out of her in a thick cry. He hears the skid of her feet against mud and stone and the clatter of her bow upon the ground, even amid the heavy rain.

She becomes a wet pile of leathers, unmoving for just a moment too long.

An imperial mech bears down on her, but G'raha’s feet move automatically. He hurls his body over her and then he throws up his arm, summoning a shield of light just as a gigantic sword crashes toward them both. His arm vibrates so hard from the blow that his teeth clatter. His off-arm digs deep into the dirt. His eyes water -- and then Alisaie sets the enemy alight with red flares. Metal explodes in fiery flints over the field. He ducks under his shield so that his forehead nearly brushes Izzie's, and the battle stills, if only for a moment.

He opens his eyes (when had he closed them? Everything moves too fast for him to remember) and is met by Izzie staring up at him, her sea glass eyes bright against the mud smears on her face. Gods, he thinks, gods and wicked white and every curse, of course she is fine. Of course. The thought alone is cooling as a salve. He remembers to breathe.

But then she is suddenly, impossibly close, her breath hot against his face. She yanks him up by the biceps. Her fingernails dig into his skin, even through his clothes. She shakes him fiercely, yelling something, and it happens so quickly he doesn't process what she is saying until--

"--so don't fucking do that!" she shouts over the rain. "Some blows aren't meant for you!"

"Izzie--" Her name spills out of his mouth, but the rest of his words clot in his throat. Am I supposed to just stand here?

She shoves him away before he can finish.

The fight swells and her fury becomes magnificent to behold. He loses track of her, but never completely. He would hear her over the loudest of dins; whether via the lingering mysticism of the Crystal Tower or this young body's constant yearning, her soul has left deep marks on him. Its aura presses like high tide, smothering and heady in its power. Arrows fly. Her voice rises to haunting crescendo. Magitek scatters to blue sparks and flame. Only later when she vice grips his shoulders does he see the sickness that drives her into reckless battle. Her eyes scan him so thoroughly he would have blushed if he had the energy.

"Okay," she breathes. She shakes and shakes and shakes. Heavy rain plinks on dead metal. All else is silent. He could hear her bones chatter together, if he listened hard enough. "Okay," she says again. "We're fine."

She sways on her feet. He wraps his arms around her taut waist and pulls her close, but she resists him, tensing in his arms, turning her face away from him. Blood and ceruleum and ash drip from her pale skin as rain showers them both. He rubs her forehead with his thumb, but his gloves are dirtied with battle, and so he simply leaves another smear.

"Izzie, look at me."

"I'm fine."

"I know--"

"I just need..." She sucks in a breath between her teeth. He would give her anything she asks. The moon and every star in the sky. "Just give me a second."

He purses his lips. He pushes her hair from her drenched forehead and tests her tension. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it," he says.

She bristles in his arms. Her nails dig into his wrists. She is a bow string near to snap. "So?"

He blinks. "What?"

She sniffs heavily and still won't look at him. "This isn't new."

But he had never been in the field like this, never felt the slick of dirt and grime on her like this, never smelled blood and gunpowder in her hair like this. He drinks her in, how small she seems now, soaked by rain. He is well aware that she is only in his arms because she allows it, but the dichotomy between Izzie of the Fight -- the Izzie the stories sing about -- and the Izzie of the Aftermath is discordant. He fears one of them may shatter from the sound.

"I'm sorry," he says. "You're right."

A heartbeat passes between them. When she finally turns to speak into his shoulder, her voice is near lost in the rain. "...Just let me do my job."

He sways in place, holding her in his arms. He knows that tone -- the determination, the resignation of it. The stubborn will to stand in the storm so no others will. It is the only way she knows how to seize control.

An old frustration makes his tail thrash.

There is no time here to hash it out, not as the other Scions begin to approach. There is no time for him to spill his heart on the floor for her -- to explain just how each blow she takes is one for him, too.

"Alright," he says, picking his battles. "Alright."

-----

It isn't always like that. But he does learn just how terrible of a chirurgeon patient she is.

After another engagement at Bozja, Izzie lays her head in G'raha's lap while Krile sews up the re-opened gash in her side. Izzie grits her teeth. You’re here as a distraction. And a focus. So she remembers not to throw me across the room, Krile had said, blasé, and G’raha couldn’t tell if she was joking. Izzie’s body jerks as Krile begins another stitch. Her hand grips his tightly enough his mouth pops open in shock.

“Sorry,” Izzie hisses out. She lets go immediately. “Sorry.”

“I fear this is my doing." He manages a light tone despite the throttling nature of the pain. He opts to let his thumbs linger at her temples, instead. "For making you laugh too hard.”

“Shame on you.” She smirks up at him, wobbly and disjointed, and affection floods him, warm and rounded. She jolts again.

He brushes hair from her brow. “Are you sure you--”

“Nope,” Izzie says quickly. “I’ve had worse.”

Izzie, he discovers, hates pain medicine -- hates the way it blurs her thoughts and stunts her movement, even for something as routine as stitches, and he realizes he is there to shine like a sharp light through the sensation of Krile digging into her flesh.

“Prepare yourself, Warrior,” the lalafell says, and she goes for another stitch.

Izzie almost thrashes out of G’raha’s lap. He presses his palms into her shoulders, startled. He would soothe her with a healing spell but he’d been yelled at by Krile enough for that; such spells interfere with chirurgeon work by making the body repair along bad seams.

“Bitchass motherfucker, Krile !” Izzie seethes in his lap, eyes watering. “You’re doing this on purpose!”

An old, silent war rages as Krile meets her patient’s gaze. It doesn’t have to be like this, Krile would say. We live in a society with medicine. And Izzie would insist upon it because her stubbornness is near a sickness of its own. He frowns.

She is a horrible patient for one who must be treated so often.

Even so, she is not the only one with hurts -- and despite everything, he comes to cherish the moments late in the eve when both lay in bed, beaten and bruised and tired and together. He relishes the way her body melts into his when he smooths his hands over her shoulders, healing aether warming his palms. The way she presses messy kisses into his chest, his wrists, his jaw. The rejuvenating rest allowed two people, waking in shared soreness, beneath the soft dawn light.

It’s not so bad, he thinks; it’s all he ever wanted. It is a deeply survivable thing, to share these burdens.

Until, sometimes, it isn’t.

-----

Her striking shadow slices the beam of Garlemald’s fearsome weaponry, a flare in the negative against roiling light. He stands struck by her glory.

And then his stomach curdles as her shadow scatters, like grass eaten by locusts, beneath the assault.

He doesn’t even have time to scream.

She's gone.

She's gone.

He feels outside his own body, staring blankly at the scorch mark left behind on the ground where she stood. His feet move on their own.

Thancred shouts for him to hold the line. The man's voice barely registers over the white noise buzzing in G'raha's ears. What line is there left to hold? Was it really doomed to end like this? Even with the balance of the Universe reset by centuries just to--

Wait.

A figure appears amid the smoke and shadow, and he has to blink back the blurred edges of his vision.

She’s... there.

She stands, whole, where she should not be -- a filagree of light against the dark. Silence rolls across the field. It’s as if she’d never been gone at all.

She turns toward him, face blank. His throat is hoarse. He realizes he is screaming her name. The world skips past him like a broken orchestrion roll until he has her in his arms, pulling her down from the outcropping that made her such an obvious target.

She doesn’t resist him. “Raha?”

Hate surges through him then, suddenly -- a fear so poisonous it cripples him -- and he realizes the hate is not for Garlemald or even the killing blow but for the heroic image she strikes despite the damage it clearly ekes. She blinks helplessly, eyes reddened and bloody. Burns seep away from her skin like paint under rain, disappearing before his eyes. She gropes in desperation until she finds his chest and her hand wraps around the edge of his scarf. Her dirt-caked nails leave grimy splotches on the fabric.

“Do I have my bow?” she manages.

He can’t speak. Her hands reach for the weapon anyway.

His heart rips. “You shouldn’t--”

“I’m okay, darlin’.” Her voice is an unusual, knowing calm. “You shouldn’t be this far afield.”

And she turns away. She somehow returns to the fight. No one asks. They don’t need to.

He looks toward the backline and sees the rest of the Scions watching him.

They deal with it in their own ways, he realizes then. It's why Alphinaud focuses so hard on healing and the reason Alisaie throws her all into her offensive battery. It’s one of the myriad reasons Thancred took up his position as the group’s shield. Why Y’shtola turned from conjury to the most fearsome of black magics. Why Urianger brought the power of the stars to bear.

If they are enough, she doesn’t have to go through that.

The battle ends, largely a stalemate but slightly in their favor. Even Izzie tires. G’raha’s body protests but he ignores it; he half-carries her back to the camp and does not let her out of arm’s reach until they’ve regained enough energy to teleport back to the Rising Stones. Even then he feels she could too easily slip from this coil.

He knows she is not feeling right because she doesn’t rebuff him.

He fears his uselessness. A habit from a century of living with want. While he quietly helps her out of her armor and into a bath, he ponders what the Echo has wrought. He sprinkles healing salt into the water.

She died. She died! Her body flipped like a switch to a moment before her demise, shivering and burned, gasping for air.

He wonders at its function alongside her connection to the Ancients. It’s different from revival; she was disintegrated. The Echo made it not so. He knows she can die. He lived centuries to prevent that very outcome. But which deaths are final? Which can she shrug off? How many does she get?

Does she exist outside the usual laws of time and space? A paracausal existence, where cause and effect do not matter in ways comprehensible to the Spoken mind? If Hydaelyn and Zodiark are merely primals, the most powerful of all meant to rewrite the laws of science, is it possible that glimpsing the power of the Ancients makes it so the most Blessed of Her heart can only be felled in the most horrific and reality-twisting of ways?

Why? Why would that be Her solution?

He jolts when her wet palm settles against his cheek. “Hey.”

He breathes deep. Her soap smells like lavender and honey. He presses his mouth into the grooves of her hand and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry.” His throat tightens. “Today, I--”

“No,” she says, so soft. “I’m sorry. I know the...the weird thing happened.”

He somehow never had seen it. The weird thing. The Weird Thing. He’s shaken by this term. “Do you know when it will happen?”

She lets out a shattered sigh. “I don’t.”

“...do you...remember what happened to you?”

“Not really,” she says. A primal memory of the muscle, but not of the heart or mind. He feels deep relief right alongside revulsion. “I just know no one likes it.”

His mind buzzes. He has a thousand questions. He sometimes wishes the song of the Tower was clearer in his head, like back on the First. Perhaps the Allagans had known of this phenomenon; they seemed the type to cultivate such a talent. But he knows, too, the history of their avarice and he feels a spike of protectiveness at the thought of exposing her even to their memory.

The water splashes as she sits forward in the tub. “Raha?”

He meets her gaze and is lanced to the ground. Her eyes threaten tears.

“You just can’t think about it, okay?” She looks every which way. “Are you...does it…”

He leans forward and cradles her face between his palms. He kisses her hard enough that their teeth clash. His hands are still dirty. He would have to wash her face again. But he kisses her until her wet hands settle on the back of his neck and he feels her relax into the water.

“No,” he says. “It doesn’t change anything. Nothing could.”

His world nearly ended today. And then it didn’t. He would, for her sake, do his best to forget.

-----

He sees the blood spray from her arm. He watches her stumble and drop her bow. His body’s response is near automatic, summoning cool aether to weave a healing spell even as smoke fills the air. But when he charges forward to find her through the morass, she is not there.

He spins. He thinks of the blood rolling down her bow arm, sticky and dark.

“Izzie!”

Figures collide in the corner of his eye. He turns and turns and turns but her fiery hair is nowhere to be seen, wholly devoured by the chaos. He swallows down the building panic in his gut.

And then--

A thick silence descends, before his hair stands up and air sucks away from his ears and he dives to the side but it is not enough--

He stumbles to his knees from the concussive force and acrid stench of a fire bomb. Smoke burns his eyes. His ears ring from the biting kerang of gunfire. His shield nor his barriers are ready; the other Scions are scattered across the field. The Garleans must be catching on, he realizes, dark and heavy. They’ve had enough of the Scions’ tricks.

A war machina bears down on him. He spins to the side but the damn thing feints.

Raha!

In one moment, he is upright. In the next, he is on the cold ground. The world spins and spins and spins. His mouth fills with dirt; blood paints his teeth. Warmth trails down his chest and sticks to his tunic. Pain, dull at first, crescendos in the back of his head until it is shrieking.

A familiar voice rises over the din.

Fuckers! You’ll pay for that!

He opens his eyes. Blue-black debris flies overhead and then--

“Raha. Raha, look at me, okay? Look at me.”

Slick hands touch his face and turn his head until all he can see is the sea green of her eyes and the red flare of her dirty, war-tangled hair. He blinks. His limbs feel malms away. He can’t move fast enough to stop her from attending to him right here in the middle of a fight. Izzie’s hands slide up and down his chest until her fingers dig into his wound and he bucks in pain. His shoulder feels...incomplete. Bitten off. Wet and gone. Bits of fire dig into his skin. Shrapnel, perhaps.

“Okay. Okay. Okay. I can...no, can’t tourniquet there...cloth...pressure…”

She’s talking to herself.

He hears the tearing of cloth. Her stilted hands press a ripped part of her tunic into his shoulder. He cries out in agony as she pushes and pushes and pushes to try and stop the bleeding.

Her breathing is sharp and watery in his ear. “What the fuck were you doing,” she hisses. Her eyes are wide as saucers. “Where did you go?”

He braces himself to grunt out a few words, but he can’t form them.

“No. Don’t talk. Just focus on me. I...I don’t...” She takes a sharp breath and remembers her linkpearl. She pleas for a healer over the line, her voice shaking even as she barks out their location. Her hands are rough and seizing as she hoists him onto a field stretcher, but that is all he remembers before he wakes up under Krile’s care back at the safety of their camp.

He is laid out on a soldier’s cot, groggy and hazed, and he feels a strange anger simmering just below the medicinal fog. He hears his father’s laugh, cruel and thoughtless and drunk. You’ll never understand. None of us ever has.

Izzie sits in a chair, staring at the thin line revealed by the tent’s flap. Her face is still smeared with black oil and dirt. Her head is tilted slightly, like a garden ornament about to fall in the rain. His heart tumbles strangely.

“Where had you gone?” he croaks.

She jumps a foot in the air before she spins in her chair toward him. Her eyebrows creep near her hairline. In the next instant, she leans over him, hands hovering over his injuries. “I’m right here,” she says.

He thinks to tell her she hadn’t been. She hadn’t been where he thought she was and he thought she died, again, and he couldn’t bear it. Doesn’t she know that? Doesn’t she feel it, too? But her eyes are so wide and blown out and her skin shines so wetly he fears she is sick with fever.

So he buries the anger, deep and dark, and focuses on the feel of her fingers in his hair.

-----

He has sworn to love a wildfire. But wildfires are not known for their fairness.

The anger, simmering between them, spills out the next morning. She pushes open the tent flap and a warning klaxon sounds off between his ears, seeing the paleness of her brow and the darkness around her eye sockets. She had not slept. Yet her gaze glimmers, dangerous and lucid, and she says to him as she hands him a tray of rations: “You’re not doing this again.”

He squints up at her. Krile had said he likely won’t be returning to this particular engagement, but something in Izzie’s tone feels heavy and final. “I’m sorry?”

“We’re going back to the Stones.”

He sets the tray aside. “I understand I need to recover--”

But she won’t let him finish. “A warfront isn’t for you. You’re too...you’re too reckless.”

For a moment he forgets how to speak, struck dumb by her sheer audacity. “I’m reckless?”

She glares down at him. Challenging him. “Yes.”

She’s baiting him. He knows this.

“Izzie.” He bites out her name. She doesn’t flinch. “You were injured. It’s my job to protect you. You know that. You agreed to it.”

“It was just a small cut. You exposed yourself for no reason.”

He remembers the blood splatter. Anger, thick as sludge, makes his lungs hurt. “No reason? Izzie Nenelori, you took a hit that would have taken the arm off of any other man!”

“That’s my job!”

“It is, emphatically, not.”

She purses her lips. Her eyes glitter. He should fear this face, he knows, but he can barely see through his own fury, red and vile.

“You don’t know anything,” she hisses. “You know what I can do. What I can survive.”

Some dam in him breaks. He doesn’t think. He snakes out a hand to seize her by the wrist, as if that might prevent her from proving the power of the Echo here and now, and his heart stutters when her eyes widen. But he glares, intent. “Don’t. Do not even think to joke about that in my presence.”

“Or what?” Her eyes flick to his fingers wrapped around her arm. Her voice is desiccating. “What will you do.”

“Do you have any idea what it feels like?” His eyes burn. “To watch you throw your life about as if it holds no worth? Do you have any concept of the hole you would leave in our lives, in my life, if your Echo failed you once?” He can barely speak for the lump forming in his throat. “What it does to me, every time you shrug off a hit that should flatten you?”

She is silent for a single, heavy beat.

His throat burns as he resists breaking down in sudden, furious tears. “Do you?” he presses.

She tears her wrist from his grasp. She balls her hands into fists.

“How fucking dare you.” She takes a watery breath before her voice rises like the tide. “I watched you near die some three times already!”

His ears ring. Her words hang in the air, dripping and cruel and right.

“You think I don’t know?” Her cheeks glisten. “What it’s like to watch everything you love in the world fade? Are you really that godsdamn stupid?”

His mouth slackens. His shoulders sag. Tears leak down his face. He remembers, vividly, Alisaie flicking him on the forehead for openly considering his sacrifice for all their sakes. He had been so cavalier. He felt the circumstances had required it, then, and that Alisaie’s reaction had been driven by something a little illogical...

But Alisaie had been protecting Izzie’s heart. Because he hadn’t considered the possibility of the harm he could do to her, even then.

He grips the blanket, cursing his foolishness. Always the idiot boy in her presence.

“You’re right,” he churns out. “I...I’m sorry. I am.”

She turns away from him but she doesn’t storm off. He reaches, gently, for her hand. She does not pull away, but she does not loosen her fist.

“I struggled to remember, then, that I was...I was still...close enough to a Spoken man for it to matter, and…” He struggles to breathe. “I worry that you think the same thing. That you forget you are still a Spoken woman.”

Her shoulders crumple. Her hands fly to her face. She does not say anything for a long moment and he feels like a monster writhing in chains as he swallows down the desire to sweep her into an embrace. She would turn him away. She must come to him first.

“Am I?” Her voice shakes. “Am I?”

She sits at the end of his bed. He waits until her first sob breaks free before he pulls her to him, tucking her tightly under his chin. He strokes her back and hides his own tears in her hair. His shoulder be damned.

His lips brush her skin as he whispers his adoration. “You are.”

She is the girl he met in Mor Dhona, bright as seltzer. She is a rarity and fleeting and real -- like any girl, yes, but his.

-----

Even injured, he still tames her.

His hands rest at her bare waist as she reveals herself to him, word by word. She leans over him until her ruby hair pools in the cave of his collarbones and her taut arms frame his head. Her lips brush his jaw. “I just go crazy, thinking about it,” she admits, quiet, as if it is only the moon watching. “I survived a world without you, once. I don’t...I don’t think I could do it again.”

Before he can reply with words of his own, her teeth graze his chin and seize his lip. She eggs him on. Tell me, she would say, but don’t speak.

He flips her over him and pins her to the mattress. He buries his nose in her scent. Runs his hands down her naked body. Maps her sharp curves and deep scars, presses his thumbs into the dips of her hip bones, mouths her until her chest heaves -- even as she fights him.

His mouth is kind even as he manhandles her. His grasp is gentle but firm; she desires boundaries to rail against and he will give them to her. He drives her body into the mattress. He whispers sweetness into her ear as he does it. My star. Beautiful and glorious. I will never tire of your body under mine. He pulls her hair to expose her neck to his chastising teeth. Do you know how long I've wished for this? How lovely you look, laid bare and taken and mine?

It is the greatest honor he knows to have her like this, to break her open so the ache comes free and she can fill her heart with joy again. There are some hurts she need not bear. Pain need not be her only constant.

And it is thrilling to remind her who she belongs to.

He treats these moments like arcanima proofs. Through them, he describes the unknowable with what tools he has. His fingers, his tongue.

“I... Raha, I…”

Her voice saying his name sets his core alight. He is driven harder and harder until the pressure between them crests like a mad wave.

But when she finally cries out her pleasure and falls lax beneath him, he is the one who feels split in half. He leans over her, spent. His mind keens. His shoulder throbs. Her voice sends him a thousand different places -- to memories and fantasies that are both ancient and new, sometimes the same memory at once. A shattered kind of Echo.

She brushes the hair from his brow. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out when he meets her gaze. Her lingering silence pressurizes the room. He feels lightheaded. She’s holding something back and he no longer has the mind to figure out what, exactly; it may as well be dripping from him along with his sweat.

Her hand cups his cheek. He closes his eyes.

He would not survive another separation, either.

“It’s not just losing you,” she says. “It’s losing...losing me. Losing the people who remember who I am. I don’t know who I would be.” She looks up at him, wide-eyed and small. “If no one...if you weren’t here to...remind me...”

He lays down and pulls her in against his chest. She presses herself entirely against him, bracing him. His arms tighten around her waist. His fingers thread through her hair.

“Sometimes I fear I’m no longer tethered anywhere in time,” he confesses, throat tight. Ghosts linger in his blood; that is the true curse of Allag. “That I’m a mistake in the tapestry...and that all could be unwoven in a blink…”

She pulls back just slightly and brushes the backs of her fingers down his jaw. His eyes swim, overwhelmed by the sweetness of her face and the bruising of her lips.

“But we’re here,” he says, voice breaking. “And if I am a mistake, so be it. I will fight for my place. To remain here, with you, as long as I can. Even if that means I must take a hard risk now and again.” His shoulder throbs, as if to be the declarative point on his sentence.

Her answer is simple and shattering. She just says his name. “Raha…”

He pulls her into a kiss. Her voice is what he had followed when all else failed. He named the Musica Universalis after her -- the beating heart of the city, the center of their strange star and the harmonies within. The place where merchants and birds gathered and sang their hopeless, hopeful songs.

She pulls away. Her back is taut, but her hands are gentle, reaching up to rub his ears, and he is helpless before her.

"Let me show you something. Tomorrow." She turns her face into his neck. "It might help you understand."

-----

Ishgard splits the horizon like Halone’s Spear, painted in light and heavy stone. Coerthas’ mountains swell just behind it. From here, everything feels worlds away, even as the wind sears freezing gashes across his face.

But the gravestone feels too small.

Izzie stares at the broken shield, eyes threading seams into the hole, and G’raha feels a rock slowly sink into his stomach.

"That," Izzie says, "is why people can't take blows for me."

A moment passes. And then she tells him everything from the day Haurchefaunt died -- the details Lord de Fortemps could not bear to put in his memoirs. The warm twilight sky. How she and Haurchefaunt only needed share a single look before they both sprang into action. How they moved in sync, down a walkway gilded in purple and gold.

How he said he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, instead. How she watched the light leave his eyes.

She doesn't say it, but G’raha can feel it in her thoughts. It should have been me.

He guards her from the worst of the chill with his shoulders. "You could never know for sure. What might have happened if he hadn't been there."

Izzie's gazes upon the gravestone with a heaviness only worn by those who have made the same calculation over and over. "And Edmont wouldn't want me to think this way. I know. But I'm always going to wonder."

G'raha purses his lips. He remembers something a first generation settler of the Crystarium once told him. "That's the curse of the living, I'm afraid."

She eyes him. He can't pin if it's suspicion or annoyance or concern, her face half-hidden in a scarf.

"He knew who I was. Beyond the Warrior of Light. Like...someone else I once knew." She shoulder checks him hard enough that air rushes from his lungs, but he deserves it, teasing or no. "I was in a really bad place for a really long time before you found me again in another world. But even you…" Her gaze slides away and he snakes an arm around her shoulder. "...well, you know," she grumbles.

Even he almost died for her.

"So that's why it makes me crazy. When people try to help me. It's just easier for you to...not."

"But it isn't," he says softly.

Her hat re-shapes as her ears flatten.

"You've seen so much loss,” he says. “But what does that mean you'll do? Will you love others and receive none in return, in the hopes of sparing them some dark fate?"

She grumbles something, which signals to him he's right.

"It doesn't work like that, my love," he whispers into her ear, hiding the words from the icy wind. "And you, more than anyone, deserve the fullness of affection people have for you."

She bunches her gloved hands near her face, clawing at her cheeks before hiding her eyes in her palms. He thinks perhaps they've reached the end of it when she says: "I know you're right."

His heart jumps. "I do so love to hear it."

She gives the smallest snort of a laugh. He smiles into her wool cap.

“Ma always said the world doesn't owe us anything." Her shoulders bunch forward. "So it feels stupid to say I'm due for something." She pins him with her eyes. The heat in her gaze turns his frozen legs to water. "But maybe I am. I think I've paid for it enough."

She curls in around him against the cold. She suddenly sucks in a breath. It mists in the frozen air, like his own words inside his head.

"I want you with me forever," she says. "I mean it.” She hides her face against his neck and he's shot through with golden light. “Rings and everything.”

He feels dunked into champagne. Thoughts short out in a fizzy fog.

She leans back and searches his face. “Raha?”

“I want it very much.” His words spill out fast. “I want to be tied to you in any way I can manage. I never want to make the mistake of separating myself from you, ever again.” The cold air in his lungs grounds him. “If you’re willing to have me, of course.”

She stops her strange searching and her eyes land on the grave. She laughs like she has been surprised by what she sees. “Sorry,” she says. “I know that’s sudden.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, perhaps too quickly. “We’ll do it right. With all the pomp and circumstance you deserve.”

He gets the reaction he seeks. Her head leans back in offended shock, eyes dancing over his face.

“No.” She glares at him. He grins, helpless. “No! I’m gonna do it my way and you’re gonna like it.”

“You sound very certain. As if I might not be scheming anything of my own.”

She scans his face. “You’re not.” Despite these revelations being fresh, her voice rings with uncertainty. She looks so concerned -- her brow so furrowed in consideration -- that he pulls her into a kiss. He can’t stop smiling. He is dumbstruck.

He feels a conviction so dense that he is, for a moment, cleaved to the universe.

When he pulls back, she is beaming.

[raspberry-arev]

And there was only one bed! (Snowbaz fic)

I know this is a very overdone trope, but I also happen to be a complete sucker for it. Hopefully someone will share my sentiment. (Also, this is my first fanfic. And first story written in English. Sorry if it’s not as good as I thought, haha)

Summary: Simon and Baz still share a room at Watford. Simon’s nightmares are getting unbearable… and one night, his magic sets fire to his bed. What will happen next will shock you!!1!

Word count: 7.5k

Tags: angst, sharing beds, cuddling, fluff, Baz being a tortured soul

Baz

It all started with fire.

I would assume about two hours had passed since my return from the catacombs. I had been exhausted enough to fall face-first into my pillow, not even bothering to change out of my clothes before I fell asleep. It had been a long day… and by trying to avoid Simon Snow, I had made it even longer.

He was already snoring lightly with his mouth open when I came back. He looked stupid. And he was still asleep as the smell of smoke woke me up. 

I guess I heard him whine in his sleep, too, but I didn’t pay attention anymore. It was an unwritten rule between us that we pretended we didn’t notice the other having night terrors; one of the few remaining lines even I haven’t crossed. Which speaks volumes. I’m proficient at being an asshole.

Yet, this time, I could tell something was different.

Worse.

He was tossing in his sheets, head twitching from side to side, stifled moans getting stuck somewhere in his throat. His hair was damp with sweat. And it looked as if… as if his edges were getting blurry and shaky. As if he was dissolving into pure energy.

Then it hit me, right before I breathed in again, tasting the smoke on my tongue.

Simon Snow was catching fire.

I would rather be in this room with a bomb than Snow as he is losing control of his magic. Especially considering that I was made to be burned alive.

“Snow,” I hissed sharply, swinging my legs over the edge of my bed.

His breathing was getting more and more ragged, chest rising and falling at an incredible speed.

“Snow,” I spoke up. Didn’t really feel like shaking him. That would probably make matters worse. “For Morgana’s sake, Snow, it’s just a dream. Snap out of it!”

Smoke was rising from underneath his body. His body barely looked like a body anymore – just a buzzing, shaky mess, power and heat solidified. A thought formed in my mind, of running out of the room as fast as possible and leaving him behind. He was so not my responsibility…

But of course, I didn’t. I like to flirt with death at any given opportunity. Instead of escaping, I just so managed to grab my wand and shouted: “Simon, wake up!”

I must have instinctively put some magic into that order.

Simon’s eyes flew open and he gasped for breath –

As the bed burst into flames with him in it. Like a fucking funeral pyre.

I screamed in terror before all spells used to put out fires in all languages I know came pouring from my lips. To my own shock, Snow rolled out of the burning bed to my feet, not a single scratch on him. He started slapping his pajama bottoms that have, unlike him, caught on fire in some places, and I just yelled something along the lines of “Alaister fucking Crowley fucking help me”. A Snow-made fire was not easy to tame. And at any moment, I could step too close and I would light up…

But eventually, I found myself standing in a dark, quiet room, the blackened remains of a bed frame right in front of me. And Simon Snow beside me. Still shaking, still breathing too fast… and in his hand that bloody sword. What was he going to do? Stab the fire to death?!

“Do you think you’ll ever manage to stop being a useless excuse for a magician,” I growled at him, “and take out your wand before that primitive pointy stick?”

“I just – I – what happened?”

“You fucking went supernova, o Chosen One, that’s what happened!” Now that we were both safe, I had to resist the urge to punch him square in the face. “As if it’s not enough that I have to breathe the same air as you, now I should worry that I’ll burn to death in my sleep?!”

“Well, sorry,” he snapped. “It’s not like I had any control over what happened!”

“Oh, don’t worry. I would never think you are capable of having anything under control.”

“Why are you always such… such a complete prick?”

“It’s what I do best. Kind of like you with putting people in danger just by being alive.”

His eyes were like an open book for me to read in. I clearly saw the flash of hurt that my words have caused. Hit a sore spot, have I?

My job of making him feel miserable was done. I turned my back and remarked: “If you have no other plans to roast me alive, I’d like to go back to sleep.”

Snow stayed silent. Only a huff of air made it clear to me that he was frustrated. I didn’t even manage to properly lie down before he spoke again.

“Is there any spell to repair the bed?”

“After you have turned it to ashes?” I laughed at him. “No.”

“I bet you wouldn’t tell me even if you knew, huh.”

“Ah, maybe you’re not so daft after all.”

I made myself comfortable in the sheets, very aware of Snow’s look that bore into my back. He did look very shaken up just then. But I forcibly silenced that small part of me that was concerned for his wellbeing – there would be no asking whether he is alright. I’ve made it worse for him, haven’t I? So why would I care to ask questions I already know the answer to?

Just as I closed my eyes, I heard him speak again.

“Where the fuck am I supposed to sleep then?”

Although he was swearing… It almost sounded like a plea.

I gritted my teeth and spat out: “In the bathtub for all I care.”

A second later, the bathroom door loudly slammed shut.

I hated myself.

I hated myself for doing this, I hated myself for feeling guilty for doing this, I hated myself for how desperately I wanted to save him just moments ago.

I gave in for just a small moment and imagined Simon Snow crawling into my bed, into my arms. So warm and irresistibly alive.

And then I imagined us both burn.

Just as it should be.

***

From what I’ve heard, the Watford administration was very different while Mother was still in charge of the school. In a way that there was actual work getting done. She imposed order and structure and put thought into choosing competent staff members. Of course, it was no news to me that everything has been falling apart since the Mage rose to power… But now I had just another fucking bone to pick with him.

As I came back to our shared room the next evening, I expected to see a new bed waiting for Snow and all signs of the fire magicked away. But what was waiting for me there was the same mess that was there the night before. Half-burned wall, blackened floorboards and the stench of smoke still in the air, despite all windows being open. The only difference was that someone had got rid off the discarded bedframe. But that might’ve been Snow himself.

I would have thought the Mage would rush to make his favourite boy soldier comfortable again.

Maybe he didn’t care much after all.

Snow’s barely noticed that I had made my entrée. He was sitting at the table, legs folded strangely underneath himself. The torn, tattered pages in front of him appeared to be his homework, but he clearly wasn’t paying attention to that either. He kept staring out the window.

I didn’t even have to look at his face; the air was already heavy around him, the stillness of an unbearably hot summer day you can’t wait to be over. This is what his magic did when he was moping.

I took a stride to my bed. Slowly, I let the blazer fall off my shoulders. Then I hung it neatly over the unoccupied chair and sat down on my bed, breathing out just loudly enough so it would send a clear message to Snow: I have a bed to relax in. You don’t.

He was at the very edge of my vision now… but I could his shoulders hunch a little. Pretty sure he was gritting his teeth at me.

I could have just looked at him – I had reasons to be convinced that with a horrible posture like that, his back muscles would be visible through the shirt, that was always quite a sight. But I decided not to be completely pathetic… today. There was a time and place for everything.

Plus, Mother was probably rolling in her grave as it was.

Perhaps I could go check one of these nights? Her undead son hunting rodents in her tomb had not woken her up from her eternal sleep. But maybe, if I sat down and told her about the boy I have a crush on, she would rise just to personally drag me into the pits of hell.

I felt my brows furrow at the thought.

Time to pass on some of my misery. Was planning on it, anyway.

“Are you going to clean up after yourself?” I asked in the coldest tone possible. “Or should I hire a maid?”

Hearing my voice so suddenly made him jump. He tried to cover it, but playing cool was decidedly not one of the three things in life that Simon Snow was good at.

(Those were, not necessarily in this order: swinging a sword, taking orders from the Mage and being way too bloody attractive for anybody’s good.)

(Oh, and eating like a pig. So four.)

He turned half-way and said: “I got rid of the bed.”

“Lovely, would you like a medal?”

Exasperated sigh. “Just… just what do you want, Baz?”

I stabbed at the burnt wall with my eyes, then looked back at him. “So this shit is now a part of the interior design?”

He brought his hand up and pulled on his hair.

I kept on pushing. “Maybe you’re used to having your living space look like a slum, Snow, considering the hole you crawled out of. But I suggest you get off your ass and fix it. Right now.”

“I – I thought – look, wouldn’t it be better if –”

“If what? If I did it for you?” I arched my eyebrow. “You’ve got to be fucking joking.”

“No! Just let me speak!” he bursted. Then he immediately took a breath in, determined to keep his composture.

Right. That was not going to happen.

This was a game. A game that could only end in my driving him so mad he wouldn’t manage to put together a coherent sentence. Possibly even cry, but maybe we were too old for that now. What a shame.

“Look,” Snow mumbled, “I’m gonna have it fixed. Soon. If… If I tried to do anything about it, the whole wall could just… disappear.” His voice full of shame, he added: “Things like that happened before.”

Was I supposed to feel sorry for him?

“You really are a sorry excuse for a mage,” I told him.

Snow’s face scrunched up like a child’s before he turned his back.

“But you do keep surprising me with how much worse you can get.”

“You say,” he blurted out.

“Great comeback,” I laughed at him, gaining momentum with every word. “Tells a great deal about your intelligence, just like the fact any twelve-year-old with magic could clean up after himself… but here you are. Waiting on other people to fix your fuck-ups as usual.”

“Stop.”

“Why don’t you run to papa Mage and bring him here? I’m sure that would make me stop. Or you could tell him you’re having bad dreams, he could come and tuck you in every night.”

“You –”

“I imagine he doesn’t want to spend more time around you than absolutely needed. Who can blame him. I’m stuck here with you and I feel my braincells dying every time I hear you speak.”

“Crowley, just – why – what are you –”

“Oh, there they go again. Gone. With every single word.”

“Jesus Christ, leave me the fuck alone,” he boomed, apparently at the end of his wits. (Whether he had any wits to begin with was disputable.) I could feel my lips sealing on their own as he stormed across the room and slammed the door so loudly the walls shook.

I sighed and relaxed into my mattress.

Finally. I had hoped to get a chance to nap in solitude.

 ***

That evening I decided to pass on the hunting. The nap I took left me all blurry and cranky and unwilling to move from my bed. I was sure I had drunk quite enough the previous night.

Besides, I couldn’t miss Snow coming back to the dorm room. I had to let him know how laughable his little tantrum was.

And yet, when he did return… I couldn’t bring myself to make a single comment about it.

Not because my heart had grown too gentle to torture him – as if that would ever happen. It was because Snow looked like hell. He did try to hide his face. But his eyes were all red and puffy. Morgana, was this real? Had I actually made him cry, just like when we were kids?

Maybe I was really getting soft. Because the thought made me feel guilty. Come to think of it… Snow had been having nightmares as long as I’ve known him, but these couple of weeks were positively more intense. He jolted awake multiple times a night, often almost catching me midnight snacking. The circles under his eyes grew deeper, darker. Like bruises.

Snow stomped to the wardrobe and started to pull out items of clothing at random, clumping them together. I was not worth a single look to him. Still, I put on a condescending expression, just in case.

I could feel a strange emotion grow in my chest. He was clearly on his way to sleep in the tub again – moron, he could’ve made a king-sized bed if he had learned to use his power properly – and I just couldn’t stop thinking about… things.

No, not those things. Crowley. More like Snow bursting into bright orange flames again. Locked in the bathroom. Devoured by fire…

It shouldn’t bother me. Fuck. It really shouldn’t. A dead Mage’s heir should be the best case scenario.

But it really wasn’t. Not to me.

I just… I was afraid for his life. I was a disgrace to my family and their values, I was the stupidest bastard alive… But I didn’t want Snow dead. I knew damn well why that is. Deep down. But just for the sake of my pride, I pretended it was because I had worked way too hard to end Snow for him to kill himself. Accidently, in his sleep.

Snow turned to me at the stupidest possible moment. I scrambled to get my expression under control. Who knows if it worked.

“You need to use the bathroom?” he spat out. “Or can I go lie down?”

I kept staring into his eyes, motionless.

Frankly, it did not happen very often that I’d find my morality challenged… since I had none. Now, my chest felt stuffed. And I wasn’t entirely sure what to do.

I didn’t like this.

Snow curled his lip and soon after, the bathroom door slammed shut behind him. There was a soft click of the lock. At the exact same moment, I caught myself reaching for the doorknob.

I grabbed my own arm and retrieved it. I shook my head; what was I thinking? I mean… there was a spell, of course… but even if Snow would’ve wanted my help, which I was sure he wouldn’t have, what good would it do? At the end of the day, he was still the Mage’s pet.

I couldn’t be the one saving The Simon Snow. No matter how many feelings for him I’ve harboured, we were at the opposite ends of the barricade. Actually, no – we were going to be the first to come through the barricade to try and take the other’s life.

I sat back on my bed.

I would leave him be, I decided. Wellbelove could kiss his pain away the following morning for all I care.

If he is alive the following morning, my mind opposed.

Aleister Crowley! What was happening to me?!

What I wanted to do, truly wanted to do… it wasn’t clever. It didn’t profit me or anyone I cared for. But there was, jumping to my feet and going back to the bathroom door. Taking a deep breath.

Then I called: “Snow?”

“Sod off,” he yelled back.

“Oh, save it,” I roll my eyes. “Just come out. I want to talk.” That was not true. I wanted to talk as little as possible. Solve the problem of the missing bed and say little to nothing about it.

“Ask if I care.”

Impatient, I knocked on the door multiple times just a little too strong. “I don’t have all night,” I rose my voice. “If you want to sleep in the tub so badly, then suit yourself. But there’s another way, so just get over yourself and open the damn door.”

There was only silence on the other side.

Then I heard steps. The familiar click of the lock. Two blue eyes looked up at me.

I swallowed.

I couldn’t believe I was doing this.

“So?” Snow asked, wary, but curious. “What is it?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Just to be clear, I don’t want anybody hearing about this,” I warned him, “or else I will find you and hex you. Understood?”

Snow shrugged, and his fingers found their way to the cross necklace he was wearing. I always found it annoying when he fiddled with it. I found it annoying that he had it in the first place. Yet another fuck you just for me.

“Alright, and…?”

It was especially hard to find words to explain what I was about to do. For… For him. To think that I’d be helping Snow instead of making his life even more hell…

Instead of speaking, I just took out my wand.

I knew what to do.

To my defence, it had not been my idea to watch Normal shows. It was Aunt Fiona, who found the Normal world really entertaining for some odd reason, that had me sit through four seasons of Doctor Who. After that, I eloquently explained that I thought it was kind of dumb. She still made me try out multiple spells that she’d invented after binge-watching the entire thing.

Now, I pointed the wand at my bed and cast a spell: “It’s bigger on the inside.” For this one to work, you had to mimic one of the Doctors’ accents. I was more than ready to murder Snow if he had laughed at me.

“I didn’t know that one,” he pointed out the obvious.

“Of course you didn’t.”

“What did it do though?”

I decided to demonstrate. I sat on the bed and scooted back to the wall, further and further, until my legs were stretched out in front of me. Which, obviously, was not supposed to be possible. The bed was not wide enough for that.

The trick was that whatever you used the spell on looked the same, but it got as spacious as needed. You could get infinite storage space without visibly enlarging the wardrobe, for example.

Considering this single bed… well, I suppose the entire football team could sleep on it and they wouldn’t even touch.

This spell was a bit of an eyesore, unfortunately. I could see Snow blinking in confusion. He saw the same thing I did – my legs laying comfortably on the mattress, and yet, the bed stayed the same size. Visually, my legs didn’t shrink, the bed didn’t get bigger… both realities existed at once. It was a bit much for the mind to handle.

“It’s as big as needed,” I explained briefly, not looking at him anymore. “You can sleep here just this once. And make sure it doesn’t have to happen again. Got it?”

“I – I mean –“ He looked shocked. Amazed, even.

“Speak, Snow.”

“Yes,” he nodded. His eyes got a completely bewildered look in them, I couldn’t keep the eye contact. “I – yeah.”

“The blanket is mine,” I informed him coldly. I would not pamper him like that. It was enough that I had just invited him into my bed.

Fuck’s sake. It’s going to smell like him, too, isn’t it? My mouth went dry at the thought. This was probably the stupidest idea I’ve had in the last ten years. Completely off the charts idiotic.

Good thing I had already changed into my pyjamas. Without a word, I lay down and slithered as close to the wall as possible; I felt as though I was never going to reach it. I covered myself with the blanket head to toe.

Nothing in this world would make me confess how nervous I was about the whole premise of Simon bloody Snow sleeping in the same bed as me. As I was laying there, a lot of memories came rushing to my mind. Of being fifteen and dying over how much I wanted Snow’s body on mine. How many fantasies of him getting up in the middle of the night and crawling into my bed had kept me up for hours? Smelling of firewood, his hands roaming under the sheets and his stupid mouth following suit…?

No.

No, this was not something I wanted to bring back. If he touched me, even by accident, I was pushing him onto the floor.

But still, I just knew where he was, how far from me exactly. I listened to him change from his clothes, the fabric rustling, floorboards creaking under his feet. Eventually he turned off the light and lay down somewhere behind me. So far… and yet so awfully close.

There was complete dead silence for a while.

Before Snow cleared his throat.

“Baz?” he sighed silently. “Thanks.”

I closed my eyes.

“Shut up.”

 ***

When I heard Snow whimpering in his sleep, I thought the events of last night had just come creeping into my dreams. This couldn’t be real.

Then came the burning smell. The air got thicker and every hair on my body stood up. It made me lift my head from the pillow to check on Snow.

It was the same as last time. Only I was closer. All the twitching, his body crackling with energy. Almost glowing with it.

My drowsy brain took about a second to know Snow was having terrors again. And another one to deduct that he was about to blow up my bed, taking me with it. He might’ve made it the last time, survived the magickal fire he started. Me? Not a chance there.

I was not ready to meet my fate.

I could feel panic rise in my throat and I pushed it down. In a millisecond, I calculated my chances. Snow will blow up, set me on fire. I die. Everybody in the dorm would be in danger. I couldn’t reach my wand, left it on the bedside table. No use talking to Snow, wake him up. No use trying to get out. He was getting all blurry again… his power made my mouth taste of smoke and blood.

The realisation dawned on me.

There was nothing I could do that was sure to save me.

In what I considered to be my last moments, I instinctively did the thing I wanted to do the most, just to keep the theme of being a pitiful, lovesick fool. Reaching across the bed, I took Snow’s hand. Closed my eyes.

I knew you would rid this world of me, I thought at him. It seemed to me like I was thanking him for the deed.

And then…

There was no fire.

Snow just squeezed my hand so tightly I felt my joints crack and curled around it like a small, frightened child. He was still breathing way too quickly… but the air got colder. The smoke was scattering.

I could not believe my eyes. Snow was holding onto my hand. I felt my pulse shoot up as I took in the view.

Something was telling me there was more. More I could do. And I felt like it must’ve been my destiny to die that night, because if Snow hadn’t killed me before he wakes from his nightmare… he sure would after.

Either way, I grit my teeth and came closer to Snow and our joint hands. I pulled the boy to my chest, all touches soft as velvet. His cross was buzzing between us, just another point of tension.

Snow’s bare skin was feverishly hot. I wish I wasn’t cold as a corpse. I wish I was alive.

Nevertheless, I tried to make the hug as comforting as possible. I ran my fingers through his hair; I saw Wellbelove do that once at the dinner table and Snow looked like he was just about to start purring. I kept my eyes on the black void of the opposite wall, a reminder of what I was trying to prevent here, and cautiously scratched snow’s scalp. Just like I had seen his girlfriend doing it.

He relaxed against me almost immediately.

His hair was incredibly soft. I’d never got to touch it before, although I’d always…

My throat got tighter. I had to stop the train of thought immediately.

I was just going mad because of him, wasn’t I?

As if he had heard that, Snow twitched in his sleep and I brought him closer, petting his head, letting him drool onto my shirt. A giant murderous baby, that’s what he was. And I was just the moron that was stuck cradling him. And I was indulging in it. And I wished I could erase the memory of what it felt like to be so close to him after this moment…

I sighed and scratched Snow’s head again.

At least this bloody thing worked.

If nothing else, it was a good call to try and calm him down like this. He was getting more stable by the second.

“Shhh,” I found myself cooing. This night was not going to get any stranger at this point, no matter what I did. “It’s okay. You are going to be okay.”

Snow didn’t register that I spoke to him. Fortunately. He was fast asleep in my arms. I kept absentmindedly stroking his hair before I finally drifted off as well…

“Baz…?’”

What… What was that? I felt so hot…

“Baz – what the hell are you – what is happening?!”

Crowley.

Oh no.

My eyes flew open just to meet Snow’s. He was so close. And so extremely confused, trying to push me away. I saved him the trouble as I scrambled away in panic. He grabbed his arms like a lady that had just been harassed.

I regained false composure in a bat of an eye. I would have been completely red by now if I had any fresh blood left in me. Good thing I hadn’t drank this time.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Snow.” I made a mildly disgusted face. “I was trying to save my life from a certain pyromaniac.”

His eyes widened. First, there was understanding. Then shock.

“So you… you just… cuddled me?!”

“Fuck’s sake. It worked. Don’t be an idiot!”

I aggressively threw the blanket over myself and turned to face the wall.

I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked it up so badly. Now the entire school’s about to learn that I cuddle my arch nemesis in my sleep. Snow is undoubtedly going to tell everyone, just as he’s been trying to convince the whole school that I’m an undead vampire that is planning his downfall. (Which is more or less correct, but that’s not the point.)

“It’s not – I mean – sorry,” Snow blabbered behind me. “And thanks again. Not – not for that, for stopping me. Er. Sorry.”

“You’re fucking welcome.”

“Baz – I –”

“That was not an imploration to keep talking, Snow. I’m going back to sleep.”

I felt him sink into the mattress.

When he took a breath to speak again, I thought I would rip his head off.

“It’s just… the terrors. They are getting worse.”

“You wouldn’t believe,” I sighed, “how happy I am to hear that.”

It shut him right up. Didn’t even call me evil, which was a first. It really must have bothered him… I was cursing at myself internally, but I asked anyway: “What are they about?”

“Huh?”

“The dreams. What are they about?”

Snow paused.

When he answered, his tone was flat. Dark.

“Everyone dead. Because of me.”

 ***

We said nothing about any of that in the morning. Who knows what Snow was thinking.

All I did was take the memory of him in my arms that was tingling in my skin and lock it somewhere deep inside of me. I would reach for it, I was sure, at those times when I would muse about how utterly miserable my entire life was. How I could never love anybody else but him. And how that doesn’t even matter because we were bound to destroy each other from day one.

 ***

“Look – er, I’m sorry, I really tried to get hold of someone, but –”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Sorry, Baz. Come on, don’t look at me like that, I really am sorry. I can go back to the bathroom, you know, if –”

“If I would rather you didn’t set me on fire?”

“Technically. Yeah.”

I sighed. I thought that would be a one-night-only issue. The bed. But apparently, the universe has a wicked sense of humour.

“Why don’t you just tell your little sidekick Bunce to come here and take care of it? I assume a single bed wouldn’t be much of a challenge for her.”

His eyes darted around the room. “Penelope can’t come here. She’s… a girl. That’s impossible.”

“You must be daft as a troll to believe I didn’t know.”

“I – er – I don’t – Penny never –”

“Save it.”

His ears were red as a beat. He didn’t look at me again, just pulled as his hair and stuttered out: “Uh – will you be taking a shower? Or can I…”

There was no need for me to protest. I knew that. I could’ve just refused to share my bed again. That’s what I would do if I wasn’t just a little too desperate and eager to torture myself. But I had convinced myself that this thing – Snow in my bed, but not the way I wanted it, never the way I wanted it – was something I fully deserved. Why wouldn’t I?

I did not deserve nice things, that was for sure.

I did not deserve the golden boy. He was not for me. But I could borrow him one more time.

I made my way to the door. “I’ll be back,” I said, looking him up and down, “but you’re not sleeping in the bathroom.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because it’s nonsense. The spell hasn’t worn off yet, It would be… a waste of magic.” Crowley, how was that making any sense?! I really was becoming dumber by the minute.

“But… but…”

“But, but, but,” I mocked him. Snow frowned at me and finished: “Why are you helping me like this, Baz?”

I turned my back.

“I’m not.”

“You are. Why?” he kept pestering.

“Maybe I want you to trust me for a bit, so I could kill you in your sleep.”

“I would never trust you,” Snow assured me… and I hated the way my stomach sunk to the floor. “And besides, you can’t kill me here. Anathema, remember?”

One foot out of the door already, I smirked: “Well, guess I am just going to shave off your eyebrows.”

 ***

Upon my return, the room was dark and silent. Snow had curled up with his back to the wall, lips slightly parted, his hair an ocean of curls… on my pillow. For a brief moment, I considered snatching it from underneath his stupid face. But that would just wake him up and I didn’t want to talk to him. I also didn’t want him to move away from the wall. That way, if he starts setting fires again, I have a chance to roll out of bed and leave him to it.

I went and took a shower. I really needed it. Changed into my pyjamas and laid down on the very edge of the bed, facing the room and not… him. Good thing I was so tired… I let my eyelids fall on their own, that was all it took…

And all it took for my eyes to swing open again was the sound, the feeling, of Snow shuffling closer to me.

Before I realized what was happening, I had two arms locked around my waist. And his body pressed into mine. Firm. Hot. So fucking real. He let out a relieved sigh – a huff of air against my bare neck. I could feel myself going pink in the face.

This was not a situation my mind had the capacity to process. Snow, I mouthed silently, eyes wide in shock. But I did not speak. What was I going to do? Wake him up? Throw a fit, ridicule him?

Simon Snow was holding me. He did it. He initiated it. Aleister Crowley and all mages that came before me, what was I going to do with this?!

But…

Really…

Fuck, I didn’t want to make a scene. Or wake him up. Or move an inch. This was all I would ever get. Snow… Simon… He wasn’t gay. Probably not even bi. I could never have him. And this was not conscious, and he would feel incredibly embarrassed in the morning.

He was holding me now, though.

I couldn’t give it up.

So I relaxed into the embrace. I hovered my hand over his for a moment, wondering whether I should… but no, no, that was too much. I let it fall onto the bed.

Snow was breathing on my neck, sending little shivers down my spine. I was never this close to anybody before. Never this aware of somebody else’s presence, skin, breathing.

With every rise and fall of his chest against my back, I thought: I love you, Simon Snow.

I wish I could only feel love for you.

I wish that was all there is to life.

 ***

Snow woke up first. He slipped away from me and said nothing. Which was odd.

I almost let myself hope. Almost believed he knew what he did and did it on purpose. Almost lost myself in fantasies of a great secret romance with Snow.

But when I arrived at the dorms that afternoon, I found it clean, tidy… and there was a brand new single bed waiting on Snow’s side of the room.

I ran out and into the catacombs so quickly I forgot to close the door behind me.

Hope turned out to be the worst thing that could’ve happened to me.

 ***

I roamed the underground for hours, trying to get lost and failing miserably.

Seriously, what was I thinking? That I might get a few more nights? A week of snuggling close to the person I was supposed to be fighting? Did I think he would kiss me? Did I think he would touch me?

I was a naïve fool. Simon Snow was going to fight for the Mage, as he always had, against the old families. Against my family. I had to protect my own, I had to do what was expected of me, and so did he. We had no future. Maybe one of us would live, but not both. Not together.

I thought I had understood a long time ago.

I thought I could control myself. Refrain from imagining stupid, unrealistic scenarios.

I was wrong. And useless. Noted.

I just wished Snow had never touched me. I would never forget all the things I would miss out on. It was better when I had no idea.

This was probably when I started crying.

 ***

It was almost dawn when I stumbled back into the room.

At first, I though I was just hallucinating. That I was this far gone.

But Snow’s bed was empty.

He was cozied up in mine.

I got inexplicably angry at a snap of fingers. I slammed the door and exclaimed: “Snow?!”

That scared him awake.

“What the hell,” he mumbled and rubbed his face. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to get out of my fucking bed!”

“Crowley, stop yelling,” he complained. “I, er… was waiting for you. Fell asleep, I guess.”

Waiting? In my bed?

Why, why would he do that?

He had to stop. I would not let him give me false hope anymore. I whipped out my wand and pointed it at him. His hands flew into the air.

“Get out now,” I hissed, not putting any magic into my words… yet.

“You can’t curse me.”

“Snow.”

“You’d be expelled out of Watford.”

“Try me. Maybe I’m willing to sacrifice my education for an easy kill.”

“Oh – come on –” He rapidly stood up. “See? Your bed. I just… wanted to talk to you. I mean, not originally, but now…”

“There is nothing to talk about.”

“I just though… the spell is still working and…”

“And what? You have your own bed. Problem solved. What the fuck are you on about?” I threw my blazer onto a chair and started angrily removing my tie.

Snow kept standing in the middle of the room like a lost lamb.

But when he spoke, his voice cut clear through the room and into my weak, weak mind.

“You hugged me the other night,” he stated. “And held my hand.”

I had a hard time coming up with a comeback to this that wouldn’t include physical violence. So I ignored him… only making it worse.

“And yesterday, I… I hugged you. But you didn’t pull away. You were awake, you let me do it.”

I abruptly turned on my heel and in a second, I was staring him down, face only inches from his.

“You leave me the fuck alone,” I growled. “I never did those things. Touch me again and I break all of your bones.”

“You know I’m telling the truth!”

“You are not. You are a sorry little attention-seeker and nobody will believe you.”

“Stop trying to manipulate me, it won’t work!” he retorted. “And I haven’t told anybody. Never will. I only want to talk to you about… everything.”

“Right. Before you try and blackmail me.”

“No, listen –”

“See, Snow, if there are some feelings you are repressing, I suggest you keep that to yourself. I want you five feet away from me at all times.” Then I spat at his feet. Snow winced.

It wasn’t fair of me. I’ve had my share of repressing emotions. But since when was I the one to play nice? Simon Snow truly was the source of most of my problems in life. Him and his fragile feelings could go fuck themselves.

“You’re disgusting,” he told me.

“You’re annoying.”

“Could you just hear me out for once?”

“Could. Don’t want to.”

“Crowley – just admit it –”

My hands flew to his neck before he could finish the sentence. But he caught them and fought me, even though I was physically stronger than him.

“Knock it off. Baz! I said knock it off!” I felt his magic rise to his panicked voice and make the air crackle with power. I couldn’t help it, I had to step away.

Snow was shaking, visibly upset at me. Maybe he would go off on me. Maybe he would be expelled for that immediately after. Delightful.

Snow’s rage was delightful too.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” he exclaimed. “I hate you so fucking much, you are just evil!”

There it was.

“Likewise.”

“What’s your problem, seriously? Why wouldn’t you just admit what happened between us –”

“Nothing happened, Snow,” I cut him off. “That’s it. Solved the mystery for you.”

“If it was nothing then why are you so scared of having me in your bed? I slept there before, you could’ve just left it!”

“I’m not scared. You are just bordering sexual harassment,” I shouted back. I was positively losing it. Did he… know I was queer? He couldn’t. “Do you have any idea what this all sounds like?! Why would you want to sleep in my bed anyway?!”

“Because I liked it!” he boomed.

Silence fell.

The sky behind the window glass was turning yellow with sunrise.

What… what the everloving fuck did he mean by that? He was just probably trying to use me. Pushing me just to see proof that I have a thing for him. No, never in a million years…

“I – um,” Snow cleared his throat.

I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone blush so much.

“It’s like… I’m not saying I understand what it was. What it… means. But…”

He stepped closer, biting the inside of his face. I couldn’t move. If I could, I would run away in the speed of light.

“But I like this,” he finally admitted, and his gaze fell to his feet. Fuck, it was adorable. “The two of us. Close. Just… sleeping. Nothing else.”

I stared at him in utter disbelief. I tried to accuse him: “It’s some kind of a trick.” My voice was way too shaky though. It didn’t have the effect.

Snow softly shook his head.

“You’re the one who’s always plotting,” he pointed out. “I’m just the guy swinging a sword.”

“I still feel like there is a catch.”

“There isn’t.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. There just isn’t. I’m being honest.”

I wanted to tell him to go to bed, his own bed, but the words got stuck in my throat and wouldn’t come out. Snow, standing dangerously close to me at this point, hurried to add: “We don’t have to talk about it. We really don’t. Besides, nobody knows that we… you know. I haven’t told a soul.”

He talked like we’d been snogging or worse, not like we’d just… spooned. (But considering our history, that was strange enough.)

“Why not?” I asked him. Like a dumbass.

“Didn’t want to, I guess. Have you told anybody?”

“Crowley, no. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Snow nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He looked me in the eyes again. “Let’s just… try and get some sleep.”

I was confused as in what to do with… well, all this. I watched him get back into my bed and scoot back, leaving me enough space to join him.

“I like to sleep closer to the wall,” I blurted out without thinking. And immediately regretted it. There goes pretending like his suggestion disgusted me. Snow yawned as he got back up, gesturing me to get into bed first. This morning was about to be the first time in my life I would be grateful for being a vampire… if I were not, he would see exactly how flustered that had made me.

“I still can’t tell what you’re trying to achieve here,” I frowned.

Snow shrugged, and the corners of his mouth tugged up. “I think I’m just going to shave your eyebrows off when you’re asleep.”

That almost made me snort.

I gave up. I took off my shoes and laid down. Snow followed me right away. Seeing how tense I am, he repeated: “We really don’t have to talk about any of this, ever.”

“You sound like a broken record. We are already talking about this.”

“Well, we don’t have to.”

I rolled my eyes at him… And noticed the colour of the sky outside.

The day was creeping up on us. But Snow was so close. And… he wanted this. He was all sloppy about it, but he wanted this. I didn’t even know what to think…

“Baz?”

“Mm? What?”

“Could… I hug you now?”

“I just decided. I don’t want you to talk about it.” Yet, he kept waiting for an answer. Honestly, he was just too good for me. Just for him, just this once, I let down my walls, closed my eyes and said: “You… can.”

And he did. Pressed me to his chest like a stuffed animal. I tried to let go of the stiffness in my muscles, to let myself rest, but how could I? He was so bloody hot. (Both in the temperature sense and attractive sense. As per usual, he slept without a shirt on.)

(His cross was nowhere in sight. Just like yesterday, I realized.)

“Your arms won’t fall off if you hug me back,” he remarked.

“Shut up, Snow.”

“Just do it, will you.”

There we were. A knot of limbs, circles under our eyes and deep breaths.

Maybe this really could be all there was to life, at least for the nights and early mornings.

Maybe we really didn’t have to talk about it.

[dolanswhore]

Moonlight. (5) never going home.

Series masterlist. ||| 

Tags : @graydolan12

The morning wasn't a friend to her, the cold, crisp morning air danced along her face causing red cheeks along with goosebumps to show for it. The moment her eyes opened, the sun shined against them from the window, lighter color iris expanding, waking in it's blaze. Despite how warm the wools and furs underneath her were, she noticed the beautifully sown, brown fur drapped across her shoulders and tied into a perfect knot forged from some kind of leaves against her neck. One of the twins had to notice how cold she was and instinctively fixed the problem. On the table sat a bowl of freshly picked strawberries, which the two males retrieved this morning, but there was no sign of either one.

Without even thinking, feet carrying her to the exit of the shack. It didn't feel right, something stirring deep in her stomach, warning her this wasnt a good idea, it wasnt right to be leaving them. She continued to run though, with thoughts of her family, seeing them again, seeing her friends, telling them about the beast that guards this forest. It was difficult with no shoes, branches and sharp rocks creating bruises and bleeding cuts with every step.

Y/N was running so fast, her eyes squeezed shit from the chilly wind drying her eyes, which caused her inevitable crash into a large, solid tree that knocked her right onto her rear with a loud gasp. When finally opening her eyes, mouth falling ajar, it wasn't a tree she ran into but the wall of a man Grayson. His arms crossed against his hard, solid chest, a snarl clearly shown against features. Disappointment as well, as he clicks his tongue. Disappointing him didn't sit well in her stomach, squeezing and gargling causing heat to pain her chest. All she could think was how stupid of a pull the moon goddess gave her.

"How could you be so foolish?" Grayson's feelings were obviously hurt, his one and true mate running from the home he had provided for her. "You know what is in these woods. Do you want to be killed? And look at your feet. You hurt yourself in the process, and didn't even succeed."

She says nothing, only hangs her head low at his ill words. Those words burn in Grayson's throat, even the comment of death makes him sick to his stomach. "I'm sorry, i shouldn't have said that to you."

It is sincere, but she still can't help but feel a burning inside his chest. She couldn't deny she was mated to these two males, feelings with them were just to easy to feel, too strong, and with her body showing how much she hates making him upset. "What have me and Ethan done wrong? Why are you running away my half?"

She chooses not to answer, to turn her head back towards the direction of the shack, stumbling as she stood. She manages to limp a foot before Grayson's strong arms lift her bridal style carrying her the rest of the way.

Ethan was already there, a deer carelessly draped over his shoulder like it was nothing. Her eyes studying the giant bite that ended the deer's life on its neck, delievered by Ethan's beast side. Grayson had already told him through the mind link the two shared. Y/N could tell he knew because the same look of disappointment that covers Grayson's features are replicated against Ethan's.

Both followed her inside, Grayson resting her against the furs gently as Ethan graps the bowl on strawberries placing them next to her, "Eat."

Her feet stung, the look on her face said it all. She expected them to help her, freak out that she had injured herself seeing they were so protective, but nothing came. She couldn't wabble to the bucket of water if she wanted too, her feet were sore, raw to the touch, the furs of the blanket worsing them. Wincing in pain, she held her right foot, by nature, the one she favored and held it to nurse it. She expected at least one of them to help, but felt her heart drop to her stomach as both turn away without a glance. Shoulders sludged instead of how tall and strong they always stand, like kings. Her attempted escape for freedom, not only hurt her feet but broke the hearts of the two males that would do anything for her.

After hours of anticipation her stomach growls not only in hunger but from how hot her chest burned at sadness she created for the twins. Luckily she did manage to clean her cuts, wrapping her feet in patches of animal skins that were dried out and left in a box. The forest's bandaid. When the door did finally open, the smell hit her instantly, all of a sudden the males help a srong, sweet smell. When closing eyes all she could see is vanilla and cinnamon, but behind them but not as strong, the smell of smoked deer meat that they carry on plates made of clay, by their hands. The forest smell was many things, metallic, flowers, the wind even seemed to have its own smell.

No words were said, they barely even glanced at her, leaving that sickening twisting of her stomach. The males got three plates out, placing an heaping amount of food on theirs and enough food on hers to keep her full for days. They say nothing, Ethan just reaches over the table placing it to the opposite side of him with a small thud.

They eat without her, like some kind of exile. Y/N couldn't take it anymore, their pain was her pain. Standing wasn't easy, but didn't hurt as much either. With every step a new sound of pain left her lips, leaving the twins mouth dry, Ethan pushes his food away, suddenly not hungry. She stops right in front of them, dropping to her kness. She looks at Ethan and Grayson, meeting their eyes with sincerity. "I'm sorry. It hurts disappointing you like this. I just wanted to see my family, don't hate me." The thought alone making her heart crumble inside her chest.

It was a churn inside both of the Male's stomachs. A knot forming seeing their queen on her knees in front of them. She was a queen, a queens are equal to their kings."Don't you gravel to us."

Grayson's fingers wrap around hers, helping her onto his lap. "Never do that again." Ethan mumbles, hating the sight of it. "We will always forgive you. You were crafted from the moon for us, my heart."

She had never felt so much love as her cheeks fill with heat, a small blush warming every inch of her body. Without thinking her nose falls into Grayson's neck, mocking the way he does to her, sniffing the sweet smell of cinnamon. Grayson's body burns at her touch, a pleasurable sting that warms his cheeks and thighs. Ethan and Grayson look at each other shocked. "You smell so good."

Next she crawls onto Ethan's lap, nose pressed against his carotid vein, the place her mark will lay. Vanilla so strong her stomach twists as her tongue meets the skin, a small moan falls from Ethan's mouth. Involuntary, but she was touching his most sensitive spot, the spot the held so much meaning amoung wolves. "You do too. I could smell both of you forever."

Grayson's nose now takes in her scent, her chest pressed against her back, heat where they touch. Her skin begins to buzz as Ethan mimics his brother, lips wrapping around her shoulder, sucking the skin that it will leave purple marks. "I like when you touch me."

"Your wolf is in her wake." Grayson's fingers trailing against both of her arms, soaking up the heat along them. "Being with your mates must have brought her along. You're smelling us, which means you must smell the forest against us."

"Tell us what you smell." Nose against the tanned skin of Ethan had him shivering. "You smell of that deer you killed earlier." Her hands bring one of his to her nose, "berries, and dirt."

She was back to Grayson, straddling his lap, her nose to his chest, "water, and leaves." His hands to her, "ashes, and cooked deer meat."

"Seems like we have a great hunter, Ethan." Ethan smiles in agreement, large arms crossing over his chest. Looking up at Grayson in confusion, his nose presses to her neck. "A great nose you have, you will be a gifted hunter and tracker."

Ethan is taking in her intoxicating scent as well, "and you smell like us, my little hunter."

Ethan's long fingers hold a piece of deer meat out, she leans closely, taking a bite from it. They were providing for her, filling her with the food of their hunt, nothing comes with greater respect.

She continues to take food from their hands, in their culture, the greatest sign of acceptance, the greatest honor she could give them. After dinner, their belly's full, Grayson had carried her to the warm comfort of the furs. "Sleep. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow." With a soft touch of her cheek bone and a kiss to her forehead. Ethan was right behind him, sniffing her scent and placing a kiss against her hair.

"Why?"

"We have decided to go back and take our rightful place."

The memories of the moon goddess talking through Grayson fills her head with vivid images. "Where are you guys going?"

"To train."

"Sleep." Ethan says softly, pulling the furs to her chin. "Tomorrow we should you our way of life, the way we were raised. Tomorrow you will be trained as the great warrior we know you will be."

With one more kiss to her head, they were of into the night, not returning until the sun had risen. The lines of the moon once again painted against their skin, blood smeared across their lips, a sacrifice to the moon goddess for great fortunes.

In Ethan's hand were a small wooden box, a small rattling sound with every step taken towards Y/N. "Goodmorning."

Grayson's couldn't help but touch her, fingers under her chin to meet his yellow eyes. "Would you like to bathe?"

She nods unsure. Feet are better today, a little sting but not enough that she was able to walk. The morning was beautiful, it was hot for what the past days have been, almost like mother nature was giving one last day of sunshine before the deadliness of winter comes. The strong smell of cleaness, along with the swishing of water, she knew they were close to the source.

Grayson was the first to strip, pulling the linen cloth down his muscular thighs. Her mouth dries instantly at the sight. Ethan was soon to follow, water reaching to his belly button, her cheeks heat at the sight of them. Mountains of hard muscles, chest swelling into pecs, defined stomachs. All eyes were on her. " i am not getting naked in front of you."

"Modesty isn't know along our kind. " Grayson takes the bar of soap that was shaped like a jar, guessing he or ethan had made it themselves.

"Its normal to be naked, natural." Ethan offers as Y/N shakes her head.

"Lesson 1 of today. Most of the pack will be naked, when you shift wolves don't wear clothes. Now come bathe with us my half." Grayson's hand extends holding the soap out for Ethan to take.

"Turn around."

"We are your mates we will see you naked eventually."

"Not today wolf."

Ethan and Grayson follow her wishes, turning for they cant see the sight of her, only the thousands of trees in front of them. The water is cold against her legs but feels so good, the grime against her feet already peeling from her skin. She's not as tall as the males, but stands for her nipples are covered. "Soap please."

Ethan and Grayson turn at the same time, eyes roaming the bare skin of her shoulders, the swells of the top of her breast. Ethan's soft hands meet hers. "Let me wash you my heart."

"No, I got it." It was hesitant, but she stayed strong, her fingers taking the soap, pressing the bar against her bare skin.

"We made you this." Grayson stands above the pond, nakedness making her cheeks pinch pink. A beautiful silk dress, tan, seeing it was made from a deerskin, sewn beautifully at the sides, from the hands of the two males.

"It's beautiful."

Grayson smiles sweetly, as Ethan exits the water as well. "Come, your training starts soon."

"What about breakfast?" The twins turn around, allowing her to slip on the soft dress, it fit exact, showing off the curves of a woman. "That is next the lesson, to find your own."

Ethan and Grayson dress themselves in their linens. "Come here."

She is placed between Ethan's legs as his soft hands squeeze her hair, allowing the moisture to fall against his thighs. The comb runs through her knotty hair quickly with his strength. Grayson sits in front of her, legs crossed. A green thick muck of pain in the palm of his hand as his fingers draw lines against her face. "I just took a bath wolf."

He rolls his eyes as her hand meets his, stopping him mid line. "How will the moon ever see you then my half? She will see you as a warrior."

Ethans fingers began braiding her hair into tight little braids, corn rolls against her head. At the end of every braid bead of red, blue and gold are placed. "Why are you putting these in my hair?"

"The female warriors wear these. Its a sign of strength, of endurance. The red represents the blood you spill for the pack, the blue shows loyalty to the moon and pack. The gold show you are mated."

Grayson and Ethan finish quickly. Grayson's finger always seem to find her skin, while Ethan allows her to have time to adjust but Ethan couldn't help bit touch her cheek, dried paint against fingers. "You look beautiful."

"A dream, truly." Grayson talks as well, both hearts swelling for their female.

"What if I don't want to be a warrior?" She doesn't meet their eyes, head handing low not wanting to actually know.

"You were born for it. A luna must protect her pack."

"I don't want to be luna either." Ethan sighs, the feeling of his fingers missed as he removes them. Grayson's lips kiss her shoulders, "you were born for that as well. You were never taught these ways, you were raised wrong."

"I was not raised wrong! My family loves me."

"You're family has wakened you. Left you defenseless against these woods." She looks at Ethan, the one who usually agrees with her but is suprised as his eyes are hard, agreeing with his brother.

"Will I ever go home?" She felt sick as Ethan answered, "No."

If she has eaten, it would be all over the ground in front of her, but instead her lip quivers, pushing away Ethan and Grayson's comforting touch. "Why?"

Both look at the ground, grayson decides to speak, feeling his brother's heart thump against his chest. "You'll never come back if we allow you to go."

Chapter 6 coming next week!! Let me know if you want to be tagged.

[kallura-icedcoffee]

golden hour: sanctuary

A/N: Better late than never? I blame work and social commitments and laziness.

You’re Not Welcome Here

I can’t live within you…

Allura slumped against the pulpit, battered bruised bloodied, gasping for air as she held her limp arm. Once seated, she pulled the bag up over her head by the strap and rifled through it with her free hand. Pushing aside weapons, candles, bottles of holy water, her hand finally rested on a wooden stake which she quickly shoved in her mouth and bit down on.

She took a few deep breathes from her nose as she reached across her chest and gripped her shoulder. Eyes clamped shut, she shoved, hard. A loud crack sounded as her shoulder reset. A muffled wail escaped through gritted teeth as an involuntary tear rolled down her dirty cheek. Allura let the stake fall from her mouth into her lap as she went back to the bag and pulled out a roll of gauze to wrap the wound on her leg. Tying off the wrap she finally let her head fall back to try and rest if but for a moment.

“Alloooooooora…” a voice echoed through the empty church.

She sat at attention, quickly shoving her belongings back in the bag. As she scrambled to her feet the candles behind her began to ignite rapidly. Her eyes darted around the space.

“Allura…did you think you could find safety from me here? Did you think this was a place I could not follow?”

She could hear his laughter from everywhere but her gaze eventually fell directly down the aisle at the entrance. His eyes, a sickly yellow color, cut through the darkness. He looked down at the line of salt that crossed his path, smirking at it before stepping over it.

“Can we stop with these games? I don’t want to keep hurting you like this” he said with a feigned sympathy.

“We can stop when you give Keith back to me.” She snarled.

“I possessed him fair and square darling. He’s mine until I say he isn’t.”

“Then it seems we’re at an impasse.”

“We don’t have to be” he said, approaching her.

As he came down the aisle and passed each row of pews they flew out of his way, crashing into the walls and windows sending wood fragments and glass flying in every direction.

“You could join me. We could be together. He loves you, I love you” he added.

“Demons are not capable of love” she retorted.

“I’m capable of lust. Isn’t that good enough?” He smiled.

She hated looking at his twisted face, knowing Keith was somewhere deep inside trapped behind those eyes. She was done talking to that thing, that thing that wasn’t him. She reached for her belt and detached her whip. It unfurled and she gave a nice good crack. Keith, or his shell anyhow, chuckled as he shook his head.

“You really want to do this?” he asked.

With a swing of her arm then a sharp pull back the whip flung forward just enough to lick his face, a fresh thin slice appearing across his cheek. He didn’t flinch, but a tight lipped scowl distorted his mouth. He had his answer. He pulled his longsword out of its sheath.

Keith charged her and Allura immediately whipped at him to keep him from advancing. He slid back, falling to one knee before getting up and lunging again. She swirled the whip back and forth and he deflected in turn with the blade, dodging as he went in an attempt to close the distance.

He jumped to overtake her from the high ground and in response she swung it over her head like a lasso, the reach of her whip so long it snapped several candles in half. He managed to avoid it, instead clinging to the wall like a spider. She whipped at him again and this time he caught it, the leather wrapping around his hand which started to bleed from the impact. They stayed in this tug of war, eyes locked, teeth gritted. He pulled. She pulled.

Keith’s strength, compounded with that of a demon, won out and he was finally able to yank the handle out of her grasp. Allura growled and her gaze immediately flashed toward her bag. Keith saw it too. It was now a matter of who would get there first.

She dashed for it and he followed. Her hand reached out, about to snatch up the bag and he tackled her. They writhed and rolled, kicking, biting, scratching, punching at each other. Allura shoved him off and scrambled to the satchel, reaching in and flinging out a heavy ornate gold cross at him just as he was about to claim her. The cross was inches from his face. He hissed, spittle dripping from his mouth. Her hand trembled as she quickly tried to pull air into her lungs, heart pounding in her chest.

“How many times must I tell you your trinkets will not work on me?” He swatted her hand away.

His voice was raspy and deep and there was a tone there that was not Keith’s, that was not even human. “Stop this. End it. You cannot defeat me so give in.”

He caressed her face before pulling her up into his arms. She struggled but he held her so tight she thought he might snap her bones.

“Allura, we could bend this world to our will you and I. I could make you feel things you could only dream of. I can make Keith live forever. I could make you live forever.”

His leaned forward and kissed her cheek, her neck, before returning to her mouth and resting his lips there. His breath smelled of death. She didn’t kiss him back.

“What do you say hmm? Doesn’t that sound good?”

He paused and waited for a response.

“It’s not a trinket” was all she uttered.

“What?”

“It’s not a trinket. It’s a hunter’s cross.”

He still seemed confused which was to her benefit. She smiled and brought the cross to his forehead, hovering, but not touching, not yet.

“Is it supposed to burn?” he asked mockingly with a smirk.

“It’s supposed to exorcise demons.” She smirked back.

His eyes went wide and before he could push her away she touched it to his skin and it seemed to suction on. She wrapped an arm around his waist and held him in place. The cross did indeed burn and he screamed, his mouth stretching open as a red and orange glow, like a flame, burst from behind his eyes. Otherworldly screeching and thick black smoke bubbled from deep in his throat and out of his mouth toward the ceiling. It swirled like a forming tornado before disintegrating and raining ash down on them.

Keith’s body went limp and they both collapsed under the sudden weight. She ran her fingertips over his face, brushed his hair from his eyes. When they finally fluttered open, tears streamed down her face. She’d never seen a prettier shade of violet. He groaned as he shifted his body.

“I feel like death.”

“You look it. Be still.”

“I don’t intend to go anywhere.” His voice was dry and gruff.

“You’re safe now” she reassured him.

“I know, because you’ve always been my safe place.” He coughed while lifting a hand and slipping it through her hair, placing it on the back of her neck to pull her down onto his chest.

“Try not to get possessed again. It’s a bit of a pain” she said softly.

“I’ll do what I can. Perhaps we could take a bit of a break hmm? Hunt something a little simpler?”

“Like vampires?”

“They bite.”

“Werewolves?”

“They bite too, and scratch.”

“Well while we figure it out can we just lay here for a while?”

“Of course.”

The fatigue and the soreness and the pain finally started to kick back in and Allura felt like perhaps she could lay there with him forever. She closed her eyes and settled in to sleep right there with him on the floor of the ruined church. It wasn’t ideal but it was a good enough shelter for the night and frankly she couldn’t have cared less where they slept as long as she had him back.

AO3 LINK

[drowningfandoms]

Yoooo, I updated yay me. CW for language, violence, alcohol and use of a homosexual slur. Just letting you know beforehand. 

Part One  Part Two  Part Three 

“Baz!” Char blurted out, instantly thrusting out her palm and roughly shoving aside Simon like a ragdoll. He pressed his hand to his chest to where Char had hit him, rubbing the sore spot. Char shot up to meet Baz, eyes avoiding his piercing gaze. “I was- I mean I just-”

“I don’t care Char. That’s not for you to tell.” Baz crossed his arms and looked down on char, his height and angular limbs more prominent next Char’s curvy frame. “You shouldn’t have done this.”

From where Simon sat, he could see Char clench her fists and roll her eyes. She crossed her hands across her chest as well and raised her chin as to meet his gaze. There was not a trace of regret in her voice as she spoke,

“Nothing is going to happen if you or I don’t do something about it.” Baz just set his jaw firm, and Simon couldn’t help but notice how sharp his jawline looked and felt a strange pull to touch it. But he swallowed and quashed that feeling down.

“I want it to be done on my terms,” Baz stated. He looked confident, hip cokced to the side, and broad arms crossed. Nothing, it seemed, would change his mind about whatever was going on.

“Well, your terms fucking suck. I’m taking matters into my own hands. ” Charlize narrowed her eyes, and put her hands on her hips. She spun around and yelled straight at Simon, “BAZ LIKES SIMON SNOW!”

—

Three things happened in that moment.

Firstly, the blood from Baz’s face drained so quickly that Simon grew concerned that he might pass out. His mouth gaped opened and his arms dropped to his sides so quickly they were nothing more than a blur. Simon saw him sway to the side, his face painted with surprise and betrayal.

Secondly, Char ran out of the room, a victorious smile on her face, and cackling with a sort of sadistic glee. She would gloat this in their faces for the weeks to come, but in the moment, she was triumphant.

Thirdly, Simon realized he might have liked Baz back.

—

There was no moment that could directly be attributed to Basilton Grimm-Pitch falling for Simon Snow. Instead, there were moments here and there that collectively made him fall in love. The first tangible memory though was this,

It was the first day of school and Baz had gotten into an argument with his parents about something stupid and trivial, but he still groaned and griped and went to his room to brood. He hated the looks the students and teachers gave him. Wasn’t his fault that his mother died while being the headmaster of the school when he was young. It wasn’t his fault that the nursery caught fire and almost a fourth of the children had perished in it. Wasn’t he in that too? None of it was his fault!

As he sat on his bed thinking, the door opened and in came in a boy of gold.

Baz had never seen anyone who looked like Simon Snow. He radiated light and warmth, a sharp contrast to Baz’s darkness and coldness. As soon as he came in, Baz felt a little calmer and collected than before, and even felt himself smiling as he went to greet him. Seriously. He was smiling. Goddamn. The things that boy had done to him.

“Hello?” He had asked, a nervous smile tugging at Simon’s lips.Baz would treasure that smile forever. There were moles on his face, three on his left cheek, and two under his right eye, and some sprinkled under the collar of his pastel blue sweater. “You’re Basilton, right?”

Baz found himself nodding, and then shaking his head because only adult ever called him that, but then Simon’s face shaped into a puzzled expression and Baz said,

“I am Basilton, but most people call me Baz. Flows easier I suppose.” Baz bit his lip, wondering where his normal eloquence had gone. He wanted to impress that golden boy.

“Baz,” Repeated Simon, and Baz felt his heart skip a beat without knowing why. “I like it.”

And from there Basilton was over the moon for the boy of gold.

—

“What-” Simon said, somewhat stupidly and confused,  “was that about?”

Simon looked at Baz, who was purposely avoiding his gaze. There were bright red spot on his cheeks, made even more noticeable by his pale complexion. It felt awkward and strange in the room, amplified by the admission of Char.

“Ah. She does that. Char I mean.” Baz rubbed his neck and raised his head to peer at the ceiling, teeth digging into his lips nervously. “Guess you would have learned it sooner or later.”

“Wait. Do you like me?” Simon asked, standing up. He felt weirdly pleased, knowing that Baz liked him. Maybe he always knew, but the confirmation was there and real.

“Yes,” Baz replied without hesitation. “I do like you Simon Snow.”

Simon pushed past him, his emotions a whirlwind and head foggy. There was a deep, penetrating confusion in him; in that moment there were no thoughts coming in or out of his head. There was only one constant thought: what the fuck?

“I just need a moment to think,” He gushed out as he hurried away. There was a brief moment of guilt as Simon saw Baz’s hurt face, but it outweighed by Simon’s need to get out of the stuffy room. He pushed past the groups of teenagers and made his way up stairs, to the backyard where there was no one around. He breathed in the cool night air, and let his thoughts gather.

Simon didn’t know how to feel about the situation. After years of knowing Baz as an insufferable asshole, this revelation should have felt like a shock, to say the least. But somehow it didn’t. And that felt right.

Simon thought about their moments before they were enemies, when there was at least at the chance of friendship.

It was soon after school had started, when Simon first wanted to befriend him. It was before he met Penelope, although she would become a staple in his life. He was a scholarship student, barely fourteen, and no one knew who he was. There was little chance to make a name for himself, as everyone knew him as the kid who the “Mage” had pitied enough to allow him to come to their school.

Some kinds had made fun of his clothes, and although Simon usually had thick skin, the combined stress of moving schools, meeting new people, and trying to settle into an unfamiliar place had lowered his defences, and soon he was ran back to cry in his room, sobs racking his body. He had curled up on his bed and wrapped his pastel green quilt around him.

The door opened, and Baz walked in, his presence a stable fixture. He wore his uniform, but it was disheveled and messy, yet it looked natural on him. The smell of smoke clung to him, woody and heady, and it relaxed Simon. What Simon didn’t know however, was that Baz had heard of what had happened and ran from the bonfire he was at to go and comfort Simon. But he would never mention that to him.

Simon furiously rubbed at his face in an attempt to hide his tears, and turned his face away from the gaze of Baz. He brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs.

“You alright Snow?” Baz asked, in a nonchalant way. Simon didn’t answer and buried his face into his knees, mildly annoyed. “Did I do something..?”

Simon lifted his head and sighed. He felt too tired to talk, like there was a deep blanket over his persona. Baz sat down on Simon’s bed, the mattress dipping under their combined weight.

“It’s nothing,” Simon whispered, the words ghosting over Baz. He attempted to look comical, but even Simon could see the tension of anger in his body. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides, and his teeth were digging into bottom lip. Simon’s stomach flipped. “Just some kids being assholes.”

“Do you want me to go beat them up for you? I could do that y’know.”  Baz puffed up his chest and beat his hand to his torso and grinned. “I’m the strongest one around here!”

Simon laughed, already feeling better at the display of Baz’s bawdiness and shook his head. “No, I’m fine!”

“Or I could leave a squirrel for them in their room. Maybe that would teach them a lesson, don’cha think?” He gave a wicked grin and there was a mischievous glint in his eye. Baz finally looked relaxed, anger dissipating at the the gentle smile of Simon.

“I’m fine. Really Baz.” Simon wiped at his face, letting the final tears dry and melt into his skin. “Thank you for making me feel better though.”

“You know it Snow.” Baz raised his hand, hesitant to touch Simon’s back. But then he placed his hand, gently and softly, on Simon’s shoulder and rubbed it soothingly. “But I still think the squirrel is a good idea.”

—

“Oh lord, help me,” Simon said to himself, on his knees in the garden. “What is going on?” Simon, lost in thought, didn’t hear anything, as the branches rustled under the weight of heavy footsteps. The sound nearer and nearer, but still Simon didn’t hear.  The short haired man snorted, an awful pig like sound, and threw his cigarette at the concrete, smashing the lit ash on the undersold of his boot.

“Excuse me?” Simon asked, still not quite comprehending what the man had said.he didn’t even know if he was talking to Simon. “What did you say?”

“Ya heard me flag, what the bloody fuck is that sitting on yer’ skull?” He looked angry, a slimy repulsed expression marrying the otherwise handsome features of his face. Simon lifted his hand to touch his flower crown and shrugged in an attempt to appear nonchalant, when really his heart was beating faster than an African drum.

“It’s a fucking twig tiara,“ Simon retorted, letting his hand fall to his side. He felt that thing that Baz had felt those long years ago, a red hot sense of anger of defense. He swallowed the lump in his throat and stepped back. “What the fuck does it look like?”

“It looks like a mistake that’s what it looks like to me. Men aren’t supposed to prancing around in a fucking ass pastel flower crowns. It’s not right doing that.” The man leaned closer to Simon and the pungent smell of alcohol tainted his breath, and Simon’s head spun from the aroma. Simon tried to think of a some witty remark but the man’s breath was really messing with his train of thought and he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything. The man didn’t wait for a response and just as suddenly Simon was given a rough shove to the chest and he stumbled back clumsily, nearly tripping over his own feet. “For fuck’s sake didja not here what I said?”

The man didn’t just look angry anymore; he looked straight up murderous and Simon quickly scanned his surroundings to see if anyone, anyone, was around. But he was met with nothing and no one to offer any sort of hope to his steadily growing precarious situation.

“I don’t talk to drunken idiots that make bad life decisions,” Simon said as-a-matter-of-factly, turning his shoulders inward like it could protect him. “Bad influence y'know?” He stepped back with the intention of leaving but then it happened. Simon really should have expected what came next. In all honesty it’s amazing the man hadn’t done it sooner; it was so obvious that he was setting up to do so, with the stance he held and fists clenched at his sides. But then Simon saw a fist aimed straight and barely had any time to narrowly duck before the man attempted to land a punch. He stumbled back into the grass, startled, and threw up his hands to protect himself.

It’s just as sudden when a leg slams into his side and Simon doubled over in pain and the ground met his face to soon and- “What the bloody hell is going on?” A new voice emerged into the chaos of Simon’s mind and it sounds like someone he knows all too well. He rose up, wincing and clutching his side. It didn’t feel broken, but there definitely was bruising. That would have to be dealt with later though.

“Baz? What?” He felt shocked, and insulted, but nevertheless grateful. Yet, he would never let Baz know his feelings.

“I come out for a smoke and I wind up in the middle a fistfight.” Baz did in fact have his hands full with a lighter and cigarette, but he threw that to the ground and spread his arms offensively. “Why don’t you pick on someone who deserves it?”

“Oi, this ain’t none of your business. Just let the faggot and I beat this out, aight?” The man shoved at the shoulder of Baz, but of course, he stood there and didn’t move. Baz placed his hands on his hips and shook his head disapprovingly.

“Ok,” He said, rolling up his sleeves.  He ran his hand through his hair and placed it into a man bun that sat firmly on the top of his head.“ Now you’ve done it.”

And then Baz tackled the drunkard.

It all went by so quickly that the two men were nothing more than a blur of bodies, fighting and wrestling each other. Simon stepped back in horror, when he finally got his senses together and tried to break up the fight. The thing was, however, that it was no longer a brawl. Baz had managed to take down the drunkard and kept punching the man in the face, repeatedly. Years of sports had contributed to a strong frame and powerful force, and the man face was bloody and bruised. Simon felt a twinge of guilt, and even though the man had started the whole fight, Simon didn’t believed he deserved to be punished like that.

“STOP!” Simon screamed, grabbing Baz’s arm and pulling back before Baz could hit the man’s face again. “Don’t do this!”

“And why not? He deserves it, doesn’t he?” Baz fought against Simon’s pull, but Simon fought that harder and threw aside his fist. “Simon, he deserves it!”

“I don’t care! It’s not right!” Simon was yelling in his face now, tears streaming down his cheeks, but he didn’t care. What mattered was the he need to stop the fighting. “Baz please.”

And Baz stopped.  He released the man’s collar, and looked away, his expression dark. 

“Only for you Simon,” Baz said through gritted teeth. “Only for you.”

[former-chamaeleonic]

Death picked up my Life

Summary: If Sanji were to die, Zoro picks up a habit of his. What had irked him all the time is now the last thread connecting him to the one who left him.

Warning: Mention of Character Death

You can also read it on ao3 here.

Inspired by @zosanheadcanons. Check out their tumblr, they’re lovely! Quite inactive, but really lovely!

Also check out this post, it’s based off this one!

Thank you so much for the inspiration, I will pick up more of the headcanons at some point!

Fic starts below the cut!

In nights like these, closing your eyes and drifting to sleep was as unthinkable as ever letting go of life itself.

The impossibility of allowing mere dreams to force memories back into consciousness would feel like a much greater sin than the fact of having gone down onto his knees for prayer during the last moments of life.

He regretted it. Having thought that something as unreal and yet eternal like god would hear him out after his whole life of deadlocked denial.

He had never believed in greater existences, even during the time he had prayed. But before everything ended, his hope had resolved to this aimless action.

Praying.

And naturally failing.

The bitter taste of burnt tobacco smoke irritated his throat. The smoke made the mucosa not only feel sore and dry, it was also driving him mad how easily the tobacco relaxed him. …as if relaxing was reasonable at a time like this…

But Zoro still wasn’t used to it, so the effect was probably way stronger than on chain smokers who did it for years on end.

What a day…

Remembering death as if it was a continuous experience. Over and over again. It would never let him go, would never let him sleep. These memories had clawed themselves into Zoro’s head for good. Minor situations brought back the lively, yet deadly memories. But reliving them in dreams, that he would not allow anymore. If it was the pain that was to return, he’d rather remember it on his own accord, than letting his subconscious handle it while he replenished his energy in something as sweet as sleep.

No. He wanted to be the one to handle it for 100%. Fully aware. Fully conscious.

Zoro set down the cup of poorly made coffee. Watery. Detestable. He still hadn’t gotten the hang of how to use this thing. It felt like it had been ages since he had had good coffee. The brand that he used was expensive, but that did not compensate  his lack of skills that kept him from brewing it properly.

When it came to the household, he was a good man, suitable for chores. But kitchen work on the other hand, that just wasn’t his territory. That showed in him burning the toast every morning, wasting eggs by dropping them or frying them on such an incredible heat that they turned from clear to black without going through the stage of hardening and becoming white. Yup, that was the way he did things. Being together with a cook was one of the causes he never got practice into preparing meals. He simply never had to.

Sanji had always said that being such a failure in the kitchen in itself was a unique skill and they had fought over it a lot. But truth to be admitted, it was a miracle indeed how useless, or rather helpless Zoro acted in a kitchen.

Zoro felt like a typical good for nothing person when it came to these things. Yet he always happily cleaned it all. Taking care of the dishes was the only kitchen related chore je was useful at. Nowadays cleaning up the dishes gave him a nostalgic feeling too. It reminded him of old times.

…When life was still present in his existence.

He shoved the ashtray aside to get it out of his sight and picked up the empty cup of coffee.

Dark clouds hung low in the far away sky and fine drops drizzled from high above to down below onto the earthly grounds outside the comfortably warm room. They were veiling the air with their wet filigree texture that was preventing Zoro from seeing too far beyond the world he lived in. A world that expanded from where he was and on the inside of the cage that was in fact his own room. Everything behind the glass barrier in form of his window, it wasn’t part of his world anymore.

Just when he wondered what he might be able to see behind the mysterious curtain of rain, he shook his head and pulled his eyes away from the glass dispersing him from here and there. …dispersing his grief inside from the other world outside.

What should he look at anyway? True reality only happened within these gloomy walls…

He had not opened nor closed the curtains in… what was it now? Three and a half weeks. White sheers hung aimlessly before seemingly glass that mirrored his pitiful frame, the thick opaque curtains as the next layer were half closed. One of its ends hung sloppily over the couch’s back rest. It seemed untidy, yet unfixed based on sad intentions.

Lightning flicked outside and shortly made the world seem bright, but darkness fell upon the man once more as the auspicious growl of thunder knocked him out of unthought skies. 

Dim light flickered for the blink of an eye and a cigarette was lit. The lighter got thrown back onto the table carelessly and landed with a clacking noise.

A familiar smell engulfed the man and his muscles relaxed a little bit as the first deep drag was done. The emitted fragrance was a comforting smell.

Again his throat felt a bit irritated by the unhealthy smoke.  He had to cough, but he kept inhaling persistently as deep as he could.

Almost as if it could save him.

Him and his damned soul.

He took his sweet time enjoying the deadly bliss that fogged his system with false comfort. He had leaned back, his head was placed securely on the back rest with his neck exposed. He faced the ceiling when he threw his right hand over the rest to have it spread out to reach the curtain that still hung there. With a pang of guilt he clutched it, tried to imagine what it was like to panic at the lack of air, to hold onto anything to feel secure.

The left hand reached to bring the filter of the cigarette to his lips and while his gaze was still fixed to the ceiling – looking, but not seeing – he allowed another set of smoke to enter his system. 

Without a second thought he pulled the curtain towards his cheek and he leaned against it. It smelled unwashed, reeked of old and cold smoke. Someday he would wash it. But not today. Not tomorrow either. Only when he was ready to let go. But when that was ought to happen, that was something God only knew. And God would never tell him. 

Ashes dropped onto his clothes and he sighed annoyed. His tense fingers loosened and let go of the curtain without putting it back into a tidy position. It was essential to keep them the way they were.

He brushed it off, accidentally rubbed it into the texture of his shirt and sighed again. Time to stub the cigarette out and keep on cleaning. Sanji disliked dirty dishes more than anything. He would make him happy by keeping the kitchen in perfect condition. Happy Sanji was all he wanted after all.

After he had put out the remaining smouldering stick, he grabbed the cup and matching bottom plate and walked over to the counter where the sink was.

Zoro stared down at the metallic grey sink that shone brightly from all the wiping he did every single day to make the house look pleasing. For when Life should be ready to return into these walls. With a bright smile and the welcomed smell of delicious cooking and burnt tobacco.

Monotonous clattering of the cup hitting its bottom plate resounded in the otherwise silent room when he put the porcelain inside to get them washed. Zoro’s brain had the storm’s thunder blocked out. To him, the outer world didn’t exist anymore.

Another lightning strike. The unlit room got bright with an instant flash.

For a moment he had seen Life before his eyes. He had felt it as if it were back with him. In shock he had whipped around to see, but there was nothing but monochrome darkness in plain sight.

…what a huge house to possess when you’re alone.

What a mercilessly huge living room it was for nobody to be alive in here.

With a deep sigh, Zoro turned back to look at the stained cup containing a small remnant of the tasteless liquid he called coffee. It couldn’t be helped. He reached for the faucet. The water immediately flowing from it had a similarly hollow sound as the water coming from the sky had. It resonated quietly but it sounded so painfully hollow to him…

As he applied the dish soap onto the sponge, he felt himself getting dizzy for the first time since a few hours. The smell of the so called apple-citrus soap insulted his nostrils with its obtrusive smell.

The cup matching plate were all clean again quickly. He set them down onto the kitchen counter to let them rest there shortly so he could reach for the dishtowel to dry them. But when his eyes closed for a brief second, the heaviness of his lids tried to force him to pass out in order to recharge. He fought well to open them up again. Because he lost his balance for an instant, he staggered back and felt his hand brush something. At the immediate glance, Zoro saw the cup about to fall.

Quick reflexes helped him to rescue the valuable piece of porcelain. A part of a set to be precise. A set that was never going to be used again.

He went back to the couch. Another cigarette. Another drag.

Tobacco. Smoke. A pain in the ass. Washing clothes and curtains regularly, how much had he hated it. He had always done so much to get that ugly stench out of the fabrics so it would not bother him. How much had they argued about Sanji to quit smoking in favour of their belongings? In favour of both of their lungs too…

Countless times. All of them in vain anyway. The world would go down before Sanji quitted smoking.

Hah… how much truth these words held… So very brutal truth…

The world had ended after all.

Zoro scuffed back into the living room and grabbed the pack again to retrieve one of the long sticks and lit it right away. However after some time, he set the halfway smoked cigarette down and put it into the ashtray. It was in his way. It was an ugly habit that killed people. But Sanji had probably been too young, too narrow minded to understand. It was Sanji’s way of living and Zoro was the one who had fallen for the whole cook, bugging, pretty and smoking too. 

He remembered it clearly. Whenever Sanji had set it to his lips, Zoro had been all worked up. Mostly because Sanji knew exactly how to make something so disgusting look so shamelessly sexy. When the cigarette hung between his lips and Sanji leaned against the kitchen counter, chest pushed forward and legs slightly apart. When he’d expose his neck so voluptuously, sigh and then inhale and when the smoke would come out again with this particular blowing sonority or sometimes with a teasing moan. It had always worked on Zoro. Without failure up to the very day.

When he called it back into mind, he felt himself getting aroused. Shame and disgust washed over him when he could feel his tired loins tingle and his centre of lust fill with blood.  He groaned as he put his palm up to cover his eyes to evade grappling with awkward reality. How stupid was this, exposing himself mental stimulation in a situation like this.

To distract himself from the unwelcomed stimulus, Zoro leaned forward to grab a bunch of wrinkled papers and studied them for a second to pick the right one. Another mark was added to the tally chart he had. One of three he had.

One for the days since Life had left – 24.

One for the hours he kept himself awake at a stretch by force – 55.

One for the times he cried – It was blurred with tears.

The one he made was a mark for the hours awake at a stretch. He had managed another hour. Altogether that made 56. His limit was soon to be hit. Those marks and tallies helped him to keep himself focused and sane while being engulfed with Death.

He checked the watch and eventually got up silently. The smell of burnt tobacco and poisonous smoke got left behind. He needed a change of atmosphere.

With slow, yet determined steps the overly exhausted man walked down the stairs to where their basement was. He was barefoot, he was cold and it probably did harm to his health, but that wasn’t important. Someone who was already dead wouldn’t have to worry about getting sick, right?

He put on a pair of boxing gloves and walked up a punching bag installed in the corner of the room. The light was dim, the light bulb he had put into it a few months back had been too weak, but Zoro had never reacted to Sanji’s nagging. “It’s fine, as long as we see, why bother exchanging a good bulb?” was what Zoro had always replied to Sanji’s complaints.

If only he had listened. That would have made their last moments brighter. Not only in a way of light, but also in a way of fun. Less tension, less quarrelling.  If only everything had been smoothed out before their forceful separation…

Truth to be told, even their fights have always been harmless and more of a gentle pestering than serious hate. Zoro probably did not have to worry about anything. …but he did. To the very end, something hadn’t been perfect. 

But parting ways would have been so much nicer with everything the way it should have been.

With no flaws left and no room for regrets like these.

Zoro punched the bag hard. He had not warmed up before but he told himself that he would get warm enough eventually while training. The caffeine would eventually kick in as well and even though it had been a tasteless brown brew of more water than anything else, it would show effect at some point. He knew by experience.

Another push.

The loud sound of the leather gloves colliding with the heavy punching bag got covered by another thunder.

Another punch. Another. Another. Another! Another!

He swung more and more punches, faster with every coming hit, harder with each strike. His breath became ragged while he let out all the aggression, tension and also desperation that had built up inside him and that had nowhere else to go. 

Time passed, sweat began to build up on his forehead and finally his circulation got spurred on sufficiently to pump warmth back into his hands and feet that had felt like frozen for the last few hours.

During this, Zoro felt more alive again. When he moved and trained, it was like he was a different person living in a different world. Like this he could let go for a little while, could forget about what had happened. It was almost as if he could just leave the house and greet everyone on the street the next day. He imagined the clouds being gone and Life would show up just like Life normally did, to whirl around him in all the usual energy and brightness.

The hits became harder. Harder and harder, stronger and fiercer still.

Nonsense. Death was Death. Never would he be able to greet this once so beautiful brightness again! Those hopeful thoughts were pathetic bullshit!

Waving to your neighbours on warm spring days... Staying at home through summer storms and getting out for sun bathing, swimming, walking or just plain for work during the nice days, it was all a dream. Left to be an illusion. Past and gone.

He hit even harder at these thoughts. Nothing could bring anything back to life. Let alone a human.

Gone meant gone. Gone for good. And gone forever.

God had no mercy for those who wished for something.

God was cruel for taking the most precious from him that he ever had.

Down in the basement where the light of lightning could not reach, his lungs cleared up, far away from Sanji’s constant smoking. To Zoro, it still felt like it was Sanji who was the one doing the smoking after all. Sanji’s habit had always enforced his presence in the house by spreading through the familiar smell. Whenever Zoro had entered the house and the smell of burnt tobacco had invaded his nostrils, it had always given off such a nostalgic atmosphere.

…Zoro missed it. He missed it all so much that he couldn’t even focus on the training properly. All he did was to try and go harder with each delivered smack and went even far enough to lose his cool and to scream out gutturally with each and every single hit.

Then it happened. He hit in a bad angle and heard a cracking noise. It was in an instant that Zoro pulled back with a gut-wrenching roar as pain comparable to the spot being hit by lightning pierced his wrist mercilessly. His first instinctive reaction was to retreat his damaged hand towards his chest where he cradled it for a little comfort in the hope that would ease the pain somewhat.

The wrist was definitely damaged, that was for sure. Sanji could patch it up for him. … if he were not dead that is… Why had he thought about Sanji again right now? His throat tightened. What a bad timing for getting sentimental… 

Zoro tried to push off the boxing glove to check on his injury, to make sure it was still whole, but taking it off just like that proved to be a task of impossibility. The pain was way too excruciating.

He took the glove of his healthy hand between his teeth and pulled it off roughly until his jaw hurt, but with that he now had his good hand to use to pull the second glove off as well.

When he gave it a sharp tug to get rid of it in one go he screamed out again, the pain numbing his heated up body again in mere seconds.

Zoro panted heavily.

It had come off, but that wrist was definitely broken.

Curse life.

Curse death.

These two were the perfect lover’s couple.

While Life sends over countless living beings, as soon as they arrive, Death keeps them forever.

They must really love each other. Otherwise the constant dynamics of give and take wouldn’t work so flawlessly. But if they knew what love was, then why did they destroy the love of those alive in such an ineffably cruel way?

Zoro bit the inside of his cheek as he felt his eyes burn up.

Another stormy day with tears.

He roared out in so much pain that was caused from so much more than just his wrist.

Keeping his emotions in check was no longer a possibility at the point of brokenness he had reached by now. His voice rose to a staggering pitch as he smashed his head against the wall violently to feel something, just something! He did it once. The brutal impact distracted him from his wrist, but the noise it made held such an unhealthy sound.

The head got slammed against the dry brick wall again with another animalistic roar that just needed to leave the tense body and something wet dripped from his eyebrow down his eye. It felt cold. Apparently a tiny rivulet formed in his face and ran down next to his eye, along the cheek where the collected blood of a freshly open wound dropped from his chin.

But it wasn’t enough. Far from enough! The good had got elevated up high and the damaged one was placed on the floor, underside facing up. He hit the broken spot brutally and yelled out in so much pain that he wasn’t able to contain. He was shattered. Purely shattered, smashed into pieces, broken by life, mangled by himself! He hit and hit so hard, as hard as he hit the punching bag and blood went spraying everywhere at the fierce movements he did during the ordeal. Tears accompanied the red liquid and dizziness washed over him, blackness fogged his sight, concealed his mind successfully so even Zoro had no other choice than to stop. Or his body would eventually give in and he’d collapse. He didn’t want that to happen.

His breath was fast and irregular, the heart was racing in its cage of ribs. Inside his empty chest. Down on his knees he tilted over and cried so bitterly over the loss that he couldn’t handle.

Minute after minute rolled by and let him age without him noticing. Every passing minute brought him closer to where his true Life was right now. To the other side, where there was likely to be a doorstep and if he’d pass it, it would smell like perfectly prepared food and tobacco.

He inhaled deeply a few times, tried to get the better of his consciousness. And when he had regained control he sighed one more time as deep as he could before he got up.

“Sorry, Sanji… I got the wall a bit dirty…”, he murmured purposelessly while carrying himself up the stairs.

When he reached the main floor, he faced the sheer blackness of the night. Another lightning strike.

The couch was in plain view for an instance and the flashback of the young blond hit him hard.

Sanji on the couch…

During night.

After a long day of work.  

Zoro had returned home.

And lightning had it revealed.

The dead body.

White in this short light.

Eyes wide open. The curtain pulled halfway closed and since then never to be rearranged again. Probably grabbed in desperation by the breathless Sanji.

A lung infarct.

That was what they had told Zoro.

Due to excessive smoking.

That day Zoro’s Life had been taken.

When he had been back home, he had sat down right where Sanji had died.

He had taken out a cigarette from the pack that had still been there and he had taken the lighter.

Right now, Zoro had sat down right where Sanji’s corpse had been.

The trauma was endless.

Zoro took a cigarette and lit it. The 129th since he had stopped sleeping now 57 hours ago.

The smell was so nostalgic.

The smoke was still irritating though.

But it was the last bastion that connected him to Life.

To the Life of his husband that had made him whole. 

Now his existence had been ruined.

-End-