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cacoetheswriting · 4 years

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lonely this christmas

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Warnings: mild mild cursing, mainly just fluff !!! Word Count: 2.9k Summary: Reader admits to Spencer she will be spending the holidays alone but he’s got other plans.

A/N: starting off the month of december with a christmas centred fic!! hope you like it <3

Being alone on Christmas wasn’t unfamiliar to Spencer. In fact it was pretty much the opposite. Being alone on Christmas was typical, ordinary.

The nature of his job being what it was, he usually ended up working over the holidays anyway. Therefore he never made any plans with his mom because most times he just ended up disappointing her. Being alone at Christmas was fine. Being a disappointment however, completely different story.

As years went by Diana stopped noticing his absence. Of course if Spencer was to visit her at the sanitarium over Christmas she would welcome him with open arms, but he never does. He used to feel incredibly guilty about it, but that too passed with time.

There was no indication that this year would be any different so he kept his schedule clear. However, the twenty-fifth of December approached fast. Very fast. The closer it got the more it was shaping to be the first holiday season, in a long time, the team would get to spend with their families. And even Spencer found himself considering going home to Nevada; seeing his mom.

A tab of the airline website was constantly open on his desktop. He checked it regularly; hovering over the option to buy a ticket.

That’s how you caught him one day.

You observed from your own desk as Spencer leaned back in his chair, one hand still holding the mouse. The wheels inside his brain clearly turning; evaluating all of the options and possible outcomes.

“Hey, doctor.” You called out grabbing his attention. “If you spend any more time thinking about whether you should go home for Christmas, all the good seats will be gone.”

He chuckled. “I guess you’re right.” “As always.” You shot him a playful wink as he turned to once again look at his screen.

“There. Bought.” Spencer exclaimed after a brief moment of silence. “My mom will be happy.” “When was the last time you seen her?” You asked curiously. “It has been more than six months at this stage.” He answered while standing up.

“Coffee?” He gestured to the empty mug on your desk. You nodded. “You read my mind.”

The two of you walked towards the kitchenette in the office. It was quite late on a Friday night meaning everyone had cleared out for the weekend. Only the usual suspects remained; Spencer and you.

“When was the last time you were home for Christmas?” “Three years ago. How about you?” Spencer asked, tilting his head slightly to look at you. “Oh, I honestly don’t even remember.” You replied shrugging your shoulders.

“So your family must have been happy to hear you were getting the chance this year to spend the holidays with them.” The brunette doctor switched on the coffee machine and leaned against the wall while you elegantly hopped up onto the counter.

“Actually, I didn't tell them.”

Spencer furrowed his eyebrows. “How come?”

He watched intently as you chewed on your bottom lip - a bad habit you failed miserably to break. In that second of silence you wondered whether you should tell him the truth. He was always so open with you, honest. It would only be fair to repay him with the same sincerity. So you took in a quick breath, and exhaled it quietly before looking up to meet his amiable gaze.

“My mom and I got into this huge fight a couple of weeks ago. She tried to set me up with this guy because in her eyes it’s unacceptable that I’m single. She doesn't think it’s right that my younger sister is getting married next summer and I haven't had one relationship in my life that lasted longer than a month.” A soft sigh escaped you. “I told her to butt out, using much harsher language than that of course.” Your mouth twirled into a smile; trying to make light of this conversation. Being no stranger to your frequent use of profanity Spencer smirked.

“We haven't spoken since. She hasn't formally invited me over for the holidays which she always does, even if she knows I won’t be able to make it, and whenever I bring it up with my dad or my siblings they change the topic so.” You shrugged once again while nervously dangling your legs. “It’s easier not to go.”

Spencer nodded slowly, taking in all of the information you just unloaded. Shaking your head you reached over to grab the coffee pot and poured some into your mug.

“I’m sorry doctor. I didn’t mean to just lay it all on you like that.”

He stepped towards you. “Don’t be.” Holding his own cup in front of him, he smiled kindly. “Thank you for telling me.” You began to pour the black hot liquid into his mug; a slight shake to your hand. “Thank you for listening.” “Anytime.”

Spencer placed his full cup on the counter beside you and began to rummage through the cupboards in search for sugar. “Y/N I gotta ask, and obviously if you don't want to answer me you don't have to.” He cleared his throat as you took a sip of your bitter black coffee. “Why didn’t you want to go on a date with the man your mom suggested?”

Once he successfully located the sugar, he straightened his shirt and plopped two cubes into the hot beverage. He offered you one but you shook your head, taking another sip.

“I get that it’s not really my place but it just seems a small price to pay for being able to spend Christmas with your loved ones.”

“If you must know doctor, I prefer to meet people through work. Prison systems and such.” You joked, a wide smile gracing your features. Spencer rolled his eyes. “And how is that going for you?” “Surprisingly well. I have a date shortly after we’re back from the Christmas break.” He arched his brow and smiled at you; playing along as you continued. “Solid guy. Only murdered five people.”

You beamed at the brunette doctor who was grinning back. “Maybe I should consider adding prisons to my dating pool.” You let out an over-exaggerated gasp and placed your free hand over your chest. “Is doctor Spencer Reid really on the market?”

Spencer shook his head. His light curls bouncing finely, matching his every move. He lowered his lips to the brim of his mug and took a sip of his coffee before focusing on you. “No, but for the right girl I’d consider it.”

Without thinking you raised your free arm and adjusted his tie. Flattening down the edge of his collar, you could feel his eyes on you. Yet for some reason you were suddenly afraid to look up and meet his gaze. Strange. Or maybe not so strange.

“Lucky girl.” You said in a mere whisper. Letting your hand fall, you stepped off the counter with a light bounce. Spencer cleared his throat and the two of you walked back to your seats.

The next few hours were spent working in silence. You tried to focus on the mountain of paperwork on your desk, yet instead found yourself glancing at the young doctor every other second - secretly hoping he would also be peeking up at you. And he was. Just not when you were looking at him.

“Y/N if you want you can come with me to Nevada, spend Christmas with me and my mom. ” Spencer proposed out of the blue. He got up out of his chair and grabbed his jacket, slowly putting it on. You smiled at him. “Thank you doctor but I will honestly be okay alone.” Pause. “Plus, I wouldn't want to interfere.”

He was about to protest, say you wouldn't be interrupting, but he bit his tongue. He didn't want to seem pushy. “If you change your mind, let me know.” He reached for his bag and threw the strap over his head. “Just do it quickly or all the good seats will be gone.” He teased. You giggled. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. ”

The brunette agent hesitated. He swayed on his heel for a moment before approaching your desk. “Can I give you a ride home?” He asked, eyes locking with yours. “There’s still a couple of things I want to get done but thank you for the kind offer.” Spencer nodded. A faint look of disappointment appeared on his face. “Goodnight Y/N.” “Goodnight doctor.”

Christmas was upon you in the blink of an eye. On the last day before break the team exchanged Secret Santa presents before enjoying a pizza party. This year you had Penelope who squealed over her gift as everyone watched in amusement; you included. Resting against the wall, you observed as the blonde jumped around the room with joy. Her smile made you smile.

“Good job on Penelope’s gift.” Spencer appeared beside you holding two plastic cups filled to the brim with eggnog. He handed you one before making himself comfortable next to you, his arm pressed gently to yours. “I don’t know what you're talking about doctor.” You responded, tilting your head slightly to look at him.

“I like your Christmas sweater.” A small smile circled your lips as you reached out to flick the little bell sown onto the top of the Santas hat on his jumper. Spencer chuckled. “Thank you. You know, I really couldn't decide between this or the one with the Home Alone reference.” “Ah, the trusted Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animal sweater.” “That would be the one, yes.” The two of you beamed at each other.

“I’m surprised you know what Home Alone is doctor.” You teased, nudging him playfully in the arm. Spencer laughed. “If I’m being honest, I was more intrigued by the booby traps than the plot of the movie.” He retorted as you sipped on the eggnog; slightly rolling your eyes at his response. “Of course you were. Don’t tell me you tested them out too?”

He averted his gaze without responding, clearly a little embarrassed. “Well...”

You couldn't help but giggle. Slowly, you leaned in towards him so that your lips were now at his ear. The brunette agent shivered as your hot breath hit his skin, however he didn't move away.

“Don’t worry doctor, I did too.” You whispered.

Instantly, he turned to look at you once again. His face was now inches away from yours, and as he stared oddly into your eyes the air caught in your throat. The two of you hovered right there for a moment, not moving and quite soundless, simply feeling each other's presence - as if there was no-one else in the room, no party.

Eventually you broke the eye contact and took a step to your right, moving away from him. Suddenly feeling timid, you took another sip of your beverage while your free hand ran through your hair. Spencer also looked away. His mind racing a million miles per hour; he should have kissed you, right? No. Not in front of all these people, your colleagues. That would be bad. Unprofessional. Would you have even wanted him to kiss you? Did you like him like that? He hoped you did.

The party soon drew to a close. You were lost in conversation with Emily while Spencer was trying to teach Morgan and Rossi some card tricks. Your gaze kept averting in the direction of the young doctor every once in a while; Emily of course noticed. “Tell me again why you’re not going to Nevada with our resident genius?” A puzzled look now present on your face. “How did you-”

“Reid told Morgan who told Garcia who told me.” She interrupted. You laughed at the ridiculousness of what she just came out of her mouth. “It’s like I’m in high school all over again.” She laughed under her breath.

There was a brief moment of silence.

“So, why aren’t you going?” Emily pried. A quiet sigh escaped your lips. “Like I told him, I don’t want to interfere.” She rolled her eyes; not buying into your bullshit. “He wouldn't have invited you-” “Fuck, please I don’t want-” She raised her hands in front of her. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”

Glancing at the time, you excused yourself wishing Emily a wonderful and happy Christmas. Quickly and quietly, you headed to your desk and put on your winter coat. As you grabbed your handbag you turned to face the remaining partygoers: “Happy holidays everyone!”. Your eyes briefly locked with Spencers who shot you a shy smile as you mouthed ‘Merry Christmas doctor.’ before hurrying out the door.

Two days later it was the twenty-fifth of December. You woke up on your couch, having fallen asleep during Christmas movie marathon, to the sound of your phone ringing.

Yawning, you reached for the device. Spencer. Answering, you pressed it to your ear and croaked; “Hello.”.

“I hope I didn't wake you.” “You did actually.” You responded yawning once again and gradually scrambling to your feet. You ambled towards the kitchen, straight for the coffee maker. “But I could never be mad at you doctor.” “I’m glad to hear that.”

There was a short pause.

“How are you?” He asked, his voice kind. “I’m okay, no need to worry about me. Shit-” “Y/N?”

“Sorry. I just realised I’m out of coffee grounds.”

Spencer chuckled on the other line. “It’s not funny doctor. I’ve no coffee and everything is closed because it’s Christmas.” “You could always switch to tea for the day.” Rolling your eyes, you smirked. “Right, because I’m such an avid tea drinker.”

There was another short pause.

“How was your flight? How’s Nevada? How’s your mom?” You asked changing the topic, making conversation. The young doctor didn't respond. “Hey, are you there?” The line cut-off. Weird.

‘He’ll call back later.’, you thought and headed for your bathroom.

An hour later you were showered and dressed. You switched on the lights on your poorly decorated Christmas tree and were about to make yourself comfortable on the sofa when a knock on the door caught your attention. You scurried over, without looking through the peephole to see who it was, you opened it.

“Spencer.”

“Merry Christmas Y/N.”

The brunette doctor smiled as you furrowed your brows. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Nevada.”

“I was. I got back early this morning.”

He waited for you to invite him in before shimmying passed. He set down two tote bags on the kitchen counter before turning to look at you once again. Lost for words, you locked the door and approached the young doctor. Slowly you peeked inside the bags. “Supplies.” He simply stated while taking off his coat.

“You didn’t really think I’d let you spend Christmas alone, did you?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “You didn't have to do this doctor.” “I know.” He shrugged before reaching into one of the bags and unpacking the items. “I wanted to.” He held up a bag of coffee grounds and you couldn't help but giggle delicately.

“Thank you.” Your fingers brushed his as you grabbed the bag sending a shiver down your spine. Spencer froze feeling the sensation too. Nervously, he let his hand fall but the half-smile on his face remained.

“Where did you get this stuff anyway?” You asked as you walked around to the coffee machine. “I packed what I had at home.” Nodding, you began to prepare two cups. As the appliance whirred, you turned in your spot. “What about your mom? Wouldn't she have wanted to spend Christmas Day with you?”

Spencer continued to unpack the bags, neatly placing each item on the counter in front of him. “We spent all of yesterday together.” Pause. “And besides, she’s the one that urged me to come here.” He peered up at you, resting his palms down on the kitchen counter. The second his hazel eyes locked with yours, the flush of your cheeks turned a slender pink.

Not really thinking you ushered back towards him. The brunette doctor watched you attentively. Gently, you placed one hand on top of his and gave it a tender squeeze. “Lucky me.” You whispered staring deep into his eyes.

Spencers smile spread wider in unison with yours. After a few seconds of pure comfortable silence, he cleared his throat. “Do you think your prisoner boyfriend would mind if I asked you out on a date?” A faint giggle escaped your lips as the shade of your jowl turned from pink to bright red. “Even if he does-” You took another step towards Spencer, closing the space between you. “-I think you could handle him.”

Spencer chuckled. Using his free hand, he placed a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. His thumb stroked your cheek in the process and you angled into his pleasant touch.

“Thank you for being here.” You muttered, unintentionally chewing on your bottom lip.

He cupped your face as his gaze moved briefly down to your mouth before once again locking with yours. “Thank you for having me.” His voice soothing, not quite matching the fervour in his eyes.

In the space of a single heartbeat, he leaned down and his lips crushed against yours passionately. You let go of his hand and placed both your palms on his chest; tugging lightly at his shirt to try and pull him in even closer. Spencer did not waste a second, his now free arm moved elegantly around your waist.

The two of you pulled away breathlessly. He gently pressed his forehead to yours as you smiled. “Merry Christmas doctor.” “Merry Christmas Y/N.”

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tkemeaway · 5 years

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Operation We-Would-Make-a-Great-Mocha

Summary: Bucky and you spend your work days pairing your costumers up. Modern AU.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: For @buckyofthemyscira, Merry late Christmas and Happy New Year! May 2020 be all you want it to be✨, I hope you enjoy this lil gift😋.

Thanks to @bucky-smiles for organizing this Secret Santa thingy and for being patient, you’re awesome💕.

The gif’s a lil sexy but there’s no sexy times in this fic!

Warnings: Fluff? Pining? A lot of clichés and bad pick up lines. Bickering and stuff. Maybe a couple newbie mistakes because this is my first time writing. Bear with me pls!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mornings were boring, but what else could you expect from a wrong placed Starbucks? The investors overestimated the interest of locals in overpriced coffee. Something about urbanizing the area, attracting more people and eventually creating a central, more commercial zone. That happened a year ago and the reason the shop was still up and functioning was mainly the horde of teenagers coming in the afternoons after school to have a taste of the “city life”. The mornings however, the mornings were a complete different story. There were two regulars, a large black coffee with a muffin at seven thirty and a hot chocolate at nine, and from time to time some clueless visitant who had gotten lost in the nameless streets of the maze-like town and came across the isolated, kind of hidden, coffee shop.

That Monday morning in particular there was a surprising amount of five people in the shop, three being costumers. Black Large had arrived half an hour later than her usual time and Hot Chocolate had apparently decided to start his day earlier than he was accustomed to, both of them taking quite a while to finish their orders. An occurrence that has turned into an usual one after the first time Black Large seemingly slept through her alarms and entered the coffee shop in a hurry to fetch her order and throw some cash on the counter at the same time Hot Chocolate was enjoying some polite small talk with the barista while waiting for his order to be made. An amazing moment happened then when, just like in the romcoms, they glanced at each other casually but their eyes glued to the other’s and for a moment it was just the two of them, until his order was placed in the counter and the world began to turn again. It was fun for the two baristas to watch how, since that day, they started coming to the shop with a bounce to their step, their gaze more alert and the tables they chose to sit in more close to the other’s each day. Fun. Yeah. At least at first.

“Oh my god, this is ridiculous, that was the fifth time in 20 minutes that they smiled at each other!” She told him as she put her hands in the air, making him chuckle. “This is not funny Buck, we gotta help this poor souls!”.

“Remember what happened the last time you helped some poor souls get together?” Bucky crossed his arms and she huffed.

“That’s not fair, how was I supposed to know? They seemed so in love!”

“He took her money and ran away!”

“Okay, okay, not my best work, but I introduced Steve to Peggy and they’re doing amazing. Besides, we know these two, doesn’t she work with your mom? And I’m sure I saw him in that big Christmas party last year. There’s no way either of them is that bad.” She argued and gave him puppy eyes. “Prithee help me help them?”

She knew the answer way before he made up his mind. That’s how it would always go between them. If he was being difficult, she would tell him that nothing happened in that goddamned town and that he was denying her the tiniest amount of fun she could gather from her boring life, that she could be doing drugs and riding motorcycles but she just wanted to be her selfless self and help someone to find love, and he would then comply to whatever she was asking of him. She would think it was because her amazing persuasion skills and excellent arguments, for she was blind to the loving look and affectionate smile she would receive from her coworker.

“Wow there, doll, no need to go shakespearean on me. I’ll do it, but the beers are on you tonight, I’mma need some alcohol after helping you chase away the only two regulars of this fucking place with your plotting.”

She squealed, took his hand in hers and squished it against her heart, “I like you so so much, do you know that?” He gave her a pained smile that she didn’t notice because she was already scheming. “I’m thinking maybe we can put a message in her muffin and say it’s from him?”

He rose an eyebrow playfully. “Do you know how to letter with icing?”

“No, but I do have an amazing, handsome, crafty coworker who does.”

————

“I’m soy into you.”

“You are just the way I like my coffee. Tall, dark and strong.”

“Bean thinking about you a latte.”

“Affogato? Afforgeto where I am when I look at you.”

“Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number, so caramel me maybe?”

“That wouldn’t even fit in there! And it has a sexual innuendo that I’m not sure she would appreciate much.” He said with an amused smile.

“But it’s genius!” She punched his arm as he laughed. “You’re awful at brainstorming.”

“I just don’t know why you’re putting so much effort into this, you don’t even know these people!” He questioned jokingly, and it was just for the sake of it, because he loved how stubborn she could be when she wanted something, and he knew he would do anything he could to help her get whatever she ever wanted.

“I’m projecting onto them the kind of corny as fuck romance my life is lacking.” She deadpanned and then chuckled. “Look, if I can’t have a love story with my guy then I’m gonna help them have theirs.”

Bucky’s heart clenched at her statement but he still joked. “You mean all it would take to win you over would be to throw a lame pick up line at you?” That earned him a glare from her. “You know, someday you’ll have to tell me who this guy you’re always mentioning is,” and he actually, desperately wanted to know who the fuck was this man that had everything he wanted and didn’t do anything about it. Y/N had casually mentioned him a couple times but when Bucky asked about it, she just said that the guy was way out of her league and that she wouldn’t do anything about it anyways so there was no reason to reveal his identity.

It was Tuesday morning and that meant matchmaking time for Bucky and Y/N. It was six thirty and there weren’t any clients to serve as it was expected. She was sitting on the counter with a notebook in her lap while she chewed on a pen pensively, unaware to the effect this little action had on Bucky, who was leaning on his elbows by her side. They were using a notebook to draw a representation of the chocolate muffin that was destined to get the missive across, and trying to find the perfect line to catch the attention of Black Large without it being creepy. It needed to be precise, flirty but appropriate and the correct amount of funny. Bucky seriously doubted that a cheesy pick up line would attract the very professional looking woman, but Y/N was certain that she had to have a playful side to her in between all that business attire, and she was sure that the soft personality and cheery attitude of Hot Chocolate was the perfect combination to bring it out. All of this was on Y/N’s mind when it came to her.

“I got it!” She screeched and jumped off of the counter to scribble something on the paper that she then held in front of her for Bucky to see. There it was, in the middle of the wonky lined muffin. He left his position on the counter to fully face her and stared blankly at the words for a couple seconds only to immediately double over with laughter.

“We would make a great mocha together? Really?”

“I don’t know what you laughing at, this is honestly the finest piece of art my brain ever produced.” She rolled her eyes at him. “You just don’t get it, it’s because she orders a coffee and he has th—”

“Oh no, I do get it.” He continued to laugh and she gave him an offended look, so he put his hands up in surrender. “Okay fine, seeing that you’re the Cupid here and I’m merely one of your arrows, I’m gonna trust your oh so ever magnificent wisdom in the love field. But you owe me for this, specially if it fails and they sue us or something.”

“They can try,” she scoffed, “but since you don’t trust my amazing plan at all let’s make this into a bet, shall we?” She looked at him mischievously while crossing her arms. “If it works, and it will, you have to take my morning shift this Friday. If not, then you win.”

“What do I win exactly? When I win.” He leaned on the counter again and smirked at her. “And please define ‘works’ in this context. I’d feel lucky if she doesn’t start screaming at him or walks out immediately but I don’t think that’d be enough to call you a winner, doll.”

“If you win, you can choose whatever you want, and that’s if they don’t at least exchange numbers.” She extended her hand to him. “You in?”

He shook her hand and sighed, “I am.”

“Amazing! Operation Mocha-Love is on! To the cave!”

————

“Explain to me why is it me who has to do the delivery again?” Bucky asked her.

It was eight in the morning already and it wasn’t long before the subjects arrived. The Glorious Cupid’s Arrow (code for the muffin) was sitting on the back counter behind the display racks where the coffee was made. It was your normal chocolate muffin, except it had the words ‘We would make a great mocha together’ written in small cursive.

Y/N stopped sweeping the floor and leaned on the broomstick with her head over her hands. “You have to buy us a little time in case Hot Chocolate decides he doesn’t want to come early today. If he’s not here when we give her the muffin she will smell the distinct smell of bullshit don’t you think?”

“I get that, but why me?” He suddenly stopped wiping the counter and looked at her. “And what did you just call him?”

“Hot Chocolate? Codename for Carl, because he orders a... well, a hot chocolate? You know?” She hesitated but smiled when she saw that Bucky was grinning at her and continued sweeping. “And about her, I don’t think she likes me that much since the first time she came here and I gave her a cold coffee by accident.”

“She as in... Black Coffee?” He guessed.

“Large Black.” She chuckled.

“Nice, and what’s my codename?”

“Right now and for the sake of this mission you're Icing Arrow and I’m obviously Cupid.” He laughed and they went silent for a while as they finished their tasks.

“By the way, I know what my reward’s gonna be once this fails miserably.” She looked up at him from her new place behind the counter and rose her eyebrow inquisitively. “I want you to tell me who the guy you like is.”

She huffed in annoyance but before she could reply to his request, the sound of someone entering the shop broke her focus on him and put the plan in motion. Her eyes went wide and she silently hurried him to take position, as he was sat at the table in front of her. She got excited and Bucky even started to feel a little nervous. Though surprisingly, it wasn’t who they were expecting to arrive. Carl walked to the counter where Bucky was waiting for him already and ordered his usual, then sat in the table at the center of the place when Y/N handed him his chocolate, just beside Large Black’s table.

Before Bucky had the time to comment on how this was perfect timing, the second subject came in through the doors and started walking towards an awaiting Bucky. Y/N could barely contain her enthusiasm while Bucky told the woman, Amanda, Large Black, that he had a special muffin for her as requested by the only other person present in the shop. Her resolution faltered when Amanda furrowed her brow but it came back stronger when a goofy grin slowly made its appearance in her face as she read the inscription in the sweet treat. She subtly did a victory dance when Amanda went to sit with Carl at his table.

————

Bucky showed up for Y/N’s shift on Friday with a defeated look on his face and dragging his feet. This was his sleeping in day. He worked Fridays in the evening, when no one came by, not even the teens, seeing they were getting ready to go out since it was Friday’s night after all. The cherry on top, he couldn’t even see Y/N like every other day working the early hours because he was covering her shift. With the silence that the morning and the solitude allowed, he indulged in the comfort of daydreaming about her. His coworker. His friend. His everything-but-what-he-wanted-her-to-be.

He kind of disliked her at first. She was clumsy, loud, and didn’t have any boundaries whatsoever. She treated him as a friend since she started working there, a month after him, and his shy reserved self didn’t trust that kind of behaviour coming from a stranger. She would punch him in the arm when laughing at something, call him all sorts of nicknames and rely information on him that he wasn’t sure what to do with (why in hell would he want to know that she could recite all the words to the Kanye West classic Gold Digger or that she could tie her shoelaces in 3 seconds?).

But she slowly grew on him. Her weird impressions and the way she quoted The Simpsons on a daily basis, how she started working in a coffee shop despite the fact that she hated the smell of it just to prove a point still incomprehensible to him, her temporary fixations on stupid things like pairing two strangers together or the Star Wars franchise (which she made Bucky watch with her in one sitting).

He fell for her in between days of playing Alphabet Categories and nights of drunken karaoke.

They were friends. She was in love with someone else. There wasn’t much to it and Bucky didn’t like to sulk in it, so he just thought about what it would be like to kiss her. To be the reason she had a dreamy look on her face. To wake up with her and to hug her whenever he wanted and kiss her when she was funny like he always wanted to. He thought about this often, and that was what he was doing when Amanda entered the shop followed by, much to his surprise, Carl himself.

“Hi buddy,” he greeted Bucky once they reached the counter, “where’s your partner in crime today? Tricking some other pair of fools maybe?”

Bucky’s eyes went wide and he started apologizing, “I’m sorry sir, we meant no harm and...” but he trailed off when he noticed how Amanda was containing her laughter while intertwining her arm with Carl’s. “Wait, you two are— it worked?”

“Let’s say it did.” The woman smiled at Bucky knowingly and took out her wallet to put some cash on the counter. “Charge me our usuals, add a muffin to his and let me return the favour, please tell her you like her.”

Bucky just stared at her dumbfounded and she chuckled, but Carl was the one to continue. “You think you’re the only ones with eyes?” Bucky kept silence now worried about Y/N not being as oblivious as he thought. The man in front of him caught that. “She doesn’t know. A two way street apparently... I think we’ll leave you to it and you can bring us our food when you’re ready.”

And with that, they walked to their table.

————

It was Saturday. Y/N walked into the shop to see a nervous Bucky fidgeting in his seat at one of the tables.

“Sup dork.” He jumped from his seat and stood in front of her. “Wow there, everything alright? You seem a little off.”

“All good, doll. Want some breakfast?” He was already walking behind the counter while she took her backpack and jacket off. “I put extra work into this one, you’re gonna love it, made it myself.”

She scowled but didn’t say anything. She came out of the employees closet with the apron on and leaned on the counter with her elbows supporting her. “Well hit me with it then.”

Y/N saw Bucky falter a little, but he still placed the dessert in front of her and watched her closely while she examined the piece of food.

It was a muffin. A big as fuck muffin, clearly homemade to make the long phrase written on top of it fit, apparently by Bucky, and Y/N’s breath got caught in her throat when she read the words of a beautiful pink color. She thought it was either a joke or maybe another Cupid’s Arrow to light the way of some other lost idiots to love. Though when she looked up at Bucky, the look of utter adoration and hope on his stupidly, impossibly blue eyes left no doubt in her mind. However, she kept her expression as blank as possible. He was desperate already, wondering if he should have said something instead, if he should talk now, but she interrupted his thoughts by saying “You know, it doesn’t work if you already have my number and we’ve known each other for almost a year. I guess it’s fair to tell you who I fancy.” And, before she could actually see his heart breaking, she brought him closer to her by his shirt and kissed him with the counter between them.

————

“You know, you didn’t actually say anything.” She told him while keeping her eyes in the frapuccino she was occupying her hands with.

It was funny, like watching Large Black and Hot Chocolate pining after the other for weeks, how the largest amount of clients in months decided to come to the wrong placed Starbucks just when Bucky was finally able to taste the lips of the woman he wanted for so long. Even before he had time to properly react, the door opened and a procession of seemingly still drunk gals and pals walked in the shop. This happened from time to time, when hungover people would walk in after a busy night to the only coffee shop open so early on a Saturday.

Bucky smiled and turned her around by her hips to face him. “I like you.”

“How much?” And even if he didn’t expect her to ask him to marry her, he wasn’t expecting that answer either. But then she saw the cheeky grin on her face and cackled. “Are you really going to make me say it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She bit her lip to keep her smile from showing.

He laughed and kissed her cheek. “I like you a latte.”

She kissed him again, conveying her answer with the fervency of her lips and the desperation of her hands in his hair. Bucky brought her even closer to him by her waist and slightly bit her lower lip to gain more access to her and— someone clearing their throat from behind the counter. “Do you mind not making out over my cup?” Said the man with an annoyed tone.

They went back to finishing the last orders with big smiles and hearts aching to embrace the other. “Can you pass the coffee and sugar?” She asked from behind him and Bucky dropped the cup he was working on when she walked to him and stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “Because you just made me cream in my pants with that kiss.”

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fell-in-love-didnt-you · 5 years

Text

Five Times I Wanted to Kiss You, and One Time You Did, Too

Oh, my god. I spent actual hours on this, It's a 26 page word doc. Word count of 10k +. Holy shit.

My friend will anonymously say “fic waz good” and I will tell theme tickety boo bebop. If you’re reading this, you know.

Okay, enjoy about six hours of my life poured into a fic I love more than anything I’ve ever written ever even outside the wonderful carry on fandom.

Oh, also, basically Chapter 61 happened but no kissing. Basically, all kissing that is canon has been taken out unless it happened between Agatha and simon. okay enjoy (putting a read more cuz it’s fucking long)

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20051074

Baz figures it out fifth year, but he knows it has festered in the back of his brain long before this point. Maybe it has even been there since the first time they met. Being raised to hate the Chosen One doesn’t exactly mean you’re going to comply.

And he certainly does hate Snow. Stupid fucking hair, stupid fucking walk, and stupid fucking everything and anything else Baz can think of. He can’t even hold a wand right unless Bunce shows him first. Pathetic choice for a Chosen One.

And the whole “I’m going to follow you around until I finally catch you draining rats and defiling virgins” act also doesn’t let Baz sit on these confusing emotions for more than three seconds alone. Seriously, is it all some cosmic joke? Is some long-forgotten enemy of the Pitches sitting Upstairs somewhere, laughing until they cry, and also making sure Baz doesn’t have a fucking second alone?

If so, fuck you, Baz thinks. Fuck you and your whole lineage, if someone ever felt bad enough to sleep with you.

That is another thing: the wanting to sleep with Simon Snow, Mage’s heir, resident Good Boy, and savior of the magical world. Also, the boyfriend to the stunningly gorgeous Agatha Wellbelove, who also may have a thing for Baz, too. And Baz is flattered, honestly. He and Wellbelove would make some beautiful children that would dominate the magical world. Hell, maybe he’d name them all Simon Snow Pitch just to piss off the Golden Boy.

He wants so bad to feel anything else for anyone else. He’d fuck a chimera if he thought for one second it would clear this blinding, aching need to touch and be touched by the one person most disgusted by his presence. Anyone else. He’d marry Bunce, or a second cousin, or a tree.

But that feeling, that “It’s you; it’s going to be you” has sat in the pit of Baz’s stomach for five years before deciding to take root at the base of his brain stem and prick and demand attention from both. A torturous cycle akin to being stuffed in the ground alive with a straw poking though the earth. Never satisfied, but still hopeful like a fucking moron.

Baz climbs the stairs to the turret. If his mum was still headmistress, maybe lifts would have been incorporated sometime, or even just escalators. Everyone calls the Mage the ‘Great Reformer’, but Baz puts that on the far end of his list of names for that fuckweed. Far behind prick, narcissistic bitch, and crazy fucking lunatic, which all rank well within the top ten. But Snow would argue that the Mage is really the ‘Great Reformer’ everyone calls him.

Baz’s calf muscles and back disagree heartily.

Even though the basic unsaid rules of their room declared that Snow takes showers in the evening, Baz can’t stand the way his clothes stick to him like they’re a second skin. He thought last year he was finally done growing, but the Grimms are a tall folk, and it seems he’s inherited that (and maybe, like, four other things) from his father. Any walking makes him sweat when it’s this early into the year, and the added bonus of not fitting into custom clothing makes it all the more awful.

So Baz breaks tradition and grabs a towel from his wardrobe. They’re supposed to share one, but Simon decidedly moved his things away from anything resembling Baz about three seconds into this year’s term, and Baz actually doesn’t give a shit. If anything, he’s happy. Now, no lingering scent of Simon can be on his clothes anymore than it usually is.

Sharing a room with the person you want more than actual life makes him hyper-aware of what Snow smells like: brimstone, green fire, and burned foodstuffs. Makes sense.

Despite the building being old, the water pressure is wonderful. Baz maybe thinks someone has spelled it this way because there’s no way a place as old as Watford had this wonderful a plumbing system when it was made. Just as Baz is wondering who may have upgraded this integral part of the school, a loud, obnoxious knock on the bathroom door jolts him from his thoughts.

“We need to talk,” says a muffled voice on the other side of the dark wood door. Simon Snow has never been great at yelling, even in the best of times. Baz accidentally pushed him down the stairs once, and the only noise he made the entire time was a surprised little, “oh” just before he went down.

“I need to get clean,” Baz replies, hoping that will shove off any response for a few minutes.

The knock sounds again, though this time it’s louder. “Now!” Simon yells. He thumps even harder against the door, and Baz sighs as he rests his head against the cool tile of the shower. Never a dull moment when you know the Chosen One, he thinks to himself.

Baz really should be thinking about the structural integrity of a door that was made centuries before him. It’s got a cheap little doorknob from when the other fell out two years into their time at Watford. (Baz blames Simon, but he knows it was himself that did it; slamming a door closed will do that.) The thing hardly locks half the time, and Baz was so tired after a day of classes and scouring the Catacombs that he just didn’t think about locking the door.

So when Simon’s incessant thumping gets harder, the door gives. The knob, thanks to its cheapness, breaks, and the door swings in to reveal Baz, naked, actually in the shower and not plotting, because that’s what Snow always thinks he’s doing.

Baz’s first instinct is to cover himself up. Fling a towel around his lower half and cower in a distant corner until Snow decides that looking at a pale, naked vampire isn’t worth his time anymore. His second instinct is to shout. Because his towel is one the counter outside of the shower, his second instinct will have to do.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he demands, and if there’d been any magic in his voice, Snow would be spilling secrets from his childhood like a broken dam. But Baz doesn’t need magic to make Snow become flustered or spill his secrets. All he needs is a hiss in the back of his throat and a lethal glare.

Snow looks like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi-truck. The most logical thing he can do at this point is close the door, walk out of the room, and not show up for a few hours so Baz can have a bit to think about this. But all Snow does do is stare, and stare, and stare, and stare some more. It’s like he’s trying to bore holes into Baz’s brain with just his eyes.

And then Baz watches those unextraordinary blue eyes creep from his face to where he’s trying desperately to cover up. And damnit, Baz thinks, that shouldn’t be doing the things it’s doing to me. It shouldn’t be setting him on fire all over like he’s not flammable to the largest extent, and it damn sure shouldn’t be making all the blood from the rats rush south like a freight train.

Snow comes to his senses finally (if he’s really got any) and slams the door shut. Baz can feel his face becoming redder. He likes the water hot, but this isn’t a temperature-related heat. This isn’t even the heat of arousal. It’s the heat of shame. Because while Snow was staring down where Baz’s hands are still covering, he was only thinking about one thing: snogging the daylights out of the Mage’s heir.

Shit.

…

The end of fifth year isn’t nearly as exciting as the previous ones: Simon slayed a dragon first year, and the Humdrum’s sent something equally as lethal (if not, more so) every year. However, for the first time in five terms, the last weeks are uneventful. Baz takes his exams in relative silence, though Snow’s tapping feet never stop.

However, if that’s the only upset they’ll have during exams, he can take.

It’s been about six months since Snow walking in on him in the shower, and they haven’t spoken about it. To be fair, they also didn’t speak about whatever it was that had been so pressing in Snow’s mind that day. It just didn’t seem as important as seeing your arch-nemesis stark naked.

Maybe he’d seen the long scar that ran down Baz’s legs. It wasn’t from whatever Snow was thinking it were from. It was years old from when the wraiths had thought it fun to mess with a Pitch. Live and learn, Baz thought. The wraiths hadn’t touched him since then.

Or maybe Snow was really just freaked out about the sight of another man’s prick. If he thought that only he had stones or some stupid shit, anatomy next year was going to fuck him over really well.

Whatever it had been, it’s gone and passed. Baz has shelved it away for the day he’ll finally get a good wank in, which will be only a few days from now. The last days of term always feel the longest, though, and even just remembering that is making his skin itch.

He’s forgotten it long enough, though, to begin packing his wardrobe. It’s not like Baz has a sizeable amount of clothing or anything, but compared to Snow’s, it’s massive. The winter coats alone outnumber all of Snow’s non-school clothing.

Just as Baz begins to take down the few frayed tees he’s ever owned, the door to the room opens. He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s Snow; the clambering of feet up the stairs always tells him enough. Apparently, Snow shares the same sentiment about stairs. Baz looks up to see Snow’s face flushed and his mouth open. (Though that shouldn’t surprise Baz anymore. Snow’s mouth is always open, like an obnoxious trout.)

“Haven’t suggested a lift to your Jedi master, then?” Baz asks, returning his attention to the remaining clothes in the wardrobe. “Or haven’t you mastered Up, up, and away?”

Simon’s glare reverberates through the room, and Baz drops the tie in his hand. The unmistakable scent of Snow’s magic is pouring into the air. Could what Baz just said really set him off that easily? It isn’t even comparable to their normal insults. Nothing this year has been comparable to the previous ones. Baz is too wrapped up in himself lately to really think of any good zingers.

Baz turns sharply from the wardrobe and says, “Calm down, Snow. You don’t want the Anathema killing you for maiming me.” Maybe in some distant world, that could be true.

Snow takes one large step forward and is up in Baz’s space. He’s not close enough to get a good punch in, but Baz knows that Simon doesn’t judge distance very well when it comes to physical altercations. As long as he even scrapes Baz, Snow counts it as a win.

“Stay the fuck away from my girlfriend,” Snow spits at him, hands live like a wire in the air. He always does this when they fight: the spitting of words, the gritting of teeth, and the pointing of hands. However, the actual flames that lick the insides of his eyes give way to let Baz know he’s probably as serious right now as he’s ever been. “I mean it, you fucking creep!”

Baz is just confused. Of course, he won’t let that show. A sly smirk paints its way across his face and he asks, “Trouble in paradise, Snow?”

More magic is exuded. More of the air feels alive with electricity. Snow’s magic has always felt like this: alive, alive, alive. There’s nothing about Simon Snow that isn’t alive. Baz wishes he could be jealous.

“Calm down, Snow,” Baz murmurs, bending over to pick up his tie. It helps to ease the shaking in his hands. Snow could quite literally explode all of Mummer’s right now, and Baz could go up with it. That’s not how he’s supposed to die.

Well, sort of. Simon Snow will do the right thing and kill him once and for all one day, far away from this day, when they stand on opposite sides of the battlefield.

But dying as a fifth year in the top of Mummer’s because Snow’s girl has obviously upset him is not the way Simon is going to kill him.

Snow’s jaw clenches, and he steps back from Baz. Thank Merlin for Anathema, Baz thinks, whoever you were.

Finally, the static in the air calms to the low buzz that always accompanies Snow, and Baz feels like he can breathe again. He can smell a hell of a lot more than most people, and maybe that’s why being around Simon has always made him feel like he’s suffocating. Or maybe it’s because he just wants to pin the Chosen One down on a bed and kiss him ‘til they both die.

That’s what Baz is thinking as Snow loosens his jaw and opens his mouth like the damned trout again. He’s thinking about stepping closer and filling a gaping hole in his chest that aches more and more every passing second. He’s thinking about just coming out with it, no matter the repercussions from his family or the Coven or even Snow himself. He’s thinking about twisting his hands into that perfect golden hair and touching the moles he’s longed to touch since they first met at the Crucible.

But all Baz does is think.

So, instead of pulling Snow in for a maddening and passionate kiss, he turns to his wardrobe and says, “Try not to blow Wellbelove up next time you see her. I still haven’t gotten my fill.”

…

Christmas at Watford is always bittersweet. Baz loves the turkey that’s served the night before the official end of the term, and he’s obsessed with the holly hung up just about everywhere it can be. Miss Possibelf always teaches them little Christmas spells like Merry and bright (obviously for lighting fairy lights) and talks about where the myth of Father Christmas really came from.

But it also makes Baz long for his mother. Sixth year isn’t easy. It’s the year before the technical last year one is required to take. Baz can stop coming after seventh year if he chooses, though he knows he will come back. He’s not going to be the first Pitch to ever drop out of Watford. Plus, Aunt Fiona’s threatened him with a silver cross branding over the heart if he decides to leave.

His mum loved Christmas much more than any other Pitch. She’d set up a big tree in the sitting room and physically place the ornaments on instead of spelling them up like every other magical family. When Baz once asked why, she gave him a look like he’d just asked her why she was breathing. After all, everyone does need to breathe.

So, yeah, the holidays simultaneously suck and rock. Aunt Fiona always brings down the shitty handmade bobbles from when Baz was, like, two and places them on the tree where everyone can see them. His dad mixes up basically all the top shelf alcohol into a cocktail and lets Baz have several glasses. Even Daphne gets in the spirit and throws a mini party with some more liberal members of the Old Families. It’s a good time to be a Grimm-Pitch.

Baz doesn’t entirely pack away his things. He just takes his coats, trousers, socks, and boots. He has more than enough clothing at his house. If he even so much as mentioned a sweater he thought was cool enough to look at for more than two seconds, it would be on his bed by the time he got home. He didn’t want or need anything from his school wardrobe. Just enough to get him to the train and back.

Snow kept the window open, and the breeze blows Baz out of his memories and right back into the chilly air of the room. Simon would keep that damned thing open all the time if Baz didn’t put his foot down. It was like that the first few months of the first year, but after he complained to Fiona about it enough times, she encouraged him to yell at Snow until he submitted to whatever whim was plaguing him.

Now, though… After last year’s revelations and midnight wanks, he can’t so much as snarl at Snow without feeling like he’s an utter arse. Hating Snow used to be as easy as breathing, even though vampires breathe far less often than humans. They do still need to breathe. Snow asked that once in fifth year. What a dunce.

You’ve fallen for a dunce, Baz thinks. A complete fucking dunce.

The cold gets to be too much. Snow isn’t even in the room. He’s probably off with Bunce trying to coerce cook Pritchard into giving him more scones or butter or something. As Baz is about to slam the window down and watch the snow fall from the sill, his eye catches on white blond hair that’s a stark contrast to the dark yew tree behind it.

Wellbelove is an objectively attractive person, and Baz can definitely admit that to anyone asking. She’s standing down against the yew tree, earmuffs protecting what Baz knows are tiny, pale ears that turn the lightest shade of pink when you compliment her. She’s got a light blue coat wrapped around her, and even though the weather definitely doesn’t call for it, she’s wearing a skirt and some tights that tuck away neatly into boots.

That’s another thing about being a vampire: the vision is impeccable.

As impeccable as it is, Baz wants to turn around at the next sight. Snow walks up to Agatha and wraps his arms tightly around her waist before kissing her. It’s so hetero that Baz thinks he might throw up. He would if it was anyone else. Just thinking about people like Dev and Niall actually getting their hands on a woman long enough to kiss her makes Baz’s stomach do summersaults and backflips.

But it’s Snow. His golden hair sticks out in every which way and demands attention in the flapping of the wind. He’s laughing loud enough that it trails up the room where Baz has his hands clenched on the window, nearly splintering it into thousands of pieces. Maybe the Anathema would hurt him for hurting the window. Then he wouldn’t feel so much.

It’s been easy to ignore them. It looked like they’d gone through a rocky patch there, and Baz let himself hope for just one second that it might be over. Of course, even if they were over, there was no way in heaven, hell, or the Veil that Simon Snow would fall in love with the evil gay vampire.

No way.

Baz wants to scream and rage and throw things around the room until his hands go numb and his fangs drop and he can taste blood in his mouth, which hasn’t happened in a long time. He wants to kill Snow and kiss him and throw him to a merwolf and take him so far away from the Humdrum and Watford and everything that’s been hurting him his entire life.

But Baz just slams the window down loud enough for Snow to look up and see Baz glowering down at the pair of them.

Whatever. Baz will just make Agatha love him instead. Shouldn’t be too hard.

…

Watching Snow get yanked out of thin air with Bunce on his arm feels like some weird fever dream Baz has made to cope with every stupid argument they’ve had this year. Even today, Snow came into the room just to get into a petty argument about the window again.

Snow’s just popped around the corner into the Wavering Wood. Baz mentally curses himself. Why does everyone try to follow him when he just wants food? (Blood? Same difference.) First Wellbelove, and then Simon motherfucking Snow and Bunce. Can a man have no privacy?

Of course, the second he realizes Snow’s in the vicinity of him and Wellbelove, Baz takes her hands into his, and it looks like they’re going to kiss. Of course, Baz isn’t going to waste his first kiss on a girl, but if it makes Snow mad, he’ll make that stupid sacrifice.

However, the sucking feeling of the Humdrum creeps into the air just as Snow comes to the clearing. Baz can only describe it as being dry. The air gets tight around him, and he can feel his lungs contracting like a heart that’s finally puttering out. However, his heart is beating what would be considered for normal for a human and erratic for a vampire. Snow asked once if he had any blood in his body. Why the fuck do you think I need it? Baz wanted to ask him back. He scowled instead.

Just as suddenly as Snow and that feeling appears, they both go away. Baz lets go of Wellbelove’s hands and stands in shock and awe. There’s no spell that can make oneself invisible, though one ancestral Grimms did try to use Out, out, damned spot for that. He accidentally discorporated himself to another dimension. Baz says a silent prayer for William Malcolm Grimm before turning to Agatha and basically screaming, “Where the fuck did Snow go?”

If Baz was thinking or was at all competent, he would track Snow using Come out, come out wherever you are, but Baz isn’t thinking. He knows Fiona will have his head on the pyre after she finds out, but Baz agrees with Wellbelove and goes to the Mage with her. They both saw it, and they both need the affirmation that they’re not crazy.

The Mage seems almost uninterested. It’s the last day of term for the eighth years, and he somehow thinks that’s more important than saving his literal heir. While Baz wants to punch the Mage on the best of days for what he’s done to the Old Families, he’d probably dig his fangs into the Great Prick’s neck if Wellbelove wasn’t there.

She’s an absolute wreck. Her best friend and boyfriend just got sucked out of thin air to Crowley knows where, and no one is trying to go find them. At least, no one skilled. The Mage sends his personal army after them, but Baz knows it’s just for show. The Mage’s army couldn’t find an apple on top of a bowl of bananas even if there was a bright neon arrow pointing to it.

So he and Wellbelove wait. Wellbelove is utterly inconsolable, but she does rest her head on Baz’s shoulder after a little bit. If Baz wasn’t so busy actively trying to take down her boyfriend and make him miserable, maybe they’d be friends. She’s a bright girl even with as little magic as she’s got, and she’s quippier than most people in their year. Her only real contender is Bunce, but she’s too busy worrying over Snow to be in any competitions.

Baz eventually gets the news that his family’s arrived for the ceremony. All the Old Families come for the Leaving Ceremony even if they have no one graduating. Baz will be up on that stage in the White Chapel next year, and while he can’t get the image of Snow and Bunce being sucked out of existence before his very eyes, the least he can do is distract himself by watching his predecessors leave.

Fiona is looking around, and it takes only three guesses for Baz to realize she’s trying to find the Chosen One. She’s hexed him at enough of these ceremonies to know he’d be here, and when she asks Baz where he is, all he can do is shrug. It’s not exactly lying; he really doesn’t know where Simon went. Baz looks over and sees the Bunces looking around just like Fiona, although they’re more worried.

It’s their daughter missing, after all. The brightest child they’ll ever put out hasn’t shown up to a ceremony she’s gone to since before she enrolled in Watford. Baz almost feels like he should go over and explain. He knows something, even if it’s not the whole story.

Just as he’s rising to his feet, the doors bang open. The light from outside nearly blinds Baz as he turns to stare at the two figures in the doorway. He already knows Simon is one of them. The brimstone and burning smell are in the air, and his magic is pouring out of him and tearing at the seams. After adjusting to the light, Baz can see Bunce’s bright hair and the glint of her ring.

There’s a moment of silence before chaos erupts. The blood hits Baz’s nose last. Somehow, even he thinks that’s wrong. The blood should have alerted him long before the doors flew open, but here he is, gaping open-mouthed at the two figures in the doorway. Simon is covered in blood from head to toe, and Penny is only cleaner by a fraction. It looks like it’s being sucked out of their pores. It looks like they’re going to die right there on the floor of the White Chapel.

Baz is stuck in place, and he silently thanks whatever Pitch ancestor is keeping him there. It would be even more of a scandal if he ran to his enemies and cried over their corpses. That’s to be done in private.

However, two hours later, a group of magical nurses and doctors have been called, and they all gather in Baz’s room, waiting for Simon to exit the shower.

Baz feels awkward. Should he be pouring tea? Would that be too domestic? He doesn’t have to wait much longer.

Snow steps out of the washroom like a zombie in a low-budget film. Even though it’s obvious by the smell that he’s scrubbed every surface of his body, dried blood flecks are still speckled here and there like the moles already present. If given enough time, Baz could find nearly every one of them. He knows every mole that litters Snow’s body and how large it is and where it’s located.

He’s a man who can’t swim that’s been cast out to sea.

Baz watches as the doctors perform vitals on Snow and check his skin to make sure the bleeding won’t start again by the simple pressure of fingers or clothing. They poke and prod until the Mage enters and watches himself. Then, they’re sent back to whatever corners of the world they crawled out of. Baz is pretty sure one came from New Zealand.

Simon looks like a stress ball squeezed one too many times. His hair has gone flat for once, the telltale buzz in the air that marks his presence is gone, and he doesn’t say anything he doesn’t have to. It’s the first time Baz has seen him not stutter out every other word.

It would be impressive if it wasn’t so fucking scary.

Then the Mage leaves, and it feels awkward between the two of them for the first time in six years. Even the Crucible wasn’t this bad. Simon seems to stare straight past anyone who looks at him. Wellbelove had been in here before Simon showered, just to see if he was alive, but he’d looked through her like she was a window. Baz had never seen Snow look at her like that. Even when he’d first noticed the two, Simon looked at her like she hung the moon, stars, and other planets.

So why does he suddenly straighten when Baz shifts?

In this state, Baz can do anything. He can sacrifice a virgin right in front of Simon, and Baz doesn’t know if Simon would scream or laugh or do nothing at all. He doesn’t know which of the three would be worse.

“What happened?” It’s the only thing Baz can think to ask. Maybe he should be demanding it, or maybe he should be taunting Snow for being sucked away in the first place, but even though he’s toed at some of the most untouchable of subjects, this feels like a new territory.

Simon takes a minute before he slowly turns his head to look at Baz. He looks gaunt. He looks like he does whenever term starts up: his face has gone sallow all over, his cheekbones stick out like he’s been starved, and his eyes sit just far back enough in his skull to be unnerving. Baz hates the beginning of term for that reason.

The smile Simon dawns then cracks his lips, and a small dot of blood bubbles up. Baz doesn’t even have the fiendish sense to want to pop his fangs and kill the Chosen One right there. It’s not like the Anathema would let him, but thoughts have to count for something, right?

“The Humdrum,” Simon murmurs, like that’s supposed to explain what’s happened in the last six hours. Simon says it like he’s praying to it, and that makes a chill run through Baz’s back.

“Can he even do that?” It comes out as a whisper, and Baz wishes he had the bravado to ask again, but the Humdrum makes him have a headache and the urge to throw up all at once. It’s fear in its primal stages, but Baz won’t admit that.

“He can now,” Simon replies, breaking eye contact and looking down at his hands. One thumb and forefinger rub at his wrist, which have both gone boney. “He took something from me today.”

“Fifteen pounds.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but neither Baz nor Simon laugh.

“There’s a new hole in the atmosphere,” Simon adds, like an afterthought. The holes in the atmosphere scare Baz, too. They always seem to open when Simon and the Humdrum meet. It can’t be a coincidence. Nothing with the Chosen One is coincidence.

Baz then crouches down in front of Simon like he’s about to give him a scolding. However, Baz just loosely takes Snow’s hand in his own. The finger bones feel too big in the skin that contains them, but they’re still warm. They still have a pulse in the wrist, and they are still tanned and freckled and have moles scattered across them.

“He won’t win,” Baz says to the floor. It’s cowardly not to meet Simon’s eyes, but it would take much more of Baz than he’s capable of giving right not. “You won’t let him.”

Simon nods, but it’s empty. Whenever something like this happens, Simon seems like he’s just going through the heroic motions. He’s read the fairytales and knows his role well enough to play it with few hiccups.

“I’ll die trying,” Simon whispers. Baz wishes he wouldn’t say that, but they both know how this story ends. The Humdrum will die or disappear or do whatever entities like that do when they’re defeated, but that won’t be the end of Simon’s trials and tribulations. He’ll be hunted by the vampires and the goblins and any other magic-hating creature.

And one day, something will kill him. Baz hopes to Merlin that the Old Families don’t want it to be him. He’d die, too if he had to kill the Chosen One. His last deed would be to kill the man that did Simon Snow in, and his family would never forgive him for it.

The urge to kiss Simon’s forehead takes over Baz’s mind, just to let Snow know that he’s so alive. That people love him and that people will protect him and that there are people who would kill and be killed for him.

And Baz is one of those stupid people.

Baz can’t kiss the Chosen One. Maybe he will, before Simon puts the stake through his heart. Maybe he’ll stop fighting for ten seconds to tell Snow how he’s in love with him, how he’ll always be in love with him, and how nothing Simon could do would change that. And then Simon would stab him or hex him or go off and not protect him, and it would be over.

That night is not tonight.

…

The earthy smell of wet dirt and rotting wood makes Baz gag again. The wood began to rot a week ago. There’s no plush velvet interior like a coffin for a real dead person. This is one of those cartoony coffins Baz would see in reruns of Scooby-Doo when he was young.

Perhaps the Numpties think they’re doing him a favor. Maybe they get all their information on vampires from cartoons. It would explain why he hasn’t been given food or water or been exposed to the sun in the last five weeks. However, he was kidnapped in broad daylight, so…

At first, Baz thought someone would come for him. Maybe the Numpties sent ransom. But after he scratched a sixteenth dash into the wood, he knew he’d die here.

It’s a pretty shitty way to die. No ventilation, surrounded by earthworms to pick the bones left behind, and with Numpties blabbering right on the other side of the wooden coffin. To think, the last thing he’d eaten was a fucking pasty from the country club.

The blood they were giving him tastes like none he’d had before. What if he died with another human’s blood in his system? Whose blood? Someone he knew? A father? A mother? Sister? Son?

After the third day of refusing blood, Baz gives in.

Today, they give him another 32 oz. Styrofoam cup filled with blood, and no food or water. Maybe he should demand it. Would they actually listen to him? Maybe they’d think it was a trap. There’s no way Baz can trap them. He’s too weak to move. The first few days, he had promise, but they hit him over the head with a rock when they gave him the blood, and he woke up hours later in the dark again.

There’s no difference between light or dark here. The only indication Baz has as to the passage of days is the giving of blood. It’s possible they give him blood every other day and it’s really been ten weeks. It feels longer than five weeks, but that could be the fatigue. Vampires can go longer than humans without food or water, and the blood counts for the barely-there amount of water he is getting.

However, they need that holy trifecta to live: food, water, and blood.

Baz has two-thirds.

He’ll die here.

The first time Baz thought that, he let himself cry in the most cramped and crumpled position possible. (Coffins are decidedly not spacious.) The second time he thought about his death, he laughed and laughed and laughed until a Numpty came in with a rock and gave him a good thump behind the ear.

The third time was now. Day thirty-seven (by best estimates). No one is coming for him.

Baz doesn’t cry or laugh. He just sighs through his nose and takes a sip of blood. If he doesn’t drink it fast, it gets congealed at the bottom, and even though he’s going to die in a Numpty den in a coffin in the ground, he won’t die on an empty circulatory system.

His stomach will just have to deal.

The darkness used to play with eyes. Now it just dances like the elephants in Dumbo until Baz gets bored. Then it settles back to darkness. Sometimes the Numpties go away to talk, and the silence talks to Baz until they get back.

Surprisingly, the silence sounds like an angry David Tennant. Maybe that’s just how every angry Scottish person sounds, but silence might be inherently Scottish.

But when the Numpties eventually come back, Baz breathes more deeply and closes his eyes. And he sees it.

The bronze curls always come to him first. Then the unextraordinary blue eyes take formation, and the moles follow. Baz allows himself to focus on that mole just beneath the left side of the jaw. The smile comes last. It’s a smile Baz has saved in his memories by countless times witnessing it from countless angles. The mole to the right of that mouth makes Baz’s eyes water.

Those eyes shine down at him. For some reason, he’s taller in Baz’s memories than in real life. Maybe he’s grown since seventh year. Probably not, though. Neither of them have grown much since sixth year. They both just filled out in the shoulders and got squared away in the face. No more pockmarks.

Baz can hear the laugh that emits from that mouth. It’s a sound he knows the angels crafted for ears of the damned to hear. Maybe they thought the damned would think twice about falling if they heard that laugh. It was made to be the first glorious sound deaf people here and for blind people to try to put a face to. It was made for people like Baz, whose souls were up in the air and just needed to be caught and nurtured.

Those lips were made to be chapped in the cold wind but warm to the touch. The moles and freckles were made to be dreamed of and painted. Those eyes…those unextraordinary but beautiful eyes were made to make women swoon. They certainly made Baz swoon.

His last thoughts would be of Simon Snow’s lips and moles and eyes. Baz knew this is how it would end. With one of them in tears, professing love, and the other driving a blade into a damned heart.

However, the one that’s supposed to end him is probably having tea right about now at Watford. Hundreds of miles away. Not knowing that the one he has to kill is being killed by someone else.

Simon Snow is alive, Baz thinks.

And I’m hopelessly in love with him.

…

“What do we do now?” Penny asks. Simon looks up from the ground. The dead birds are starting to get to Baz. There’s blood everywhere: spilling from the Mage’s ears, drying around Ebb’s corpse, and from the birds that were near enough to Simon’s explosion.

Baz can’t help it. He hasn’t fed since two days ago in the woods right before a hole opened above his house. He goes to a corner and feeds on a few birds. Penny and Simon should be reprimanding him for doing that, but they’re all so drained that they don’t stop him.

Eventually, Simon tears his suit jacket off and lays it over the Mage’s body. Even though Snow technically killed him, Baz knows this will tear him up inside. He’s probably the only one that ever loved the Mage properly. Some loved the man for his power, and others for his influence, but Simon loved him because that’s all he could do.

Baz lays down on the ground away from the bodies and tries to go to sleep. It’s not hard. The last few hours have been more draining than a marathon. In a way, it was a marathon to save Simon Snow.

A scream interrupts Baz’s nice dream about a hill far away where the sun shines down on the grass and birds are singing in the trees. Simon’s there, too, laying beside him and resting in the shade. It’s the best dream Baz has ever had.

It’s Bunce’s mum that screams. Baz thinks that maybe having two dead bodies surrounding three (nearly) alive kids could probably give someone the wrong impression, and he rises to see Bunce hugging her mum and Simon hugging himself. Those stupid wings are still spread out, and his cartoonish tail even whips around on the ground.

Eventually, they leave the White Chapel and go to Mummer’s. The Mage’s army has been summoned, and the Coven and Old Families also arrive. Baz almost flinches when Snow’s hand grabs ahold of his and Bunce takes the other. If anything, he’s at least gained two friends from this miserable experience.

They wait in the bedroom in the turret for what seems like hours. About five different people of five different ranks from five different groups ask them what happened, and they tell the same story separately five times. However, Simon always comes back to Baz’s bed and grabs ahold of his hand again. It’s a good balance because Baz is shivering, and Snow is a personal furnace.

Finally, they all leave, and Bunce leaves with her mum. No one comes to get Snow, and Baz refuses to leave until tomorrow unless Snow wants to come with. He doesn’t, so Baz doesn’t go. It feels wrong to leave him in this place when there’s nowhere else to go. Bunce’s mum wasn’t in the right place of mind when she left, so Baz is sure that’s why she forgot to ask Simon with them. Baz isn’t sure Simon would’ve gone anyway. Why does it feel so appropriate to be in this room of all places on Earth?

“What do we do now?” Baz echoes Penny from hours before. It had been a good question at the time. Two dead bodies, a missing Wellbelove, and no cellphones to call anyone on. This was similar to that. No one left to tell them what to say or do. No one peering in from the outside to get the scoop. No one trying to get evidence to blame either side for the deaths.

They’d track Wellbelove down soon enough and get her side. Then everything would be clear.

Simon rests his head against Baz’s shoulder. Baz rests his head against the tuft of curls that tickle his neck. They’re still holding hands. It’s not awkward. It should be.

A lot of things should be awkward right now. Snow spent Christmas with Baz. They had (still kinda do have) an alliance. They know the Mage succeeded in having Natasha Grimm-Pitch killed all those years ago. Inadvertently, he also caused Baz to be Turned into a vampire.

So many new pieces of trivia. So much to sort through. So much to strike and add to the Record. So much that they should want to forget.

But Baz just keeps holding onto Simon’s hand and brushing his face against those bronze curls. It’s a good dream come true that he’s allowed to do this, but Baz doesn’t have the mental capacity at the moment to think about how his fifth year-self is hooping and hollering inside of his heart. He’s too tired to want more than is being given.

Baz would be content if this is all Simon Snow ever gave him.

A few months later, Baz stands at a punch bowl while the people he’s known for eight years dance and cry behind him. The punch isn’t even spiked. They’re all still too wrung-out from trying to understand what happened in the White Chapel that night. Dev and Niall wanted to know why Baz hadn’t killed or at least seriously maimed Simon that night.

How does one explain homosexuality for the arch nemesis to two duds like Dev and Niall?

Simon doesn’t know, though, so neither should Dev and Niall. Or maybe he does, and he just won’t say so. It would make sense. Baz has been trying to kill Simon since they were eleven, so the revelation of love would either shock him or make him laugh so hard he would piss himself.

Simon didn’t come back, and neither did Bunce, but after Bunce’s mum became Headmistress, she let all of them have cellphones on campus, and Baz had stayed in near-constant contact with the two of them. He tried to reach out to Wellbelove, but she explained she just wanted to run from it all.

If that was an option for Baz, he would still be running.

But there’s a Leavers Ball and ceremony to attend to, and if the Chosen One and his insanely smart friend aren’t going to show, he kinda has to. It’s an unwritten contract that at least one of them has to show up to these kinds of things, even if it’s just to let people know all three of them are alive.

Simon hasn’t gotten in touch tonight, and Baz thinks about texting him just to make sure he’s still kicking it. However, Simon might be sleeping. These Leavers Balls take place at night, and even though it’s only nine, Baz would like to be in bed, too, preferably with the Chosen One tucked against his side.

Baz scans the room for anyone worth talking to. It’s strange how his best friends have alternated from Dev and Niall (Niall being his literal cousin) to Penny and Snow. (Baz has decided Penny’s name is worth saying every once in a while.) It just goes to show…something. Baz’s brain is spent from exams and that speech he gave a few hours ago.

His eyes lock on a figure entering the small procession that is the Leavers Ball. No one at Watford is late, so who would be walking in nearly an hour after the Ball’s started?

The boy who’s loved making entrances since he was born, apparently. The Golden Boy, the former Mage’s heir, the Chosen One, Simon Snow makes his way over to where Baz is standing. It’s like a reverse of what happened halfway through the first term this year.

Baz stands so still a stray tumbleweed could blow him over, even though Miss Possibelf spelled the tumbleweeds away hours ago.

Simon runs a hand through his hair, a little nervous trait Baz has picked up on these last few months. Simon has a few of them, the newest being tugging on his little devil’s tail, though that changed after he got it surgically removed a few weeks ago. The wings were gone sooner because Simon kept knocking people and things over, and Penny and Baz both breathed a sigh of relief when Simon could walk through a hallway without knocking over a vase or painting.

Someone’s given him a proper suit, and he looks like a cardboard cutout model with a few extra moles here and there.

Baz feels a genuine smile (not a smirk) tugging at his lips. To see Simon Snow in a proper suit with his hair somewhat tamed feels like seeing a unicorn, though he’s been told that a couple hundred live in a sanctuary in Switzerland.

“Didn’t think I’d be here so soon after…” Simon leaves it open-ended. Baz doesn’t need the end of that sentence. He didn’t personally know if he’d come back after that Christmas break, but Fiona’s threats about the cross still ran around his brain all these years later, and he didn’t want to disappoint his mum. She valued education more than the person who created it.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Baz replied, setting his little glass of punch back down and adding, “Party was dull without you, Snow.” Simon grins over at him and bites at his bottom lip. It’s something cheeky Baz has only ever seen him do around Wellbelove, but she’s been well and truly gone for a long time now.

“I guess the last few months were pretty dull, then?” Simon asks. Baz smiles and nods. It was nice not being threatened with dragons and flying monkeys every couple of weeks, but not having Snow even as a presence was unsettling, and after Bunce left, there was no real competition anymore.

“Ah, Snow, you were gone but not forgotten,” Baz replies, walking away from the table and closer to Snow. It’s the closest they’ve been since right after whatever happened in the White Chapel. Even then, it’s not very close. Baz is about a foot and a half away from Snow.

Simon’s only a little bit shorter than him (give or take three inches), but he seems so much older than he was a few months ago. He’s by no means a man. In Baz’s eyes, maybe Snow will always be a boy (the boy), but there’s no denying that something has fundamentally changed about the way Snow carries himself.

Maybe it’s the shared trauma.

“Have you danced?” Snow asks. It’s an odd question, but Baz really doesn’t think anything can be that odd between them anymore. They nearly died together on multiple occasions last December, and it’s foolish to believe they could ever be what they were before. They’re not enemies, and they share a side now, though it’s not either side they were on before. It’s all their own, now.

“No one to dance with, Simon,” Baz says, and the exasperation is overshadowed by the stirrings of those fifth-year feelings. All the songs they play at the Leavers Ball tonight are slow and meant for couples and sentimental friends. It’s meant to be a celebration, but there’s nothing to celebrate this year except maybe that Headmistress Bunce has brought back end of year books filled with photos. (Even though Simon, Penny, and Agatha left, they were still featured throughout the book.)

“Any girl here would have danced with you if you asked,” Simon mutters, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. Baz quietly thinks to himself that suit pockets are not meant for hands or anything, really, but Simon makes pouting look good when he’s dressed up.

“Come on, Snow, you know I’m not looking for a girl to dance with,” Baz replies, toeing at the ground with his expensive dress shoes. Fiona presented them to him a few days before, and even though Baz tried to insist he had enough dress shoes for a thousand different balls, she won.

Simon huffs, and a loose piece of hair falls into his eyes. He hasn’t cut it in a while. “I’m sure more than a few blokes would dance with you, too.”

Baz rolls his eyes and feels a blush creeping onto his cheeks. He’s had enough blood tonight for more than a few types of blushes. “I’m not looking for more than a few blokes.”

“What are you looking for?”

The way Simon poses that question makes Baz want to reach out and snog him in front of everyone watching. Everyone already is watching. Baz is surprised, but he shouldn’t be. Even though he and Bunce know about this weird friendship that’s blossomed, it doesn’t mean everyone else was clued in. Baz didn’t want anyone else clued in.

Baz looks up from where he is tracing the line of grout between the tiles, and he feels like he’s fifteen again, just trying to simultaneously please and displease Simon. He feels like they’re back in that blazing forest again where Simon talked him down from a suicidal rampage and walked him back to the car. He feels like the flames that existed in Simon’s eyes until his magic left have now planted themselves right at the base of his spine and are tickling his back.

Simon’s got his mouth quirked to the side, and a little dimple appears there. He’s still got his hands shoved in his pockets, but he seems more tense than before, like he’s holding something back. In these last few months of three-way Skype sessions and phone calls and group chats, it’s never felt like Simon’s tried to hold back. The three of them have something not a lot people can say they do: shared trauma.

And Simon and Baz have more. They have the forest fire and the Humdrum setting Baz off like a killing machine. They have years of sitting in that room at the top of the turret and bickering over a window and bathroom schedules and posh soaps. They have a rivalry that’s morphed into this friendship that still feels like it’s morphing even as the silence stretches between them.

“I want you to dance with me tonight.” It’s simple. It isn’t a confession of anything, but Simon smiles anyway. He outstretches a freckled hand, and Baz takes it. Now all those who were staring are gaping openly, but the song that plays is nice, and Baz has heard it before.

It’s a slow rhythm meant for only two people to hear together. It’s meant for them, even if it really isn’t.

Simon’s not the nervous wreck he once was. Baz once watched him at a special ball the school held for a blood moon, and the stiff way he danced with Wellbelove made Baz spit out his punch and laugh. Now, though, he’s the one that’s stiff. His dark blue suit feels too heavy and hot now that Snow is within inches of him. It’s the closest they’ve ever been, including after the mess in the White Chapel.

It’s closer than two platonic blokes get. It’s closer than a lot of romantic blokes get.

Snow must have been taught to dance before tonight and after than disastrous ball so many years ago. Baz thinks about him practicing with Wellbelove, and a small flame of jealousy glows in his mind. Then he remembers Wellbelove is in America, and the glow subsides to a flicker.

Maybe Simon just doesn’t realize how close they’ve gotten. Maybe he’s about to trample on Baz’s toes and knock his forehead into Baz’s chin. Maybe he thinks two blokes can dance like this and just be friends.

If this is all Baz ever gets from Simon, he can die happy and sated. He feels fuller than after he’s drained a deer. He feels like his feet aren’t nearly as heavy as they have been the past few hours. Simon’s got his arm behind Baz’s back, and Baz can feel the muscle of Simon’s shoulder through the suit jacket. Baz’s hand, eternally cold, feels comfortably toasty in Simon’s.

It’s a strange feeling to be dancing with Simon Snow at a Leavers Ball. Baz never thought he’d make it this far. He knew he’d go to the Leavers Ball, but he thought he’d spend the entire night at the punch bowl, shooting glares at Wellbelove and Simon and nearly crushing glasses in his fist. Maybe people would assume he was mad about Agathe making up her mind once and for all about the good guy, and maybe some astute pixie would feel the jealousy and properly place it.

Baz never thought he’d share a dance with Simon Snow at their Leavers Ball.

He never thought they’d both make it this far. He never thought there’d be a time when they could look each other in the eye, let alone be dancing at a Leavers Ball together instead of at each other’s throats the entire night.

It would be easier if they were at each other’s throats. They’ve been there so many times that they could do the motions in their sleep. Baz is quite sure Simon already has. He’s slept close enough to the Golden Boy for the last seven and a half years to know they’re both plagued by nightmares that are too scary to mention in the morning.

This feels like one of those dreams that Baz wouldn’t let himself think of. If he dwelled on the good dreams he had of Simon, he’d never stop. There are so many he can’t remember because he’s forced them out of his brain, but they come back now.

There’s the one about sleeping under the sun for hours with Simon next to him, and the sun doesn’t burn them and ants don’t bother them. It’s free of bugs and sunburns and evil. That’s one of Baz’s favorites. There’s another where he’s just woken up and can feel Simon breath against the back of his neck, and he doesn’t need to look to know it’s him. And the one where they’re just kissing for hours on Baz’s bed, not moving or noticing the world crumbling away around them.

But this is so much realer than all of those dreams combined. The hand grasping Baz’s is real and warm and calloused from calling and holding a heavy sword for years. The occasional brush of dress shoes on the floor sends vibrations through Baz’s legs, and they threaten to buckle right underneath him. He knows now that Simon would catch him. No matter what, Simon has always caught him.

“Why are you here?” Baz asks. It’s been bothering him. Without needing to say it, Simon basically swore off ever returning to Watford after December, and Baz understood. He swore off that nursery before he knew what swearing things off really meant. Baz wasn’t even irritated when neither Penny nor Simon showed up to hear his speech. People would record it, and he’d get a copy and show them if they really wanted to see it.

Baz would swear Watford off, too if it had broken as many promises as it had with Simon. Watford promised to keep him safe. Watford promised to always be a home for him. Watford promised so many things that couldn’t have ever been promised.

Life hasn’t kept its promises to Simon Snow.

Baz will. He’s broken the necessary ones, like the ones about killing him and smiting everything Simon loves. Coincidentally, a lot of the things he loves are now things Baz does, too. He likes Penny a lot, and sour cherry scones aren’t bad. Baz will never wrap his head around Simon’s fascination with butter, but it’s probably rooted in not being fed properly for eleven years and then suddenly getting as much food as one could want.

Baz has promised himself to Simon Snow, in whatever way the Chosen One will have him. Baz supposed now he’ll have to stop calling him that, but now is not that time for large shifts in character. There’s been too much of that as of late.

Simon shrugs and looks down at the floor. “I guess…I didn’t want to think about you alone here.”

“I’m not alone,” Baz rationalizes, looking around. “There’re loads of people here. The teachers, for one, and people we’ve grown up with, and…” He wants to go on, but that obviously isn’t what Simon was getting at. Simon’s been seeing a magical therapist (one of three in the world), and while they’re working on Simon voicing his opinion, it’s not always easy.

“Why are you here, Simon?” Baz asks again, this time with a tenderness in his voice Baz hasn’t used since Mordelia was a baby, back before she was a terror. “It’s fine to not want to be here, you know, I wouldn’t have ever made you come back.”

Simon huffs out a laugh and looks up just as the song’s changing. The fairy lights catch the curls in his hair in brilliant flashes of light. If Baz was more of a dreamer and less of a realist, he’d call Simon Snow an angel or the closest thing to it.

Simon smiles and says, “I know you wouldn’t.” The hold on Baz’s hand gets stronger, and the arm across his back bring him closer to Simon. “I love it when you call me Simon,” he adds, finally looking around the room and seeing everyone staring.

“They’re all looking at you,” he mutters, his face suddenly aflame in a blush Baz will remember until his dying breath.

“They’re looking at two blokes dancing,” Baz replies, deciding to tighten his hold on Simon as well. “Two blokes dancing who they used to have to split up before a fight broke out.”

Simon does let out a genuine laugh at that, even if it is small. It’s a start. Baz loves to see him smile like this. The tension eases out of Simon’s back, and his arm doesn’t feel like a steel rod against Baz’s back. It just feels like the reassuring touch you’d give to someone who desperately needs it. Does Baz desperately need it? He desperately needs something from Simon Snow.

“All that fighting,” Simon practically whispers, “and we ended up on the same side after it all.” Baz guesses that Simon can’t believe it either. Who would?

“I was always on your side,” Baz says. It’s true. Even though they fought enough for five different arch enemies, Baz was never completely on the side of the Old Families. He was also never completely on the side of the Coven. He was on a side made for him and Simon and whoever else he deemed worthy. (Penelope Bunce was more than worthy. She actually probably made the side herself, and Baz just climbed on board before he knew it truly existed.)

Simon looks at Baz, truly, truly looks at him then. It’s the kind of look someone gives another person when they want to see if there’s a hidden intention or just true sincerity. Baz feels like he’s laid himself out time and again these past months. He’d go through it all again a million times if it got him here. He’d fight two-hundred chimeras and one-thousand dragons to be here.

Simon’s the one that gets to decide what happens next. Baz has always been deciding what’s gone on between them. He’s chosen where they go and who they talk to and what they bicker about. It’s Simon’s turn. The ball is in his court. In a way, it’s always been, and Baz has just been playing with that stupid, red ball Simon carried all first year.

Baz, honest-to-Merlin, doesn’t expect Simon to drop his hand and cup it around the side of Baz’s neck, just above two pin-prick sized holes that drained him of life all those years ago. He doesn’t expect Simon Snow to lean in and smile like he’s going to tell a secret, and then kiss him.

It’s just a kiss. It’s small. It’s Baz’s first. It’s not Simon’s. Simon’s lips are chapped (like always), and his hand is calloused and tickles Baz but not enough to make him giggle. Baz doesn’t expect the kiss, so his feet move for a millisecond longer than Simon’s, and he nearly falls over. Simon leans back and lets out a single huff of laughter. His smile is genuine, and he just picks up Baz’s hand like it’s nothing.

Baz will fall asleep that night with Simon pressed against his back in a pair of Baz’s silk pajamas. It’s a déjà vu that’s so much better than the dream. Baz will dream of that sunny hill where bugs don’t exist and birds chirp happy songs. Baz will wake up tomorrow and leave the grounds of Watford the last time for a very long time.

But right now, they sway back and forth to a tune unfamiliar to both of them, and the world looks on at the Chosen One and his former enemy.

Keris hands Trixie five pounds.

#snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #carry on #rainbow rowell #Penelope bunce #penny bunce #Agatha wellbelove #the mage #what an ass #natasha grimm pitch #Fiona pitch #fluff #5 plus 1 #five plus one #SnowBaz fluff

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its-love-u-asshole · 6 years

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Franchises, Feuds, and Too Much Tension [fic]

Pairing: Tsukishima Kei/Kuroo Tetsurou

Summary: Sometimes, Tsukishima wonders if his relationship is too good to be true. Kuroo is everything he's ever wanted and more, pardon his cheesiness, and there's never a doubt in his mind that he loves him. Of course, he should've expected a fight like this at some point or another, though he can't say he'd been prepared.The only thing Tsukishima knows for sure is that one way or another, this is all Terushima's fault.

Rating: E

Tags: fluff, fluff and smut, established relationship, kurotsuki argue about dumb things like horror movies and then bang p much

Note: Yooo I managed to actually get something done for @heartykurotsukiweek! I've had this wip sitting in my docs for a while now and then the prompt list came out and day 2 gave me the perfect excuse to finish it ;) and it's smut too which is odd for me these days pft it's torture to write but hey, kurotsuki deserves to get laid always. Big thanks to @emeraldwaves for reading this over!

AO3

Tsukishima was a good, reasonable person.

For the most part.

Therefore, it was important to note how much he did not and would not ever deserve this level of disrespect, from someone he loved no less.

Tsukishima took exactly ten steps into their apartment, not bothering to look at Kuroo until their privacy had been secured. He stopped at the couch, glaring at the few DVDs which were strewn about the rumpled cushions. All good picks, quality thriller movies which he and Kuroo had decided to rewatch the previous night.

He had been a young, naive fool then. Completely unaware of the secrets boiling beneath the surface.

It was like those movies were laughing at him now. Bitches.

How could he have missed it? It was the most obvious horror/gore franchise and yet it had never come up...

Here he was, thinking he and Kuroo were movie buffs when they had never even had the real nitty gritty conversations.

They were frauds.

The front door shut, and the muffled chatter of their neighbors in the hallway was cut off in a split second. Tsukishima could feel Kuroo standing there at the door, staring at his back, but he felt too stubborn to turn around and make the first move.

Man, things could get ugly here. Tsukishima hadn't fully realized it until just now. The silence around them was suffocating, thick with the strain of their thoughts.

Eventually, one of them would have to begin this bloodbath, and once more, Tsukishima was left to marvel at how stupid they both were. Why can't we have normal fights...

They'd never know, but oh how Tsukishima wished they'd never crossed the line into such dangerous territory.

How had this happened again?

It had been a normal night, and honestly, maybe that should've been the first thing to tip Tsukishima off. Things had been too peaceful, too calm, and without a trace of tension in the air when those cursed words had left his mouth, condemning him to a sleepless night.

Perhaps the worst part was the subject matter, but he stood by his opinion, and overall he blamed Terushima for the entire incident.

Some things to take into account before he continued:

1) Tsukishima was right. No matter what anyone said, he'd rather get smashed by a glass pane (ha), than give in to his boyfriend.

2) Final Destination was a terrible series. It had some arguable gems, and it was enjoyable to watch some of the grisly deaths and laugh at the dumbass characters. He'd never try and deny that if he saw it on the T.V. guide, he would click in an instant. Still, most of the films were awful, with less than acceptable effects. Moving on...

3) Kuroo Tetsurou was supposed to be the love of his life, but goddamn if Tsukishima wasn't considering poisoning his water.

4) Addendum. Kuroo Tetsurou was fucking wrong, and Tsukishima hoped he was ready to face the wrath that had been building in his debate club brain for the past hour and thirteen minutes.

Now that the basics are cleared, back to what happened....

They had been at Terushima's house late in the evening, drinking and yelling at each other after a few failed games of Monopoly. Everyone refused to read the instructions no matter how lost they were, but that was irrelevant at this moment in time.

Eventually, they all calmed down as the sun dipped below the horizon and Terushima supplied them with more beer. He and Kuroo had hardly drank, more content with watching their friends make fools of themselves for future blackmailing purposes.

The conversations ranged from embarrassing high school memories, to the famous mint chocolate ice cream debate, most of which Tsukishima gladly tuned out in favor of focusing on Kuroo's hands. Tsukishima had managed to practically seat himself in his boyfriend's lap without calling too much attention to them, the perfect vantage point. Especially when Kuroo's nimble fingers began to massage his exposed hip bones, kneading the soft skin and curves while Tsukishima greedily moved closer.

The touch was familiar, welcome, with something burning and desirous just below the surface. But given their public situation, the fire dwindled, and Tsukishima let himself relax as the ministrations continued. There was no rush, no urgency. They had all the time in the world that Friday night, and they basked in the jovial atmosphere.

That is, until the subject of the newest horror movie came about.

It was silly probably, how fast he and Kuroo's heads shot up, like dogs hearing their kibble pour into bowls, but they couldn't help it. They loved anything to do with horror and suspense; haunted houses, slasher films, whatever.

(Minus the time they'd gotten so scared from one particular movie they couldn't sleep, but no one had to know about that. They'd both agreed long ago on taking that one to the grave.)

But otherwise, it was their calling. They already had their tickets pre-bought for the movie everyone was currently discussing, and they jumped in, scattering their own predictions and opinions without care.

Naturally, one thing led to another, and the conversation turned into a full-blown comparison of different horror franchises, either in support or contempt of the new upcoming film. Whatever. Kuroo and Tsukishima had this shit. They’d made their predictions already, knew the director, had bets placed. So truthfully, this was more of a trip down memory lane of all the shitty and spectacular films they’d watched ever since they’d become brave enough to sneak into R rated movies.

Not to mention all the films they’d seen together, an excuse to hold each other close and makeout during all the boring scenes with dull characters. It made Tsukishima somewhat excited for either outcome. If the movie was good, then he’d enjoy himself and would also have a new movie to rewatch on chilly nights. If it sucked, then he could make Kuroo fall apart, movie forgotten. Wins all around.

So yeah, bringing up both the duds and hits of the horror world made him satisfied all around.

But then, Terushima went and did it, that bastard. He said the measly string of words which would later cause Tsukishima's mind-numbing headache.

"I don't know, it looks like a Final Destination rip-off to me."

And oh, what an insult.

Both he and Kuroo recoiled just a bit, not knowing where to start. What exactly did he mean anyways? They were two completely different plots, new actors, there was no supernatural element at all…

“I mean it looks too over the top,” Terushima continued, smirking slightly at the glares he received from the couple.

“Funny coming from someone as dramatic as you,” Tsukishima shot back, and in true Terushima fashion, the drunkard sloshed his drink in Tsukishima’s direction, eager for a fearful flinch.

Tsukishima didn’t move. A chorus of childish ‘oos’ echoed around them. The stare down between them didn’t last long though, in part because of Terushima’s one too many beers and Tsukishima’s good mood. They both maintained the scowling eye contact for a few seconds before they burst out into a fit of laughter.

Kuroo’s hands tightened on him at the sound.

Horror fan reputation be damned, Tsukishima was ready to ditch the party in favor of seeing exactly what those hands had in mind for him.

But of course, the universe, and Terushima had other plans.

"Those movies were a trip though," Terushima went on as his laughter died, his words slightly slurred from the amount of alcohol he'd inhaled throughout the night. The hiccups made everyone around him giggle. "My far...my fav was the--the one with the cars? The race track! That was epic."

And as predicted, he and Kuroo exchanged amused glances, their thoughts completely in sync. And how could they not be?

‘Pft, the fourth FD is a joke.’

‘I know right? Worst film, best title.’

“Oh Yuuji, how the hell did you get to be so uncultured?” Kuroo sighed dramatically, shaking his head. Tsukishima had to give it to his boyfriend, there was real pity in those eyes. “That’s probably the worst film of them all.”

“Ah fuck off,” Futakuchi’s voice drifted from where he sat, face buried into the couch cushions. Damn, Tsukishima thought he’d died thirty minutes ago.

“Yeah, you’re the ones who’ve seen every damn movie,” someone on the staircase said, and from the tone, Tsukishima could tell it was probably one of the Atsumu twins. Oh, so now everyone had their two cents… “Probably more than once…”

“For research purposes,” Kuroo called back, his grin staying firmly in place. Tsukishima wanted to kiss him for it.

“Oh yeah, well what do you assholes think is the best one then?” Terushima said, swirling around his drink with an air of confidence he did not deserve. It was like he was some rich business investor with expensive wine in his glass and not a broke college student drinking cider out of a Naruto mug.

But Tsukishima didn’t need to point that out, his answer would speak for itself. And it was a no brainer for him. He didn't even have to think as he said, "Oh, the fifth for sure."

At the exact same fucking time, Kuroo went: "The second one."

And that’s when the night fell right down the shit hole.

What.

The observing crowd must’ve realized what an affront this was, what a rare occurrence it was to see them disagree on something so close to their hearts. Oh, the silence which followed could’ve been akin to a cemetery even, but with twice as much dread and foreboding.

Kuroo and Tsukishima looked at each other in an instant, eyes stupidly wide and any other shit-eating words dying on the tips of their tongues.

Tsukishima didn’t have anything to say, could barely process his feelings on the subject. Deep down, he knew this day probably should’ve been expected at some point, but wow, what a fucking inconvenience.

Tsukishima’s mouth opened once, then twice, before he eventually surrendered to the fact they were screwed.

Lastly, the only person who could seem to formulate a response in that moment happened to be Terushima, who simply wheezed in laughter, throwing back the rest of his drink before he spoke in sports bar level excitement. “Oh. Shit.”

Aaaand now they were here. A car ride of silence and two ice cream sundaes (both for Tsukishima) later.

Kuroo clicked the lock on the door, sealing them in for battle, and Tsukishima took one slow, deep breath.

Yeah. He was ready.

The stupidest part was probably how they met each other halfway in no more than five steps. At the time, it felt serious, but Tsukishima knew later he’d want to jump off a cliff.

Kuroo nodded to him, eyes brimming with something so ridiculously nerdy one would think they were in high school mock trial. Basically, it was a look that said, ‘Yeah that’s right. Go first. Bring it.’

‘I fucking will.’

Tsukishima raised his hands, the only thing keeping him from just hitting Kuroo with the nearest pillow. Or…any object really. “Tetsu.”

“Yes, my love?” Kuroo smiled sweetly, and yeah, Tsukishima was so ready. No amount of sappy endearments would change that.

“How the hell can you say the second Final Destination is the best? Did you watch the same movie I did? Surely you could’ve have, dear.”

Tsukishima saw the brief hesitation, the way Kuroo had to smother the immediate instinct to just tackle Tsukishima and kiss the daylights out of him for the petname, but man, Kuroo must’ve been as serious as Tsukishima right then. He powered through it. Damn.

“Oh I’m sorry for liking believable suspense,” Kuroo said, motioning to nothing in particular, as if the gestures somehow made his points more legitimate. “That movie had deaths better if not equal to the first.”

Pure blasphemy.

Tsukishima blinked, shaking his head as he tried to make sense of the words. “B-Believable...wha—Tetsu, a girl has a vision on a freeway.”

Why was the freeway aspect more startling than the vision part? Who knew.

“A believable vision, you can’t trust those fucking log trucks!”

That…was correct, but not the point.

Tsukishima clapped, actually clapped in triumph. “Ha! See! You just like the disaster scene, you’re letting that get in the way of the fact the rest is shit!”

Besides, even if Tsukishima could admit the disaster scene was wonderful, the rest fell flatter than three day old soda.

“Oh, because you totally don’t like the fifth one just for the disaster scene,” Kuroo scoffed, rolling his eyes. “A bridge collapse? Seriously?”

“More original than some glorified car accident,” Tsukishima shot back, crossing his arms in hopes of looking more menacing. Too bad that strategy no longer worked on Kuroo.

“The logs Kei, the logs.”

“If that’s all you have to offer, then you’re not as good at arguing as I thought,” Tsukishima sighed in pity, a tone normally used for provoking Kuroo into…different situations. He’d happily employ it for this fight, no doubt.

The last Final Destination may have had subpar effects, but the ending and the deaths were so well crafted, he refused to let them be overlooked.

“Oh really now? What are your points then? I’m sure someone as devoted as you has more to dish out than insults…”

Tsukishima nearly winced. Kuroo, regardless of his sweetness and the fondness he held for him, had a sharp tongue on him all the same. Tsukishima loved him, but this was not helping.

Not that he was at a disadvantage. Oh no. He would gladly pick apart all the excellent points of the fifth Final Destination if Kuroo wanted him to, but really, his biggest point said it all.

Tsukishima sniffed, aura haughty and just the right amount of bratty to drive Kuroo up the wall. “Why should I? It’s obviously the superior film.”

“So help me, if you say it’s because it connects to the first—”

“It connects to the first film—”

“Kei.”

“—and it does so flawlessly! Admit it!”

“Never!”

Tsukishima turned on his heel, holding his breath as he walked to the end of the living room and back to face Kuroo. It needed to be done. He was about to lose it.

Kuroo either didn’t sense that or wasn’t scared to test it.

“You’re the one letting personal preference get in the way of which one had a better plot Kei, the second one has better acting and—”

“How is tying back to the first one not a better plot? It’s a prequel, a surprise prequel! Also what the hell, they all have the same plot!”

“That’s crap, I know you don’t believe that!”

(Tsukishima did not but okay, technically it was the truth. A director could only take a concept so far.)

Kuroo laughed, somewhat crazed, as he finished his spiel. “Final Destination 2 is better in every way, I liked the characters more, the deaths were better, and it stood on its own. It didn’t have to rely on the first film—”

“It…it completely relies on the first film!”

“—in order to be successful. You probably just don’t remember because you were too busy watching the cash grab that was the fifth movie.”

Tsukishima, had he been more on Kuroo’s level of drama, might’ve gasped, hand on his chest and everything. But no, he steeled himself, squinting because like hell would he blink. Blinking meant defeat.

“The critics hated it,” Tsukishima seethed, as if that meant anything at all. A low, pathetic blow even for him. Was he losing?

“The people loved it,” Kuroo said back, his grin wide and so telling. He thinks I’m losing. Me.

Unacceptable.

The problem there? When Tsukishima got competitive, part of his rationale flew out the window. Therefore, stupid, impulsive decisions could slip through.

Kuroo’s next words were all it took.

“A true horror fan would know, amidst all the movies in the franchise, number two is the shining star,” Kuroo sighed, placing a hand on Tsukishima’s trembling shoulder with confidence all too grand. “It’s okay babe, I still love you, flaws and all.”

Fuck. You.

“Well, we—we’re just gonna have to watch all of them then!” Tsukishima yelled, the fierceness of competition flaring up without control. “We’ll see what the shining star is!”

“Fine!”

“Great!”

Oof.

Or, not great. Not one of his best ideas in hindsight, considering it was already close to midnight. But he was committed.

This, this would surely show Kuroo how wrong he was. The middle movies were a fucking slog and they both knew it. Kuroo would crack in no time, begging Tsukishima to just skip right to the last film.

Fuck yeah.

Unfortunately, he overestimated several things. One, his own patience, and two, his ability to stomach more than two of these shitty ass movies in a row.

Hint: he could not.

It was halfway through Final Destination 3 that Tsukishima had enough, mostly because both he and Kuroo didn't care for this particular installment to the mediocre franchise and also because…as sad as it sounded, he sort of no longer knew why they were fighting.

Glancing over at Kuroo from the corner of his eye, Tsukishima could make out the bored stare mixed with stubbornness and just a tad bit of disgust (the tanning salon death always did sort of freak Kuroo out). Tsukishima couldn't help but grin at the small bit of knowledge, and he cursed himself. Why was being mad at Kuroo so hard?

Maybe it's because you're arguing about Final Destination, Tsukishima's brain supplied, quite unhelpfully.

Kuroo's hands were clenched, gaze flickering towards the remote as if he was contemplating giving in and turning the cursed thing off.

He wouldn't though. They were both far too prideful for that.

No, if Kuroo was going to concede, Tsukishima would have to employ other tactics, and he momentarily let himself cast away any remaining dignity. He couldn't half-ass this, and once his plan was put into action, he wouldn't be able to turn back.

I can't believe it's come to this.

More unbelievable still was the way a rush of anticipation ran up his body, the beginnings of a desirous heat coiling in his abdomen. Like a reflex, a preview of what was to come.

He wondered if his heart had started to race yet, his pulse picking up...

He'd been complaining earlier, but it truly was hard to stay mad at Kuroo. He was....well, he was Kuroo.

Just the name made him relax, and Tsukishima didn't bother scolding himself. What was the use? This would be over soon, given how grossly affectionate he was feeling.

At the thought, Tsukishima looked back at his boyfriend, noting the way the shadows and flashes from the T.V. danced across the curves of his face. The light flecked in his golden eyes, subtle and far too mesmerizing considering the movie playing. Those eyes, framed by long eyelashes and the occasional sand had held Tsukishima's gaze so many times. In fact, Tsukishima had stared at Kuroo's entire face more times than he could count, but he always found himself observing the same things over and over. The light crease on the bridge of his nose during allergy season, the discoloration on the tops of his cheeks due to too many beach trips.

Tsukishima could almost feel the textures from memory alone, each bump, every contour.

Seeing him sitting there, so content and at home regardless of their stupidity, made Tsukishima's heart squeeze, and an easy admission floated into his brain.

Kuroo, with all his dumb reasonings and silly jokes, was handsome. Tsukishima knew that, but it had been a while since he'd reminded himself. Maybe he was setting himself up for disaster, but whatever. He always did like sticking to facts.

Tsukishima didn't feel the need to add more to the observation, and if he had to write a book, he doubted Kuroo's description would be more than a few lines long. Kuroo's smooth edges and searing gazes were too much to describe, but to Tsukishima, they felt so simple. So right. He didn't have to make a case for Kuroo's looks, they stared him in the face everyday, woke up with him, laughed with him.

Not bothering with subtlety anymore, Tsukishima moved his body away from the television until he was facing Kuroo, hugging his knees up to his chest as he continued his musings. Plus, he'd seen this movie enough times (more than enough, fucking hell) to recognize the events. Some guy in the drive-thru was about to get bladed through the head, truly, Final Destination 3 deserved to be in a national archive of some sort. Best film ever.

As if sharing the sentiment, Kuroo chuckled, rolling his eyes at the display of gore.

Yeah, that's my guy, Tsukishima thought, without much resistance. Kuroo never disappointed him, Final Destination 2 be damned.

Tsukishima bit his lip, noting the softness as he stared at his boyfriend's creased brow. He never realized how soft his lips were until he started dating Kuroo. The raven liked to bite on them, pull and suck...

A second tremor came then, and now Tsukishima knew it was over.

Fuck this.

"Like what you see?" Kuroo's soft, amused tone floated in his ears, and he didn't flinch. Tsukishima knew Kuroo had noticed the staring from the beginning, but he was patient with Tsukishima, letting him collect his thoughts for a bit.

God, you're the worst.

And just like that, the last of Tsukishima's willpower was gone.

"Mm," he hummed, moving slowly until he was comfortably seated in Kuroo's lap. "I don't know. The gym death is kind of lame."

One of Kuroo's hands automatically came up to grab Tsukishima's hip, while the other laced their fingers together. Such a sweet, intimate gesture, all to the sound of Lewis Romero's delusional theories.

"The lamest," Kuroo replied, eyes never leaving Tsukishima's lips. The blond briefly wondered how he did that, how he could read the atmosphere so well nowadays. Kuroo was so terrible at that in high school, accidentally offending people, including Tsukishima on a few occasions. The doofus apologized genuinely each time, but still, it was impressive to see how far he'd come.

Now he could read the room like a telepath might, feeling the shifts in mood and atmosphere, knowing exactly what people wanted.

And right then, he could probably tell just how much Tsukishima wanted to be fucked against the nearest available surface.

Side note: Yes, he knew how weird it was to become unbearably horny during a rewatch of a horror franchise, he couldn't explain it and didn't really want to. End of story. Besides, he was allowed, especially after the time Kuroo wanted to get dicked after watching A Christmas Carol, there were some things they just refused to acknowledge.

“Final Destination 2 is pretty lame too you know,” Tsukishima jabbed, but the animosity from before wasn’t there anymore, replaced now with a soft whisper as he tapped his fingers against the back of Kuroo’s hand.

“Mmhm, and so is Final Destination 5,” Kuroo nudged, moving his hips to let Tsukishima slide closer. He happily did so.

“The whole franchise is.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Without a doubt.”

“The worst.”

Each exchange only made their stupid smiles grow, and Kuroo nuzzled Tsukishima’s neck to hide his face before it made them both blush.

“Hey…you know what’s not lame?” Kuroo asked, and Tsukishima rolled his eyes before the words fully left his mouth. Oh no…

Of course, there was no real dread to be found as Tsukishima touched their foreheads together. “Stop.”

“The most beautiful person in the world—”

“No.”

“Light of my life!”

“Tetsu.”

“The future Kuroo Kei, beloved husband.”

The words made Tsukishima halt, especially with how Kuroo’s tone trembled on the last syllables, as if he hadn’t meant to say such a serious thing. He didn’t have to worry, because the words only made Tsukishima wonder how he’d ever been mad at this fool in the first place.

He didn’t let the silence sit between them long, not when Kuroo sat so tense beneath him. Dummy, as if I’d be mad at that.

“Tsukishima Tetsurou,” he whispered into the small space between them, their breath mingling. The admission the reinforcement brought with it, the fact he’d revealed he actually pictured them married, made Tsukishima’s cheeks heat up.

“Huh?” Kuroo choked out, as if he totally hadn’t heard the words loud and clear. Tsukishima laughed lightly, shaking his head.

“It sounds better…that way…you know?” The explanation was poor, but Tsukishima couldn’t sound smart right then, not with the butterflies in his stomach, or the constant heat beneath his skin. To think, they could’ve been this close, touching, this whole time.

Slowly, Kuroo touched their lips together, a peck far too innocent for how in the mood Tsukishima was. Damn Kuroo and his ability to turn every moment sappy. Did Tsukishima understand it? No. Would he change it? Never.

“Yeah, guess it does,” Kuroo said, smiling in a way which would surely kill Tsukishima if he continued.

“So…truce?” Tsukishima tried, moving his hips in hopes of getting that dumb look off of Kuroo’s face. “I’d like to pick up from where we left off, if you don’t mind.”

Being sappy was fun and all, but that was their entire life pretty much. Right then, Tsukishima wanted primal, needy, and nothing would get in the way of that.

One more purposeful grind, and Kuroo got the picture.

Grinning in that lovable, aggravating way, Kuroo met Tsukishima’s movements. “About time.”

I’ll say.

A shiver ran down Tsukishima’s spine as any thoughts of movies or terrible gore effects were forgotten, and he succumbed to the atmosphere, wanting more and more of it.

"Hey...what was that thing at the party you were doing?" Tsukishima asked, ready to dissolve the tension around them and take the plunge. He'd been thinking about this throughout the party, and not even the interruption of Final Destination could smother the flame building between them. He was tired of waiting. The moment of confusion on Kuroo's face didn't last long when Tsukishima placed both of Kuroo's hands on his hips, shivering at the touch on the bare skin where his shirt rode up. Why did he have it on still again?

The recognition in Kuroo's eyes made Tsukishima feel so small, something only Kuroo could do from such a vulnerable position. It happened to be the only time Tsukishima allowed it. And yeah, it was a great look on his boyfriend, as if it was taking all of his willpower to not fuck Tsukishima into the couch right then and there. Kuroo was such a pleaser though, wanting to draw out every touch, every position so Tsukishima could feel everything.

Tonight though, Tsukishima wanted to be the pleaser too, and a wicked thought crossed his mind as his mouth salivated.

I want it in my mouth...

It was the least he could do, after destroying his boyfriend so badly in their fight. Or maybe he just wanted to suck his dick until Kuroo begged to come. He didn't care much anymore about pretenses.

Kuroo chuckled darkly, unaware of how in control Tsukishima was (but honestly, when wasn't he?), and dug into his soft skin with poorly masked greed. "Somehow I doubt that's all you want me to do, love."

And this time, the endearment made him want to surrender.

Kuroo bucked his hips up, grinding their growing erections together, and Tsukishima laughed lowly even as a shudder racked his body. Of course not, but it's a good place to start.

Kuroo's hands traveled up his chest, ghosting over his nipples with his palms slowly. It was as if Kuroo was the conductor of Tsukishima's pleasure, the only one who got the notes and cues exactly right. He grinned as Tsukishima's hips dipped lowly towards him, seeking more.

Tsukishima moaned, and he figured it was alright, since soon Kuroo would be as undone as him.

The sensation of Kuroo playfully tugging at his nipples almost made his plan blur in his mind, his back arching into the feeling, but the determination drove him forward. Perhaps too roughly, he undid the buckle on Kuroo's belt, and in record time, he flung the damn thing to the floor.

Much better, but not enough.

Smirking, Tsukishima leaned forward, licking into Kuroo's mouth until their breath grew hot and frantic. It could hardly be called a kiss, the way Tsukishima would tease with his tongue, coaxing Kuroo's to meet him and make those obscene smacking noises they both loved so much. Shamelessly, he tugged on Kuroo's waistband as he moaned into the kiss. If that wasn't enough to get Kuroo moving, his next words certainly were.

He pulled away, letting a string of saliva connect them as he squeezed Kuroo through his underwear. The captivation on his boyfriend's face made his own cock twitch in his pants. "It's not what I want you to do, it's what I wanna do." Another harsh tug. "Off."

He loved when Kuroo moved fast sometimes.

In a matter of seconds, rough hands returned to his hips, seating him on the couch cushion as Kuroo stood up and kicked off his pants and boxers in a few fluid movements.

The pure obedience did something to Tsukishima he couldn't properly explain, but he squirmed where he sat, trying not to moan at the sight of his boyfriend's cock as it hung heavy between his legs.

It probably didn't matter, since the way Tsukishima immediately moved off the couch and onto his knees spoke for itself. His mind was already racing with the desire to make his boyfriend come, to suck on the head until Kuroo begged for more, to choke on his cock...

"Wait!" Kuroo's voice made him freeze though, and he looked up at Kuroo as the raven sat back onto the couch. He probably looked so sex drunk already, from how Kuroo's eyes flashed with something carnivorous. Stroking his cock, Kuroo laughed at the way Tsukishima's eyes followed the movement, and then pat his thigh. "Come up here."

At that, Tsukishima actually snapped out of it for a bit, blinking in confusion. "But I want to--"

"I know you do, and I'm gonna let you," Kuroo said, and his smirk actually made Tsukishima glare. "But you deserve a consolation prize too."

Tsukishima scoffed, standing to shuck off his pants and briefs.

"It's not a consolation prize if you're the winner," he replied, and still unsure of Kuroo's plan, he hopped back up onto the couch until his breath fanned over Kuroo's cock once more.

The tremble in Kuroo's voice made him wiggle his hips, and he made sure Kuroo watched.

"What happened to a truce?" Kuroo's voice shook as Tsukishima gave his cock a few firm strokes, and the blond didn't care what Kuroo was planning, he wanted more of that desperation now.

"I needed to tell you something," he said slyly, and before Kuroo could retort, he took the head of his cock in his mouth, sucking like he yearned for it. Kuroo choked out a moan as the milky precum met Tsukishima's tongue, and he swirled it around lewdly in his mouth.

Kuroo's hips twitched from the pleasure, and Tsukishima keened, the vibrations driving Kuroo mad.

"Fuck baby, that's right," Kuroo groaned, his hand digging into the cushions clumsily until he found their bottle of lube. Tsukishima didn't understand at first, but the realization dawned on him as soon as he felt a large hand kneed his ass.

Oh. Oh okay. Yes please.

Sticking his ass up higher, Tsukishima began to suck Kuroo off in earnest, making the show of it as he went all the way down on his cock. The sloshing and choking noises probably weren't necessary, but he loved the way they made Kuroo grab his blond hair and pull.

"Fuck Kei, you're amazing."

Tsukishima drank in all of Kuroo's babbles, all the praises and embarrassing comments.

"Want me to stretch you open? You're so dirty, bouncing your ass like this..."

"I'm gonna make you come hard with my cock in your mouth, Kei."

Tsukishima whined, trying his best to keep a good rhythm so Kuroo wouldn't come so fast. But god, it was tempting, especially when all he wanted was to pull off and tell Kuroo to come hard down his throat.

All coherent thought left his mind when Kuroo's lubed finger prodded at his entrance, teasing the rim until Tsukishima's whines turned even brattier, just how Kuroo liked. Tsukishima never liked to show that side of himself, no matter how much Kuroo told him it was okay. But when he did, something in Kuroo snapped, and he was no better than an animal.

He worked Tsukishima open, the lust taking over as he spoke mindlessly. "Fuck babe, your mouth is good at everything huh? So smart, but you can't say anything right now can you?"

He pulled Tsukishima off his cock, and the blond gasped.

Kuroo cursed under his breath. "So sexy..."

At the same time, Kuroo pushed in another finger, teasing the bundle of nerves inside Tsukishima with practiced skill.

Tsukishima got the picture as Kuroo kept him off his cock, but he wanted more than anything to keep going. Kuroo was close, but he obviously didn't want the fun to end. Tsukishima licked the head of his boyfriend's cock instead while Kuroo fingered him roughly, eventually scissoring him with three fingers after Tsukishima loosened up for him. And yeah, Tsukishima couldn't say anything at all, could just moan and push back wantonly.

Kuroo must've used more lube on purpose too, because the way his fingers plunged in and out of Tsukishima's ass filled the room with sloppy, indecent sounds which made Tsukishima glad they didn't have close neighbors.

"Tetsu, ah--I'm--fuck," Tsukishima's words quickly turned to mush when Kuroo pressed firmly against his prostate, and Tsukishima spasmed around him, like he wanted to keep his fingers locked there so badly.

But Kuroo really was a genuine bastard.

He pulled his fingers out, his palm connecting with Tsukishima's ass cheek with a resounding slap.

Tsukishima's back arched, and he stroked Kuroo's cock as best he could with trembling hands.

"Don't stop..."

"Hm, tempting," Kuroo sighed, groaning when Tsukishima licked a long stripe up his cock. "M-maybe if you admit I was right."

Seriously.

Tsukishima huffed, but he was too far gone to stop this, he felt so good. He just wanted to come, wanted to make Kuroo come..."I hate you sometimes."

Not that the words landed in the slightest when he was drooling over his boyfriend's dick. Or when Kuroo abruptly thrusted his fingers back inside of him, Tsukishima's moans way too happy to carry anything convincing.

"Aw, you hate me now? Is that it?" Kuroo said, amusement clear as day as he let Tsukishima feel every slow drag of his fingers inside him.

The rough, breathless syllables pouring from his lips made Tsukishima's mind swim, his body twisting at the sex-drunk words. Kuroo's speech abilities varied, and so far tonight, his debate skills hadn't gotten him far. Now, he was giving 110% to cover all that lost ground.

Tsukishima keened, and fuck, he didn't even bother glaring as Kuroo continued. "Hard to believe. You're so tight around me...."

Fuck, fuck, fuck...

“Mm, I wish I could hate you," Tsukishima sighed out, nails digging into Kuroo's thigh as he felt the familiar coiling of heat in his gut.

I'm gonna come, please make me come...

"But?" Kuroo's grin was most likely of the shit-eating kind, but Tsukishima didn't have it in him anymore to mind. He'd take everything Kuroo offered.

Thinking actions would speak louder than words, Tsukishima took Kuroo's cock back into his mouth, his pace merciless.

Come on, fall apart for me.

And Kuroo certainly did, all inclinations to tease or argue out the window. Neither of them cared about words, not with the pleasure building, not with Kuroo whimpering into the air of their apartment as Tsukishima took him deep.

He felt Kuroo's thrusts quicken, knew his fingers must've been cramping by then, but he kept going, eager to make Tsukishima feel as good as possible.

In the last few moments, a surge of affection welled up in Tsukishima's chest, and the noise he made around Kuroo's cock finally sent him over the edge.

Kuroo threw his head back, his hand leaving Tsukishima's hair to grip the armrest. "Oh god, oh shit, baby I'm coming, I'm--"

The feeling of Kuroo's cum shooting down his throat, along with the rough press of his fingers, sent Tsukishima toppling over the edge. He pulled off as he sobbed out in pleasure, some cum dribbling from the corner of his mouth as his body trembled.

He moved his hips shamelessly, riding out every last shock wave as he released into his hand. At least he'd had enough sense to do that right before his vision blanked out, his toes curling.

So good, so good.

Collapsing, he gave one last jolt as Kuroo pulled out his fingers, the sound absolutely filthy. Spent, their labored breathing filled the room, and Tsukishima lazily wiped his hand on his discarded pair of pants.

"Wow," Kuroo sighed above him, and Tsukishima simply hummed in response. His throat was sore, and his body still tingled from his orgasm. He was perfectly content with silence, and Kuroo's comforting touches.

Or, almost.

One last thought did cross his mind, and he turned over onto his back, letting his head rest on Kuroo's thigh. He felt the blush spread across his cheeks, a reaction he found annoying each time. No matter how many times he said it, it never got less embarrassing. "I love you too much to hate you by the way, shitty movie opinions and all."

Kuroo probably knew that already but...he felt he had to say it. The night couldn't get weirder anyways.

Tsukishima saw the exact moment Kuroo's brain and soul combusted from the statement, and before he knew it, he was being tackled onto the floor, his limbs too relaxed to protest as Kuroo smothered him in affection.

Oh well, if terrible movie marathons ended like this each time, Tsukishima couldn't mind it.

Much.

As if remembering the reason for all this mess, Kuroo lifted his head, glancing over to the home screen of the next installment of the franchise. The fourth one. Terushima's favorite.

Looking at each other, the consensus was reached, and the mutual hatred was all they needed as they both uttered the same response.

"No."

And yes, the truce persisted.

#kurotsukifestweek #kurotsuki #adri writing #tsukishima kei #kuroo tetsurou

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textsfromumbridge · 7 years

Text

All the men and women merely players (1/??)

aka that trashy rethaniel high school AU I promised to write.

All the love to @catty-words and @rebeccaplimpton for being excited for everything about this fic. The ship trash group chat has greatly improved my life and I’ll happily flail with you all the damn time.

To all the readers: if you’re even half as far into this trash can as I am, please come talk to me!

CHAPTER ONE: Don’t let me be your star (AO3)

His father would not approve. Any after school activities had to involve money or networking - that’s why he’d been in Future Business Leaders of America since the fifth grade. It is why he’d started attending networking events in kindergarten. Diversifying his interests to appeal to colleges was completely unnecessary. His father would get him in anywhere close enough to keep an eye on him - Stanford was at the top of Plimpton Senior’s list.

So telling his father he’d been forcibly enlisted into Rodgers Academy’s theater program, yeah he’d prefer for this to remain a secret for the rest of his natural born life. Because if (please, not when) his father found out, that natural born life would end very shortly.

But not joining the theater program stopped being an option when he was caught deflowering the pastor’s daughter under the stands in the auditorium. Mr. Whitefeather was not above blackmail.

Auditioning for the school musical became mandatory. Casting a mere formality - he would be on that stage, humiliated in front of the entire school, no matter how badly he tanked his audition. He might as well do himself proud and be the best actor and singer their school had ever seen.

Yes, he had heard of Rebecca Nora Bunch before the cast list went up. She was a notorious theater freak with a serious lady boner for Josh Chan, the football captain who for some reason called everyone his bro. She’d also gotten the lead in every show ever since she walked into Rodgers Academy freshman year looking like she masturbated to the Glee soundtrack.

Honestly, she was more driven than actually talented. He’d been to enough Broadway shows to tell the difference - really, the theater was a great place to network.

So he wasn’t all that impressed when the cast list for Cinderella went up and her name was right next to the famous princess. It didn’t have anything to do with his name being next to Prince Topher - he could have chemistry with a rock if necessary.

He just figured that if Mr. Whitefeather was truly that desperate for a win, he might actually shake things up for once. Or maybe he just didn’t have enough dirt on the rest of the school. Or maybe Rebecca Bunch had too much dirt on him - Nathaniel would not put it past her to blackmail her teacher into giving her the lead. She’d obviously identified with Sharpay when watching High School Musical.

Not that he’d ever seen the movies. Or heard any of the surprisingly catchy songs.

“Nathaniel,” he suddenly heard her right next to him.

She even pronounced his name in that old-timey voice she used to sound more dignified. It made his dick actually shrivel up inside his body.

“Bunch,”’ he nodded.

No way she needed to know that he knew her full name. Using her first name would imply that they were equals, and they were anything but. Plimptons were always superior - they were the Malfoys of this city.

“I see you’ve developed a sudden interest in the theatre,” she continued to talk to him in that ridiculous voice.

“Someone had to show you how it’s done.”

Plimptons always had to have the last line.

Exit, pursued by an angry theater freak.

It was going to be hard enough to fake any sort of chemistry with that… embodiment of everything that was wrong with the world. Sure, she was an Actress, but surely even Meryl herself had her limits! Surely not even Barbra and Bernadette, not even Idina could work opposite someone as Wrong as Nathaniel Plimpton the Third.

The name alone made her want to gag. Such pretension!

Really, what was Mr. Whitefeather thinking? Surely the divorce was getting to him. This was just a midlife crisis expressing itself in the worst way.

Why didn’t the man just buy an expensive penis metaphor like all the other idiots instead of ruining her life?

And why did Greg have to graduate and leave for Emory? He was no Josh Chan, but he was certainly an accomplished singer who could almost hold his own against her many talents.

All the men in her life just abandoned her. Even Robert left her - okay, so she was the one who told the principal, but he was not going to leave his wife for her (she was eighteen, it was legal!), so what else was a girl to do except get him fired?

The only person who was even remotely supportive of her was Paula - Mrs. Proctor. She had to remember to call her that at school.

“I need your help,” she dropped into her chair.

Yes, she had a thrice-weekly standing appointment with the guidance counselor. It started as a condition for her staying at the school after the fire and the Robert situation, but by now she and Paula were basically best friends. Just because they couldn’t actually wear the bracelets Paula had made at school, didn’t make it any less true.

“Did you get the part?” Paula immediately dropped everything. “Of course you did, Cookie, you’re the most talented person in this school. Just don’t tell any of the other students that I said that.”

This was what friendship was like: unconditional support. So what if it came from the almost middle aged guidance counselor at her high school?

“I got the part,” she huffed. “But clearly Mr. Whitefeather is in some sort of crisis, because he cast that, that… that pompous butthead as Prince Topher. How can a one-dimensional douche like Nathaniel Plimpton do justice to a romantic hero?”

Prince Topher was supposed to be likeable, and while Nathaniel Plimpton was a lot of things, likeable certainly was not one of them. Arrogant? Definitely. Pompous? Certainly. Vain? Indubitably. Despicable? Absolutely. Attractive? Maybe in the right light, if he kept his mouth shut (or otherwise occupied) for longer than five seconds. But likeable? Hell no.

“I didn’t know he was interested in pursuing theater,” Paula clearly smelled a nefarious plot, and Rebecca couldn’t blame her for that.

“Me neither,” she huffed. “I’m not even sure that he’s interested in anything other than ruining my life.”

Obviously that was his reason for pursuing this - had he ever shown interest in anything that did not involve money or sex before?

Was this She’s All That? Did he make a bet with one of his cronies that he could sleep with her? Clearly he was underestimating her considerable brains, because she’d been saving herself for the moment Josh Chan finally realized she was his soulmate. It was bound to happen soon.

“Ugh, why are we still talking about him?” Rebecca was over it, for now. “We should be talking about the love of my life and how he’s totally going to dump Valencia any day now. Not that I’m rooting for another woman’s pain, because that’s totally unfeminist of me, but clearly they just don’t make each other happy.”

Paula nodded sagely - she’d been witness to many a Jolencia (patent pending) fight, often managing to have Rebecca near Josh when he needed someone to console him. Really, the woman was a gift and Rebecca did not know what she’d done in this life or a previous one to deserve a gem like Paula Proctor.

“I hear he has been visiting with Father Joseph more often,” Paula let the gossip slip with a gleeful smile.

Technically the visits with the school chaplain were completely confidential, but Paula could find out if she claimed to be concerned about a student. Paula had access to every single one of Josh’s records and files. Paula had all the intel and the know-how to use said intel to greatly improve Rebecca’s life.

“Seeking divine counsel,” Rebecca tried really hard to ignore that the love of her life was a gentile. “It means he really is in the middle of a personal crisis.”

It had to have something to do with the way he looked at her last time she wrapped an arm around his shoulders and told him that he deserved happiness. He’d leaned in a bit more than usual, and she’d smelled his body wash and his hair product (she’d already made a note of his preferred brands ages ago) before he pulled away because they were still in a public hallway. He just couldn’t hurt Valencia’s feelings like that - how noble of him.

Josh Chan was a good man. A kind man.

“Just like we planned,” Paula’s grin had a touch of villainy about it.

They laughed madly, their cackles echoing against the office’s windows, freaking out Geoff the office aid. Yeah, Geoff, that was his name.

Ugh, forget him. He wasn’t important, barely rated a speaking role in the world of Rebecca Nora Bunch.

No, Josh Chan was clearly the male lead in the story of her life.

The first official rehearsal for Cinderella was an absolute disaster.

How these people had ever managed to put on any show, he really wasn’t sure. With the new additions who’d clearly been blackmailed into this as well, head bitch Valencia Perez and that Heather girl who always seemed stoned, Mr. Whitefeather’s associates might stand a chance of doing something decent. It was an extremely small chance, though.

After Weirdo Karen’s seemingly serious question about a part for her pet snake, he’d pretty much given up on spending his precious time in any kind of useful manner.

He’d already forgotten all of their names not five minutes after the ridiculous ice breaker games they’d been forced to play. That still did not stop any of the unproductive dweebs from wanting to be his friend.

Sure, he got it. He was talented, wealthy, and a good connection to have. They just did not have anything to offer him in return - he wasn’t interested in friendship. What would he get out of it? It wouldn’t help him get to Stanford, wouldn’t help him into law school and then into a prime position at his father’s firm.

Really, he was here to do his time and then bail without his father ever knowing.

“Nathaniel,” damn Bunch actually cornered him after rehearsal.

Again with the voice.

“Cut that out,” he rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t hide from your lack of talent. I suggest wearing more low-cut tops, to show off your other… gifts.”

He made it a point to look down at her, trying to get a peek down her shirt - but of course she was once again dressed like a real life librarian, when she should have been dressing like the porn version.

Maybe then Josh Chan would pull his head out of his ass. Clearly he didn’t want to be with his bitchy girlfriend.

Ugh, monogamy. Just the thought of it made him reach for the disinfectant gel in his bookbag. He’d had to touch too many of these losers already - maybe feelings would catch.

The chase, that was his true and only love. After all, men were hunters by nature. One and done, and then he completely lost interest.

Speaking of losing interest...

“I wasn’t done with you,” Bunch was apparently still talking.

“I’m sure you have plenty of fascinating things to tell me,” he made a point to check the time on his Rolex. “Some of us actually have places to be.”

Like the gym - he was feeling rather bloated today. Clearly the new chef had not been notified about the strict dietary restrictions in his diet. He was sure he could taste actual butter, and that just wouldn’t do.

Perhaps he’d have to prepare some kale shakes, just in case the chef didn’t get the memo.

“You’re talented,” she stalled him.

“I know,” he didn’t even grin.

“Ugh,” she crossed her arms over her ample, ample chest. “You’re the embodiment of every private school dick movie cliche. I know you don’t care about me either, but we have to put on a good show - my life depends on it!”

He heard maybe thirty percent of what she said, too busy staring at the way her crossed arms pushed up her chest. He’d certainly made an excellent point about the low-cut tops. Maybe then she’d get some people to like her, and not just the teachers.

“Still talking,” she snapped her fingers at him.

“Still not interested,” he shot back, briefly making the effort to look at her face.

She was a little hotter when she was angry - a little less tragic and pathetic. Shame she was too chubby to even consider banging her. She seemed like she needed someone to fuck that stick out of her ass, stat.

“I know Mr. Whitefeather has something on you,” she stopped him from leaving.

“And?”

That didn’t rattle him in the slightest.

“You’re already risking your reputation,” she had nothing to say that he didn’t already know. “So why not have some self-respect and put on the best show you possibly can?”

Clearly he was not the one who had issues with self-respect. No person with any kind of self-esteem pined for Mr. If I Only Had A Brain for four years.

“And you think I’d need you for that?” he scoffed.

Maybe she was moderately more talented than the rest of the cast, and maybe she was the only one actually willing to put in the work.

But was he actually that desperate?

“We’re the leads,” Bunch made her final arguments. “If we work well together, it’ll lift the whole production to a new level.”

“Not interested,” he finally made his escape.

As if he’d voluntarily spend more time with any of those people. He had more than enough talent all by himself.

It really was a beautiful day.

Finally, it had happened. One minute she was just sitting alone at lunch, memorizing her lines in her first big song, and just a few minutes later she was in the janitor’s closet with Joshua Felix Chan. And they were KISSING!

Okay, so he hadn’t broken up with Valencia (yet!), but she just knew that locking lips with her had totally changed his world. He’d looked dazed afterwards, when they finally stepped out of the closet.

Of course he went first and she had to wait a few minutes, but still! The lips of Rebecca Nora Bunch had actually touched those of Joshua Felix Chan.

She just loved saying his full name, almost as much as she liked the name Rebecca Chan. Chan-Bunch? Yeah, maybe hyphenating wasn’t such a bad idea. Because fuck the patriarchy.

“You’re late,” Nathaniel was actually in time for rehearsal.

“And you’re not,” she made sure the surprise was audible.

Hell, she was mostly surprised that he was here at all. He made it very clear that he did not consider himself to be a part of the group, and that he did not want to be here. (Note to self: find out what kind of dirt Mr. Whitefeather had on him)

“A Plimpton is never late,” he recited the words without inflection.

“Who coined those pearls of wisdom?” she scoffed.

There was no response, just a tightening of his jaw that told her that it was probably his terrible father. Clearly, someone who acted like Nathaniel Plimpton did with women had some serious father issues.

And well, like did call to like.

At least his father told him some things.

“Good to see you’ve learned something about responsibility,” she didn’t like the broken look in his eyes.

“I won’t be the only one learning something,” he made it sound like a warning.

Really? Was he going to teach her a lesson? Unless it was about being an unprincipled jackass, she wasn’t going to learn a thing. He wasn’t all that.

“I’m terrified,” she rolled her eyes at him.

“Alright idiots, listen up,” Nathaniel demanded the attention of the entire group. “Mr. Whitefeather will probably be late again - Mr. Wilson was wearing a tank again and the man is too weak to keep from staring.”

Wow, Nathaniel actually had a point there - Josh Wilson was a really nice specimen, and ever since Mr. Whitefeather had come out as bi at the end of last year, he’d been all too interested in their new gym teacher. Personally, Rebecca didn’t see it, even when people had pointed out how much he looked like Josh Chan.

Clearly Josh Chan was superior to the judgmental chipmunk. Mr. Wilson did not like her at all, and she took offense. So what if she conveniently got a mental health crisis every time jumping or running was involved? She had to protect her classmates - her boobs were actually going to kill someone someday.

Denise Martinez’s eye injury had been proof enough of that.

“We’re starting practice without him,” Nathaniel was really trying to make the drill sergeant look work for him. “Warm ups, now! None of you are fit enough to dance and sing at the same time. Start running!”

Well, not everyone could be as fit as Nathaniel Plimpton himself - seriously, it was kind of worrying how much time he allegedly spent in the gym. Not counting the times he spent exercising with impressionable young girls, of course.

Ugh, gross. Sweaty, semi-naked Nathaniel. Why did her brain even do that to her?

“That includes you, Bunch,” Nathaniel’s gaze fell on her. “Start moving!”

What? She wasn’t one of those unprofessional idiots - she was in shape. Round was a shape, and she wasn’t going to develop any more body image issues just because Nathaniel Plimpton took offense to a woman with actual meat on her bones.

“I have better breath control than you do, asswipe,” she hollered at him, pretending she wasn’t a little bit out of breath from her fast-walk in his direction.

Crap, okay, maybe the asswipe had a point about the running.

He was not still thinking about what the running had done to Rebecca Bunch’s chest. He’d not been completely distracted by it, and he hadn’t stared at all.

Okay, he had, but he was only human.

At least he hadn’t made inappropriate comments, like Freaking Karen. Was there any way he could just kick her out of the show, or out of the school entirely? He knew she’d been held back twice already, but it was high time she left.

Just, the woman had no boundaries, and she’d clearly made Rebecca more than a bit uncomfortable. Bunch. She made Bunch uncomfortable.

She hated him by practice’s end, because he was more effective at making her move than Mr. Wilson had been in weeks. He just wasn’t going to hear any of her outlandish excuses - he just challenged her, basically daring her into doing the work. She hated being made to feel like she was worse than her classmates at something.

Not that he could relate to that or anything.

Because he was actually better than all of his classmates - it was just one of the many facts of life that came with being a Plimpton.

Like his fantastic memory, which was currently helping him in his prep for the next Cinderella rehearsal. Words came easily to him, remembering exact phrases had always helped him with his father.

Strict was not a strong enough word for his old man.

“Nathaniel?”

Speak of the devil and he shall use the intercom to be terrifyingly present. He hated it when Father managed to interrupt one of the few moments of peace and quiet he had in a day - and they’d gotten even more rare since the whole blackmail-induced theater escapades had started.

“Yes father?” he spoke into the receiver.

This was never a good sign. His father made it a habit never to interfere in his life unless he felt like there was something that needed improving.

Clearly, he’d failed again.

“You were home late today,” the accusation was obvious.

Really, Father never even needed to ask the question. As a good son, he was obliged to explain his actions in a satisfactory manner.

Well, time to see if he was good at lying to his father. He knew he was failing him just by having to lie, but he didn’t see another way. There was no way out of this that left him in a single piece, other than to lie.

And the best lies stuck close to the truth.

“I was tutoring some fellow students,” he squeezed his hand into a fist and focused on keeping his breathing steady.

Never volunteer any extra information, real events weren’t actually like a perfect story from a film - he’d researched lying quite extensively so he would know. And keeping it simple made it less likely that he’d get caught up in his own lies.

“What subject?” his father just had to pry.

“Biology,” he’d already thought of the proper subject.

It was part of the sciences, so not considered too frivolous and a waste of his time, yet also not something his father was an expert at - Plimpton senior knew economics and law and cared for little else.

Not even his son.

“Are you still on top of your own school work?” of course that was the real issue.

“Of course father,”

“Your work comes first,” Father issued the final warning. “I’m sure none of the other students are in line to study at an Ivy League university.”

And none of these other students were Plimptons with reputations to maintain - if he didn’t get into a college that was acceptable to his family, that would be the end of him. His father had never specifically stated what would happen to him, but that just made it all the more terrifying. He had to get in - there was no other option.

“Bunch is,” he muttered.

“What was that, Nathaniel?”

His father hated it when people didn’t enunciate properly.

“Rebecca Bunch,” he hated himself for even mentioning her. “One of the students. She is applying to the Ivies and several competitive cultural programs. Sir.”

His father shouldn’t be aware of Bunch’s existence, but he’d done it now. And he didn’t even know why - why did he even mention Bunch in the first place? Sure, he’d just spent time with her, but that shouldn’t matter. He’d been on the phone with his father during quite a couple trysts, and he’d never felt the slightest urge to ever mention the girl in question.

So why Bunch?

“At least you have some people in your life with a good head on their shoulders,” his father ended the conversation.

Of course Father had to have the last word, leaving him to laugh silently in his room.

Bunch never thought with the head on her shoulders. She thought with her libido and her heart and her fantasies.

And it was not an endearing feature, damn it.

Josh and Valencia had broken up, and it was all because of her.

She probably should be feeling some sort of guilt, but instead all she could think about was what this meant for her own future with Josh.

It meant that she actually had a real future with Josh - it was not just contingent upon him realizing that he wasn’t meant to be with Valencia, now it was real. He’d kissed her, he’d seen her, and then his relationship ended.

Sure, he hadn’t talked to her and she’d had to hear it through the grapevine, but she could afford to give him a day or two to settle his affairs before he finally asked her to be his new girlfriend. It gave her time to primp and look her best when he did ask.

And he would ask any day now, any hour, any minute.

This was how it was supposed to go when she finally got her happily ever after, just like in that movie Slumbered. The whole world was going to fall away until there was nothing except for her and Josh. And then he would tell her he loved her, more than he’d ever loved anyone and they’d date and live happily ever after and she’d thank him when she won her first Tony before the age of thirty.

“Bunch, are you even still paying attention?”

Ugh, there went that dream.

Instead of spending time with the man of her dreams, she was forced to spend the next hour and a half working solely with Nathaniel Plimpton. Talk about a buzzkill.

“I have danced before,” she carefully avoided actually answering the question.

Because the answer was actually no - of course she was not paying attention to the asswipe currently looming over her. He was all up in her personal space for this stupid dance routine that Mr. Wilson was making them learn.

Apparently it was vitally important that Mr. Wilson help out with this - or more likely, it was vitally important to Mr. Whitefeather that he dance with the gym teacher to provide some kind of good example that they didn’t really need. She was an extremely qualified dancer and not even Nathaniel Plimpton could make her look like an idiot.

“So, no,” he smirked down at her.

How dare he use his superior height to look down on her?

“Lucky for you, I’ve been doing ballroom for years,” Nathaniel clasped her hand gently in his and laid his other hand on the small of her back.

Following is almost automatic, placing her arm over his so that she is gently grasping his shoulder. She learned proper posture at a very young age, and she’s been watching princesses dance since she could remember.

Wait, what? Nathaniel Plimpton, douche of the highest degree has been doing ballroom for years?

“What?” she finally responded.

“You guys are doing really well so far,” Mr. Wilson seemed more than a little surprised.

Mr. Wilson and Mr. Whitefeather were in the exact same position, and they were both clearly a lot more affected by it than she was - or Nathaniel, because his posture was still ramrod straight. He almost looked like the perfectly polished prince he was supposed to be, only he was a little too… stiff.

“Let’s try a few steps,” Mr. Wilson continued.

Could Josh dance like this, she wondered. Perhaps it was possible to suggest him as a practice partner - or at least she could use that excuse with Josh. She’d love to dance with him like this, or even closer than this.

“Don’t forget the proper distance,” Mr. Whitefeather reminded them. “I know you youngsters like to get close, but there has to be room for the dress.”

Yes, she would actually get to wear a ballgown - just like she’d always dreamed of wearing ever since she was a little girl. Her mother would never let her wear the traditional princess costumes, instead forcing her to play act as businesswomen. Sure, she understood the feminist leanings, but princesses were not inherently less feminist.

If only her mother understood that.

“It’s huge,” Mr. Wilson was almost dismissive. “Ridiculously huge.”

All this time, she was still touching Nathaniel, but the second anyone remarked on the distance, Nathaniel moved back another inch. Clearly, he couldn’t wait to get away from her even now.

Screw him - she didn’t like him either, but at least she could be professional about the whole situation. She’d much rather be with Josh.

“Bunch,” Nathaniel rudely drew her from her daydreams.

“What?”

“Would you mind actually looking at the steps Mr. Whitefeather is showing you?” Plimpton sounded physically pained. “Not just for my feet’s sake.”

Oh right, now that she wasn’t thinking about Josh, she realized that because she kept moving in the wrong direction, she and Nathaniel kept bumping into each other. Her breasts smushed into his chest, him looking down at her with blazing eyes…

Wow, she really needed to dance with Josh some time. Nathaniel was great practice.

Copying Mr. Whitefeather’s steps was kind of easy. She had a natural gift for moving in time with the count of the waltz, plus she wasn’t nearly as into her partner as her teacher was. How obvious could a man get?

“Remember, this is their first meeting,” Mr. Whitefeather was more than a little flustered. “This is all about that first spark, the chemistry between these two characters.”

And that’s where the acting came in - she had no interest in Nathaniel, and he seemed just about ready to bust out the disinfectant. He tensed every single time she broke form and his eyes were on the horizon somewhere.

They were supposed to be selling romance. Not that Nathaniel Plimpton would know the meaning of that word.

“Alright, on to the next part,” Mr. Whitefeather was the only happy person present. “Miss Bunch, I’m sure you’ve seen every version of Pride and Prejudice? This is a lot like those dances.”

Finally, Nathaniel gets his much needed distance. He actually started breathing easier the second it became clear the next part involved touching with one arm only. They were to press their hands together, with a slightly increasing distance to the elbow down. And then it was just turns back and forth to switch arms.

Very minimal contact, just Nathaniel’s style when it came to her. Not when it came to every “hot” girl at the school, because he would be all over them.

Wow, that almost made it sound like she wanted Nathaniel to touch her. To speak in the words of the immortal icon Cher Horowitz: as if!

Nathaniel Plimpton was no Josh Chan, even though he was definitely being the Mr. Darcy to her Elizabeth Bennet at this point.

What? Every girl had a Pride and Prejudice fantasy at some point - and she’d have it again in her bed tonight while she thought of a more suitable mister Darcy. Josh wasn’t really the brooding type, but that’s why they were called fantasies.

“We’ll work on the transitions later,” Mr. Whitefeather was barely looking at them now, too busy focusing on Mr. Wilson’s arms. “This is just to see which patterns work for me… work for you.”

So obvious, Mr. Whitefeather. So very obvious.

“Right,” Mr. Wilson coughed and took a step back. “There’s a few more moves to try out.”

Like the ones he clearly wanted to try out with Mr. Whitefeather. Honestly, she was pretty sure that the interest was mutual, but they just weren’t acting on it.

Oh - side project! Now that she and Josh were going to live happily ever after, she might as well enlist Paula’s help with matchmaking for another couple. Paula was scary good at getting people together - or keeping them apart if she deemed it necessary.

“This one is a little bit closer,” Mr. Wilson continued, “but it’s right from the Broadway show, so it’s probably pretty appropriate for a formal ball.”

Instead of leading by example- Mr. Whitefeather looked really disappointed - Mr. Wilson guided their hands into the correct positions. Both Nathaniel and herself had an arm wrapped around the other’s waist, pressing their bodies rather closely together. Or at least, really pressing her boobs into his arm while they took a turn around the floor.

Nathaniel had tensed up again, just from her hand on his waist and them almost being in each other’s personal space. How could she work with this?

“Just a little while longer before you can get the disinfectant,” she hissed at him, trying to keep the teachers from overhearing.

“You’re missing the point, Bunch,” Nathaniel still wasn’t looking at her, jaw clenched.

This part was supposed to look like they were flying, like they moved together effortlessly. And sure, this was only the first dance rehearsal, but this was like pulling her body through quicksand, heavy and slow and syrupy.

But somehow it wasn’t entirely bad. Weird.

“Next position, Mr. Wilson,” Nathaniel’s voice seemed more gravelly now.

They’d stopped spinning - although it didn’t really feel like that - and Nathaniel had stepped back. What was up with him?

“So, this will be like a dip,” Mr. Wilson instructed, equally eager to get this over with. “Basic ballroom pose, then move both your arms around her waist, Mr. Plimpton. Miss Bunch, you will be leaning back in his hold.”

Even now, when they were supposed to be standing closer than ever, he was holding back, every muscle in his body resisting her presence in his personal space. For someone who got laid basically all the time, the guy was just really freaking tense.

And when he was supposed to be holding her considerable weight, as he’d remarked on several times now, she did not need him to be stiffer than the Tin Man. Sure, he needed to stand strong, but in a way that spoke of fluidity, of grace, of romance.

This was a pure fight or flight response, and flight was definitely winning.

“You can pull her a bit closer, Mr. Plimpton,” Mr. Wilson eyed them carefully.

Suddenly every bit of distance between the two of them was gone. The tension in his muscles was still there, and she figured that the only way to go here was to trust him with this tiny bit.

Trusting a man - yeah, this was going to be impossible.

And then he looked her in the eyes, finally, those blue eyes screaming fear. When he saw the fear returned in hers - he must have seen it - he softened.

“I’ve got you,” he mouthed.

His hands were warm, burning through her shirt, but she just kept looking into his eyes as she slowly gave herself over to him, putting herself in his hands until she no longer had to hold up her own weight.

It was terrifying and exhilarating, and somehow safe.

Nathaniel Plimpton was an elitist asshole, but he was not going to drop her. So she relaxed in his grip, and tried not to think about how she was basically pushing her boobs up in the direction of his face.

He was trying not to look, occasionally sneaking guilty glances at her chest but then quickly returning to look in her eyes.

She was warm all over, heating up even quicker when she started to feel something insistently pressing against her thigh. It became almost impossible not to blush, and her wide eyes found his immediately.

“Excellent job, you two,” Mr. Whitefeather broke the silence.

That made Nathaniel break eye contact, slowly but surely pulling her into a regular standing position - except this meant that they were standing so closely pressed against each other that she could feel exactly how big his… interest was.

Big was an understatement - she’d suspect him of padding but there was no way to get away with that when she was pressed up against every inch of him.

“Is that the time?” Nathaniel almost ran out of the room.

She was left with a pounding heart and a heaving chest, and a hankering to go see Josh. If this was what it was like with someone she hated, it had to be even better with the love of her life.

Right?

AN: This ship has watered my crops and cleared my skin. Let me know what you think!!

#rebecca x nathaniel #rethaniel #otp: can't be with cedric if you're already with ron #my stories #crazy ex girlfriend fanfiction

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