Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jamie’s room isn’t small, but it feels small, here on the floor, between his large bed, his tall wood dresser, and his desk covered in various electronics in various states of taken apart and put back together. His scratchy, brown and beige Persian rug tickles the back of my neck. I’ve got one wing spread under his bed, the other propped against his dresser. Jamie’s sat, swaying back and forth in his spin-y office chair. There are two big speakers on each end of his desk playing Def Leppard. It’s loud, but not too loud. I close my eyes and focus on the guitar riff of Gods of War.

We do this now, listen to music together.

I come over to Lady Ruth’s for a meal at least once a week. It’s nice, especially as the year’s getting colder and the nights longer. I’ve never had family to share warm meals with on crisp autumn evenings before. Even when I’ve had a shite day, or I feel like the Salisburys only invite me over out of pity, I end up full of good food and a warm feeling in my heart at the end of the evening.

Sometimes when the meal is starting to wind down, and Ruth is putting a fourth slice of cake on my plate, Jamie will say something like “I recently got Queen’s greatest hits on vinyl” or I’ll say “have you heard the song The Hardest Button to Button”. And then it’s only a few minutes before we decide to move to his room and listen to whatever we’re talking about. I try to help Ruth clean up, but usually she shoos me away to spend time with her son.

When Baz comes with he helps clear the table, which makes me feel a little less guilty. And then he plays cribbage or cards with Lady Ruth. A few times I tried to get him to listen to music with Jamie and I but he says my taste in music is all boring rock anthems. Most of Baz’s music is sad and whiny though, so I don’t think he has a right to judge.

Baz didn’t come tonight; he’s been studying like crazy for his midterm exams.

So I came over for a late lunch and Jamie and I ended up here: me on the floor with my wings spread and stomach full, Jamie sat in desk chair quietly humming.

I still feel unsure of how to talk to Jamie and Ruth most of the time. I don’t know how to have a family when I went so long without one. When I’m at the age where most people have settled into independence from their family.

And I feel like deep down they shouldn’t like me. Who would like the product of their dead sister/daughter, and her awful husband? That part’s still hard too. The fact that I had a mom, and that The Mage, well…  

So I don’t quite know how to talk to Jamie yet, but he says he likes me, and his taste in music is amazing. It’s easy sitting together, enjoying a good album. It makes the lack of conversation comfortable instead of awkward and suffocating.

Run Riot fades out and Hysteria fades in. It’s a great song. It makes me think of late summer sunsets and the care home I was in between fourth and fifth year. One of the kids had a shitty little radio he’d listen to after dinner before lights out. I heard Hysteria for the first time on that thing, it was so grainy, and the signal kept cutting in and out.

The song sounds much better on Jamie’s set up. It’s crisp and loud enough to wash through your bones.

He’s got all these old cassette tapes, some vinyl, and a massive digital library on his laptop, which is what we’re listening to now. It would have been nice to grow up with Jamie as an uncle. I’ve had this thought a lot recently. He’s funny, in an uncle way, and he’s kind. We could have listened to so much more music on his big speakers together. I could have listened to his commentary on his favorite albums when I was too young to form my own opinions about music. I could have heard his stories about Normal secondary school when I was still in school.

I feel a sadness rise inside me at the thought of being here as a kid, instead of stuck in care homes. It’s a sadness that’s becoming more familiar to me, a loss for something I never had. The longing I felt as an orphan now pinpointed to this specific family, my family. The family I had out in the world all the times I felt truly alone in life.

Tears start welling in my eyes, and I squeeze them shut, trying to make it go away. Because once I let myself get sad about this, I get angry about it, and I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of feeling like there’s too much inside of me to hold. I try to be grateful that I found my family at all. Young me would be ecstatic if he could know.

I press my palms to my eyes, wiping away the moisture.

“Jamie,” I say, thinking maybe I should head home. 

He hums in acknowledgment, but I don’t actually have anything more to say, so he just looks at me for a moment. I move my hands away from my face, doing my best to make it look like I wasn’t just wiping tears away.

He’s gazing into the middle distance—a look that often comes before he starts talking about something close to his heart.

“You know, for a long time I felt like I was a Normal,” Jamie starts. “Well I mean, I reckon I am now but, for a long time I felt Normal, and I felt less-than because of that. Lucy’d gone to school for magic, so had both my parents, and I… I couldn’t. I tried ignoring how I felt about that, but you can’t ignore shite like that. Neither can other people, I don’t think. Cindy could sense I felt bad for myself, you know? It put a real strain on our relationship.” Cindy’s his ex-wife. I don’t know much about her, I don’t think they ended on bad terms, but I don’t think they kept in touch either.  

“There’s some advice kid,” Jamie smiles, his tone shifting, “don’t act all down, and tell dates how boring you are, it’s a real turn-off.”

I chuckle. This is something else we do now. Jamie will tell me stories, or try to give me advice—like he’s making up for all the years he missed imparting wisdom upon me. He has a weird way of bouncing around from seemingly unrelated topics, but when I can figure out what he’s getting at, his advice is usually decent. Sometimes it’s bullocks though. You can’t read all those Facebook conspiracy theories without it messing with your head I guess.

“She said to me once, ‘I can’t help you, and you don’t seem to want to help yourself’ which hurt. That turned into one of our bigger arguments…” he trails off. I figure that’s the end of the conversation, (he does that sometimes: stops talking without ever finishing his thought). But Jamie starts again, “my point is, for a long time I based my self-worth on my lack of magic, yeah? Hell, you saw what that did to me with Smith. I hope you, well you’re okay with yourself, yeah? I mean, without magic?”

I nod. And I mean it. It was hard at first, but my magic was always too much for me to hold, never really felt like it was mine in a way that was manageable.

“That’s good,” he nods thoughtfully, “that’s good, you’re already a lot smarter than me, boy,” he smiles a more genuine smile at that. “Don’t ever get down on yourself for that, okay? It’s good you’ve got your friends, and Baz. Don’t push good people away when you’re feeling like shite. I learned the hard way that that doesn’t fix anything.”

“You’re right,” I say nodding again. I don’t tell him I did try to push everyone away, before America and then right after it. He’s heard about some of that, I try not to go into detail though. I don’t ask about Cindy either, despite how curious I am, I’m not sure he wants to go into detail about her.

“I love Rick Allen’s drumming on this track,” I say when I tune back in to the music and realize Love and Affection is playing. It’s a great closing song.

Jamie latches on to this and starts talking about the relationship between the drums and the bass guitar in this song. He knows a lot more technical stuff about music than me, I’ve no clue what half of it means, but it’s easy to listen to him ramble.

Jamie tried to learn the bass guitar years ago. He told me a few of his uni friends were going to start a band, but those plans quickly fell apart. He’s still got the bass and the amp he bought stuffed in his closet, but Jamie says he’s much better at listening to music than making it. When he first said that to me Lady Ruth chided him for putting himself down, and insisted he was plenty good at the bass. The whole time she was talking Jamie was looking at me dramatically shaking his head. I almost choked on my sandwich from laughing. 

Another time when bass playing came up, I offhandedly said Jamie should show me how to play, he shrugged me off but then Ruth wouldn’t stop pestering him until he pulled the bass guitar out and played the opening riff of Smoke on the Water for me. It was pretty bad; I think he forgot how to tune the instrument, but it was nice laughing with him about it. And it’s nice how aggressively supportive Lady Ruth is of her son.

The last track of the album comes to a close, so I stand and stretch my wings. Jamie spins to click out of the music player on his laptop. Then he stands as well. I can see through his curtains that it’s already dark out despite being only four in the afternoon. Fucking autumn.

“I hate that it gets dark so early now,” I complain. I’ve been complaining about it every day for the past week, but I still hate it.

“Yeah,” Jamie says, following my gaze to the window, then turning back to me, “See you next Sunday?”

“Yeah, Sunday,” I say, pulling my wings in close to my back.

Jamie smiles and claps my shoulder.

When I make it out to the dining room Ruth has a plastic bag sitting on the table, filled with leftovers for me and Baz. I grab the bag and head to the living room. Ruth sees me and sets down her cup of tea to stands and hugs me. I bend down and reach my free arm around her. Her hugs are always warm and firm. She smells exactly like what you’d expect a grandma to smell like. She kisses my cheek then pulls back.

I can’t help but smile.

I say my goodbyes, and grab my coat after Ruth makes me promise not to eat all the shepherd’s pie before Baz gets any. I promise. (But it’s his own fault that I ate all the pudding she sent home for him last time, he’d left it in there for a week. It was going to spoil; I had to eat it).

It’s chilly and dark out as I walk down the driveway headed to the tube station. I kick a pile of fallen leaves on the side of the road just for the hell of it. I try to be okay with the mixture of happiness and grief and insecurity that swirls inside me after visiting the Salisburys. I’m glad they keep inviting me back. I’m glad they consider me family, even if I don’t know how to accept that yet.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t hard work. How could it be hard to convince someone to do bad when they didn’t know what that meant yet? Of course the human, Eve, had eaten the fruit; and God had to have known that would happen. God put the tree right there in the middle of the garden. It could have been on the other side of the planet. It could have been on the fucking moon. Frankly, Basil thought, the Tree of Good and Evil could have not existed at all.

“Makes you wonder what God’s really planning,” Basilton said to the angel standing beside him.

He was beautiful. Angels are supposed to be beautiful of course, but this one was particularly beautiful in Basil’s eyes. He looked strong and soft all at once. His skin was pale, and covered in lovely brown freckles. His large wings were covered in white, brown, and gold feathers. The sunlight peeking through the clouds cast the angel’s wings in a creamy golden light. They reminded Basil of one of the new birds he’d seen in the garden. He wondered briefly if this angel had taught the bird its song.

Basil stood a few inches taller than the angel. His skin was a smooth reddish brown. His wings were made of black scales, resembled those of the serpent whose form he had taken to temp Eve.

“It’s best not to wonder,” the angel Simon said, shaking his head. His bronze curls literally shimmered with the movement. “It’s all part of the Great Plan which is beyond our simple understanding,” he paused for effect,” it’s ineffable,” Simon finished with a self-satisfied grin, as if that’s supposed to mean something.

“Ineffable,” Basil repeated, rolling his grey eyes. Though he supposed Simon was correct, Basilton had never understood how any of this works. And that’s what got him the status of demon in the first place: asking too many questions of God, trying to understand. Questions that were deemed blasphemous.

It seemed Simon the angel was not burdened by these kinds of thoughts; he simply accepted his place as a pawn in this confusing ineffable game. It’s what good angels should do—no wonder he was tasked with guarding the garden. Except…

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?” Basilton asked, raising an eyebrow and looking at Simon’s noticeably empty hands.

“I uh-” the angel stuttered, his cheeks turning bright red. A lovely blushing cherub. The sight did something to Basil.

“What, you lost it already?” the demon jeered.

“No!” Simon defended himself, “I-I… I gave it away,” he muttered, embarrassed.

“You what?” Basilton’s slitted pupils widened. Maybe Simon wasn’t as mindlessly loyal as he had thought. The idea thrilled him.

“I gave it away,” he repeated firmly, daring Basil to question that decision. “There are ravenous animals out there, and it gets freezing in the night, and she is already expecting a child! I don’t think it was wrong to try and help them,” Simon crossed his arms and rolled the muscles in his back and wings as he stared at the demon. Even standoffish and angry he looked beautiful. His blue eyes were piercing.

Simon was expecting him to argue, but Basilton agreed. It seemed unfair of God to thrust the humans into the wilderness with nothing more than the leafs on their backs. He was supposed to be evil, and it was partially his fault the humans ended up cast out of Eden, but he was sympathetic towards the pair. (And Basil would argue God had given him the role of antagonistic demon, so could he really be blamed for playing the part and tempting Eve?)  

(Perhaps he was the one mindlessly accepting his role in this stupid universe.)

“No, I think you did the right thing,” Basil admitted, “besides, you’re an angel, I don’t think you can do wrong,” he said disparagingly.

Simon relaxed at hearing that. He gave Basil a small smile. “Oh well, t-thank you. I was kind of worried, you know.”

“It would be a bit funny though, if you did the wrong thing with the flaming sword, and I did the right thing with tempting the humans,” Basil said, only half joking.

He was a bit concerned about it. If he were playing the role God assigned to him, and that role included tempting the humans, then wouldn’t he technically be doing what God wanted? Which would make it a good act, right? He could get into a lot of trouble for doing good if the lower-downs in hell found out about it.

The angel chucked a little, “yeah,” then seemed to fully grasp what Basilton had said. “No! No, are you mad? It wouldn’t be funny at all. It’d be very bad,” Simon insisted.

The demon opened his mouth to say something about their good and bad deeds balancing each other out, but a crack of thunder startled the pair. The clouds had gotten darker as it was about to rain for the first time ever.

Simon and Basil watched the sky as cold water began to fall to the Earth. It was beautiful. Even the demon could appreciate the wonder of some of God’s creations.

He quickly learned he did not like the feeling of this particular creation, however. The rain had soaked him through, and chilled his body that was used to the scorching heat of hell. Basilton pulled his black wings in close and shivered.

Simon lifted one of his wings and smiled at the demon, an invitation to take shelter from the cold rain. Basil was wary. He could just return to hell. His work was done; he had no need to stay on the planet, but he chose to step closer to the angel.

He was careful not to touch Simon, but still felt heat radiating from him. He was a being was filled with light and warmth and Basilton should have despised that, but he couldn’t find the hatred in him. He was only grateful for the warmth, and desperate to stay in the presence of this angel.

He wanted to think the angel offered his wing because he cared for Basil too, the way Basil was starting to care for him. But that was foolish thinking. Simon could not care for a demon. They were hereditary enemies. Despite that, he did hope he would get to see Simon again, even if they were destined to fight on opposite sides of the war.

Chapter Text

It’s a nice sunny day so the three of us are sat on the Great Lawn eating lunch. Well, I’m eating, Fiona and Nico are propped against a tree snogging. They’ve been inseparable since they got together a few months ago. Nico asked Fiona out when they were in detention for spelling Mr. Walker’s chalk invisible in Latin class. I mean, of course that’s how they got together.

I do my best to ignore them, and focus on my pea and ham soup.

Fiona tries to include me by asking about what I learned in Political Science today, but her attention lasts for about ten seconds before Nico’s “subtly” kissing her neck. At least Fi gives me an apologetic look before I just roll my eyes and wave them off. 

“I need new friends,” I sigh dramatically. Nico snorts, because he knows I won’t actually get new friends.

It’s not like I actually want to stop hanging out with my two best friends. I’m happy for them; they seem great together, if not somehow even more prone to trouble-making as a couple. It’s just a tad awkward third-wheeling now. And yes, I have cried about that a few times, but I cry about everything. Ma says crying is easier than breathing for me.

I scarf down my food as fast as I can. I check my watch. I still have some time before the next class period. I shove bread into my mouth, hoping to finish lunch with enough time to go to the Wavering Wood. Both Nico and Fiona poke fun at me for spending so much time in there. I tell them I’m making friends with the Watford goats.

Nicodemus laughed the first time I said that. “Of course you’d have more goat friends than human friends.”

Which isn’t untrue. The goats are great, and I’ve got at least four of them as friends, which is double my two human friends. (Well if I count my roommate, Brandy, then I’ve got 3 human friends, but that’s still one less than goat friends). One of the goats even showed me his wings last week. But when I tried to touch them he got spooked and flew away.

My main reason for traipsing to the Wood every day is really the dryad Osmunda. We met at the end of last year and I’ve been visiting her almost every day since the start of this year. It was a tad embarrassing running into her the first time; I was sat on the ground, eyes all puffy and nose snotty from crying, and she stepped out looking gorgeous with her dark, tree-bark like skin, wearing a puffy black dress and knee-high socks.

She asked what I was doing, almost like she’d never seen someone cry before. I told her I was sad because of some stupid insults classmates had thrown at me. Osmunda said I was too pretty to take insults from stupid humans. It made me laugh, and blush.  

I gulp down the last of my soup, and grab my staff.

“What we’re not good enough for you anymore?” Nico yells after me and Fi waves goodbye while shouting, “Tell the goats I say hi!”

I quickly wave as I’m jogging towards the Wavering Wood.

I’m especially excited to see Osmunda today because I’ve got a gift I think she’ll like.

When we first started spending time together I picked some flowers for her but she hated that. “Why would I want evidence of you tearing apart the forest?” she huffed at me. I felt bad for not realizing a forest spirit wouldn’t like me killing things in the forest, it’s fairly obvious if you think about it. I thought that was it for us, so I stopped coming by. But when I followed one of the goat kids into the Wood a week or so later Osmunda found me and said she missed me. Then we both apologized and I agreed to come back more than once a week.

I pick up my pace, and feel in my school back to make sure the ethically sourced cherry-blossom honey I got is still there. I don’t think dryads eat like humans do, but a few weeks ago I stayed out too late and spent the night in the woods with Osumunda. We stayed up late sharing secrets. She admitted that sometimes she wishes she could visit other forests, and meet other trees, but she can’t leave her home. I don’t quite understand the magic of dryads, but I think she’s tied to this place.  

So I figured she might like honey, it’s made with something from other trees without harming any trees or plants.

When I step past the first few trees Osmunda rushes towards me. She’s about the same height as me, and much slimmer, but the force of her hug nearly knocks me over. I hug her back as tight as I can. She smells like moss, and her fern green hair tickles my nose.

“Ebb!” she exclaims, pulling back, “How are you?”

“I brought you something,” I say putting my staff down and reaching into my bag.

Osmunda’s eyes light up. I hand her the jar of honey and she holds it gently in her lace-glove covered hands. She eyes the honey quizzically, then looks to me for answers.

Once explain why I got it for her, her face breaks out into the biggest smile. I smile back at her, I love to see her happy. I want to bring her a million jars of honey if she’ll smile at me like that again.

Then she thanks me and plants a kiss to my cheek. Her lips are rough like tree bark but I don’t mind.  I blush furiously because of the kiss. I hate how blotchy and red my face gets when I blush, but Osmunda said it looks like flowers blooming once, which made me blush even more.

“You’re the best ever, my little acorn,” she says affectionately, while tucking a piece of my short hair behind my ear. The nickname makes me feel fuzzy inside.

We talk a little bit about what I learned in class, and the worseger mother who just gave birth to 3 cubs in the wood. I want to stay longer, but a glance at my watch tells me I only have five minutes before fourth period starts.

I say goodbye to Osmunda, and promise to be back after dinner. On my rushed walk away from the forest I tell myself the next time I see Osmunda I’ll be brave enough to ask if dryads can have romantic feelings like humans do. I know I won’t though.  

Chapter Text

I meet Niamh at a pub near her flat. It’s small but not too crowded. I order some chips; she orders an ale, and we find a small table near a window to sit at.

It’s awkward at first. I think about kissing her as a greeting but I’m not sure that’s a good move. Niamh tries to pull my chair out for me, but I don’t notice until too late and sit in the other chair. I tell Niamh her dark v-neck shirt looks good on her and she tries smiling at me. It’s awful on her face; her lips were not made to turn up. The gesture is nice though, I think we’re both trying to make this work but don’t quite know how.

I’ll admit I’m not great at flirting with women. I got some practice in California when I was bored and trying to figure out what/who I wanted (or if I wanted anyone at all), but men are just so much easier. I’d simply have to sit there and look pretty. (At some points in our relationship Simon probably wouldn’t have noticed if I replaced myself with a realistic cardboard cut-out propped up at our dining hall table.)

It’s also harder because I want to be with Niamh. I never cared about any of the people I flirted with in America, and I never loved Simon in the way I thought I was supposed to. So for the first time I feel like an active participant in a romantic relationship. I care about us working. (Not that there is an us, we haven’t even finished one date together).

It’s been a couple weeks since we kissed. (Great snakes, we kissed). (It makes me fuzzy thinking about it). We haven’t spent much time together outside of my father’s clinic and caring for the goats since then. A lot of things shifted for me that day in the wood—I needed time to figure it all out.

I ask Niamh about the scoldfish that was brought in the other day and thankfully that gets the conversation going. She tells me about this woman who brought in the fish and her son, who was in tears.

“It’s like they wanted their kid to have low self-esteem,” Niamh rolls her eyes before taking a gulp of her drink.

“Yeah,” I nod, laughing at the situation. “Who in their right mind thinks a fish that constantly criticizes people would make a good birthday present for a child?”

“That’s exactly what ’m saying,” she exclaims, “And then Mrs. Barnes tells me I was wrong about the behavior of scoldfish. Ma’am, it does what it fuckin’ says on the tin!”

I snort laugh, and Niamh frowns, but it’s an amused frown.

We joke about pets we’d give to certain people if we hated them—and then talk about our childhood pets. Then Niamh sidetracks to talk about the important of keeping the oceans healthy, for magickal and Normal aquatic creatures. She so passionate about everything—I don’t know how she isn’t exhausted by it. I don’t know why I’m so invested in what she has to say about these things. (Well, maybe I do know why).

We both start to relax, and the date seems to be going well. Niamh’s sitting with her chair pushed away from our little table, she’s got her legs spread wide, boots firmly planted on the ground. She’s not wearing tight jeans but they still stretch obscenely over her thick thighs. It should be ridiculous, but I can’t deny it’s hot how unafraid she is to take up space.

Niamh looks at me with her blue eyes like she’s enraptured by what I’m saying, even when I’m poking fun at her. I’ve been smiling, genuinely smiling, for so long my cheeks are starting to ache. I never want to stop.

After she gets a couple pints in her she starts explaining to me all the best ways to fix the World of Mages. I don’t think I care enough to decide if I agree with her or not, but she loves talking about it, and I love pointing out when her ideas sound absurd.

“I know it sounds bad. The Mage’s reasons were complete shite, but Watford should be more inclusive. Magic will die out if we try to keep all our knowledge in this bullshit secretive exclusive club,” Niamh says, crossing her arms over her chest.

It makes her biceps look even larger, I’d complain about that but I’m too busy staring. It makes my stomach do flips.

I’m leaning against the table with my elbows, absent-mindedly eating chips.  

“If the headmaster had refused to let me into Watford for whatever reason I’d have though good fucking riddance,” I say half-jokingly.

“Agatha, just because you don’t appreciate magickal education doesn’t mean it’s right for us to deny people access to magickal knowledge and community,”

And I figure she’s right. I just raise the chip I’m holding in a touché gesture before taking a bite from it.

“It still doesn’t seem like a good idea to go around telling people you think the previous insane megalomaniac Mage had some valid points. You’ll sound ridiculous, if not as power-hungry as him.”

“Well obviously I won’t phrase it like that when I run for a seat on the Coven,” she says exasperated. She runs both her hands through her short hair. Her arms flex. Dark armpit hair peaks out from the short sleeves of her shirt. I probably shouldn’t be staring.

I think she’s upset.

“If you don’t like me arguing with you, I can stop. I don’t really care about these things enough to give you shit for it. Plus, they say you shouldn’t talk about politics on the first date.” I offer. I don’t want to upset her.

She considers me for a moment. “I’ve always thought that was a stupid rule.” She smiles a small downturned smile. “I like that you argue with me, it’s good to know what you really think. Besides it helps me figure out what I could improve on, and how I could reach different groups of people.”

I nod, relieved she wasn’t too bothered by my comments.

“Plus,” she says in a lighter tone, “I got you to care about the goats, I’ll figure out how to get you to care about the whole World of Mages one day, Agatha,” she says the last bit with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

I sigh and roll my eyes. “You merely told me about the goats, I would have cared about them any way if I’d known.” 

“Sure,” she says drawing the word out.

I scoff, then flick some hair out of my face. Niamh follows the movement with her eyes, then gulps. Something shifts between us. It feels like electricity buzzing through me.

I stare into her blue eyes. Then flick my gaze down. Niamh’s lips are plush—I can’t help but watch as she takes another drink from her pint. She’s started talking in a low tone about the importance of staying involved in the community, even if other mages suck a lot of the time, but I’m having a hard time taking in her words. She knows this; I can see it on her face.

It’s late; the pub closes in a few minutes. That should be my que to drive home, but I don’t want to. I want to listen to her opinions for hours. I want to kiss her again. I want to scratch my nails against the nape of her neck where her hair is the shortest.

Niamh leans forward, closer to me, but she’s stops to yawn. It snaps me out of whatever was happening.

“Do you want a ride home?” I offer, not wanting this date to be over yet.

“I only live a few blocks away,” she states.

I can’t tell if that’s a yes or a no. I stare at her, hoping she’ll elaborate.

“Okay,” she says.

I smile wide.

The short drive to her flat is silent, but it’s not a bad silence. I’m all jittery, trying to figure out where to go from here, what I want out of tonight.

I walk Niamh to her door. We stand there for a moment, she fiddles with her keys.

She starts to speak but I lean up and press a kiss to her lips before I lose the nerve.

“Good night,” I mumble, pulling away.

Niamh’s places a hand on the back of my neck, strong and warm. I don’t want to leave with just a peck.

She leans down to kiss me deeper. She’s so strong, so confident without being pushy. It turns my insides to melted chocolate. He lips are so soft, a little cold from the night air but quickly warming up against me. Her arm wrap around my back, her fingers press against the elastic band of my skirt. Her other hand runs through my hair.

I lace my fingers against the back of her neck. I’m still not used to kisses feeling like this—like electricity poured into my veins. It turns my legs to jelly, but Niamh’s sturdy enough to keep me upright. She could pick me up with little effort if she wanted to. The thought sends a rush of excitement though me.

“You’re beautiful,” she says quietly, breaking the kiss for a breath of air. And it means something to me, hearing that from her.

“You’re… something else, Niamh,” I respond. I can’t find the words to describe what she is to me.

Niamh frowns, and pulls away a little.

“I mean, you’re stunning,” I say moving my hands to her shoulders. “I want to keep doing this, if you do.”

It’s strange telling someone I want them and truly meaning it.

Niamh nods—then says, “I should get some sleep.” She glances at her front door. “I want to keep doing this too.”

A smile breaks across my face.

Niamh ducks her head in embarrassment. “Well, night then,” she mumbles.

I place a peck on her cheeks and say goodbye again, before heading to my car. I’m left with this fuzzy feeling the rest of the night, and the next day.

Chapter Text

Something had shifted between Trixie and Keris recently, and Trixie was pretty sure she had a chance with her best friend. They’d been flirtier with each other (or Trixie was the same amount of flirty, but Keris had started kind of flirting back). Keris was more affectionate than usual, she held Trixie’s hand whenever they walked together, and leaned on her shoulder when they watched movies on Trixie’s laptop. They were practically dating, Trixie thought, she needed the right moment to take that next step: kiss Keris, ask her out officially.

The first time it almost happened they were in Greek class. The girls sat in the back of the class and held hands through the whole lecture. Trixie wasn’t even taking notes, how could she when her adorable friend was mere inches away, looking so kissable. Trixie had spelled her notebook and pencil to write down what the Minotaur was saying, and tuned everything else out to stare at Keris. (It was against the rules to use magic like that but Trixie didn’t care). Keris was better at paying attention in class, she was still taking notes even as her fingers were laced with Trixie’s.

The Minotaur stopped speaking for a moment so Keris looked over to Trixie. She was blushing a lovely dark red against her brown cheeks and Trixie couldn’t help but be enraptured. Keris smiled and looked away, but Trixie leaned closer to her. They stared at each other for a moment, both thinking maybe this was it. Trixie started to lean in, across the aisle separating their desks, and then-

A man cleared his throat. “Ladies,” a deep voice spoke from right in front of their desks.

Keris quickly pulled away, and stared at her desk, mortified.

The world came back into focus for Trixie, the classroom was nearly empty now and their Greek teacher stood in front of them.

“Class is over,” he stated.

Trixie had to crane her neck upward to meet his eyes. “Right! We knew that!” she said, beaming up at him to compensate for how awkward she felt. “And we were just leaving!”

The pixie quickly shoved her things in her school bag without looking, then grabbed Keris’ hand and rushed out of the classroom.

She thought about kissing Keris in the hallway, but her best friend was too embarrassed to even meet her eyes.

“Well, I’ll see you at dinner I guess,” Trixie said, squeezing Keris’ hand.

“Yeah,” the other girl smiled, before stepping into the classroom of her next period.

Trixie walked to her next class and tried not to be annoyed. It’s not like they couldn’t kiss later.

-

The next time it was Penelope’s fault (of course it was). Trixie and Keris were hanging out in Trixie’s room. They had started with studying but that quickly devolved into drawing poor portraits of each other, and then giving each other make-overs by trying out different hair colors with magic, and doing their make-up. Trixie thought Keris looked best with the lilac locs she’d spelled, but Keris preferred the blonde she’d had for most of the year.

Trixie knew what she was doing when she suggested they do each other’s make-up, she only hoped Keris knew that, and would go along with it.

She did. Keris stayed very, very still in her chair as Trixie straddled her and applied the lipstick. It was a great color on Keris, deep red. Even when she was finished putting the lipstick on her friend’s lips she couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. She was so beautiful it was unbelievable. Trixie was sure she was blushing, and she could feel her heart rate picking up. This close, Keris could probably feel it too.

Keris placed one of her hands on Trixie’s cheek. Trixie flicker her eyes up to her friends. Light green staring at deep brown.

Trixie swallowed. Keris smiled, and tucked a short piece of pink hair behind Trixie’s ear.

Trixie started to lean forward, Keris did the same. They both closed their eyes, the space between them quickly closing.

But just as their lips were about to meet, Penny barged in slamming the door open, and then twice as loudly slamming it closed.

“Fuck,” Trixie cursed, and sat back on her friends knees.

“Bloodly hell, Trixie.” Penny exclaimed, looking too exhausted to summon her full anger. “Would it kill you keep your fucking pixie dust off of my stuff for a single day?” She stomped over to her wardrobe, threw her torn and bloody coat off, ( must have been on another mission with the Chosen One), then stomped over to her desk and angrily sweeping the golden dust off of it before slamming a textbook down.

Trixie couldn’t help that she produces extra pixie dust when she’s happy. (And she’d been so so happy before Penelope showed up).

“What happened to her?” Keris whispered, keeping an eye on Penelope.

“Magic only knows,” Trixie sighed and stood up.

“Well, I should probably get to bed,” Keris said awkwardly. “Erm good night Penelope.”

Because of course she didn’t want to stay around while Trixie’s roommate made everyone miserable. Would it kill Penny to let lose for one single day?

“I can walk you down the stairs to your room” Trixie offered, hoping maybe her evening could be salvaged.

“No eh, that’s okay, but thanks,” Keris smiled, and then slipped out of the room.

Trixie fell face first on to her bed and screamed until Penelope yelled at her to keep it quiet.

-

The next time it was at breakfast. The meal was crepes with strawberries, one of Trixie’s absolute favorites. She’d eat strawberries all day every day if she could. Keris smiled when she declared that at the table.

“Do you want the rest of mine?” Keris asked, gesturing to her plate with xeveral untouched strawberries. Trixie could just get up and get more for herself, but she was warmed by the offer.

“Really?” She asked and Keris nodded. “You’re the best!” She said throwing an arm around her friend.

Keris blushed. She decided to take a risk by holding the strawberry up to Trixie’s mouth, instead of letting her get the berries herself.

Trixie’s eyes widened, but she leaned forward to take a bite of the strawberry. It was so sweet, Trixie wanted to moan, but she held it in.

Their friend Aubrey (who was also sat at the table but had gone ignored for most of the day) rolled her eyes and groaned.

 “That was really good,” Trixie said, sheepishly. She looked up at Keris and batted her lashes,  hoping it made her look attractive. 

“You’ve eh,” Keris’ gaze flicked down to Trixie’s mouth, “you’ve got some on the corner of your lip,” she lifted a hand to point at the spot.

“Oh?” Trixie asked innocently. “Could you maybe get it for me? I can’t see it.” She knew it was a lame excuse, but Keris didn’t even have an excuse for feeding her a berry out of her hand so…

“Or you could use a fucking napkin,” Aubrey said, waving one above her head. She went ignored again.

Keris moved her hand to wipe at the strawberry juice staining Trixie’s mouth. It was more of a caress to her cheek though. Not that Trixie minded.

Keris rubbed her thumb across her friends cheek, and then over her lips.

“Is it gone?” Trixie asked, smiling.

“No,” Keris said, leaning in just a tad. Trixie was hoping she’d say that.

“Can I?” Keris asked, looking into Trixie’s eyes. Trixie nodded and smiled.

Keris leaned in further, but then there was a crash, and an explosion of yelling from other student in the dining hall. The air filled with that awful gut twisting feeling that always accompanies an attack sent by the Humdrum.

Keris jumped at the loud crashing noise.

Trixie and Aubrey scanned the room, trying to figure out what the hell was happening.

A Pegasus had burst through the doors of the dining hall and crashed into one of the chandeliers.

Students were screaming and running around, some brave enough to run past the animal to get to the doors.

Simon Snow was standing on a table, waving his sword around, trying to get the attention of the creature.

It was frantically flapping around, whinnying like a scared horse. Then the thing dove down towards Agatha, who was running for the exit. It nearly nipped her shoulder. Trixie winced seeing it.

Simon jumped from the table and ran towards his girlfriend and the Pegasus. It looked like it was rabbid, Keris thought, foam was coming out of its mouth, and it’s white fur looked covered in a layer of sickly sweat.

Trixie and Keris were far enough away from the mad flying creature that they were mostly safe. But The Chosen One’s magic was spreading everywhere, making the air thick and hot and hard to breath.

Through the green smoke Trixie could see the Pegasus was charging at Agatha again, but Simon managed to swing onto its back and decapitated the bloody thing with one forceful slice of his blade. It was gruesome. And the sight of that, along with the feeling of the Humdrums sucking and Simon’s magick was enough to make Keris sick to her stomach and nearly vomit.  

Trixie rubbed her back, trying to comfort her, and kept her eyes on the mess at the other end of the dining hall. There was blood all over the floor, and Simon was positively drenched in it.

Neither of them wanted to finish their food, and they definitely weren’t in the mood for kissing, so Trixie resigned herself to another, subpar, kiss-less day.

-

For the rest of the week Aubrey wouldn’t stop teasing Trixie about how she still hadn’t kissed Keris. It was so fucking annoying. Aubrey was a year older than them, but she shared a few classes with Keris because Keris was advanced. Smart and gorgeous, Trixie wondered how everyone wasn’t falling at Keris’ feet. But whenever Aubrey reminded her of how slow things were moving with Keris, Trixie reminded her Aubrey that she’d been crushing on that Brody girl for two years and still hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with her. That usually shut her up. It didn’t shut up the longing in Trixie’s heart though.

A whole week passed and Trixie still hadn’t found another opportunity to kiss her friend. She’d almost given up at this point (except she wouldn’t, she could never give up on Keris). She was going insane. They were sat across from each other in the library, studying for a project in political science. Trixie hated that class, but it was a required credit.

She just wanted to admire the beauty of Keris, not think about… whatever they were supposed to be thinking about for the class (she honestly couldn’t remember). Trixie was staring at her friend as she took notes from a book she needed as a reference. Her brow was furrowed as she focused on the words on the page. It was hot when she studied, Trixie thought.

Keris finished the paragraph she was on and then looked up. “Okay,” she let out a sigh, “finished with this book.” She pushed her chair away from the long wooden table.

Trixie excitedly stood up to follow her.

The pair walked through the stacks as Keris tried to locate the shelf for the book in her hand. Trixie was pretty sure you’re supposed to put books you used in the carts by the librarian’s desk, so they could be properly reshelved, but she wasn’t going to question it.

Keris stopped in the middle of one aisle, then quickly looked down both ends of it to make sure no one was there. Trixie tilted her head, about to question what her friend was up to, but Keris quickly stepped forward, closing the space between them and planted a kiss on Trixie’s lips.

Trixie nearly squeeled with excitement. Keris made a move to pull back, her face warm from embarrassment, and worry that she’d maybe misinterpreted things.  But Trixie would rather die than stop kissing Keris. Finally, finally they were kissing! She wasn’t about to let that stop.

Trixie pulled Keris in by the back of the neck and kissed her again, deeply. Keris melted into her touch, and ran a hand through the pixie’s short hair.

There were butterflies in Trixie’s stomach. No it was better than that—there were fireworks. There were beautiful butterflies that exploded like fireworks and made even more tiny butterflies that were also fireworks. It was the best kiss she’d ever had.

Eventually Keris forced herself to pull away from the other girl’s lips.

They were both smiling so wide it hurt.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” Keris asked, rubbing her hands down Trixie’s arms.

“You have no idea how badly I want to,” Trixie said before pulling Keris in for a hug.

Chapter Text

“I’m back!” I yell, stepping into my parent’s living room and making my way to the kitchen—groceries in both hands—when I’m greated by a woman. A woman who looks exactly like me, standing in the living room and smiling.

“Who are you?” I ask, hoping it’s me from the future, (or maybe an alternate dimension).

“I’m you!” my doppelgänger says ecstatically. “Well, I mean, I’m Shepard but I look like you! I’m so cute!” He squeezes up with joy, and takes a spin in his (my?) skirt. (Did the outfit come with whatever transformation happened, or did Shep decide to dress the part?) What happened here?

“You’re me,” I aks, raising my eyebrows. I’m completely lost as to how this happened and why my boyfriend seems excited instead of mortified. I’m also (very sadly) putting away all the questions I had prepared to ask a Penelope Bunce from the future.

“Yeah!” he says like it’s great.

“Why in Circe’s name are you me?” I push past him to put the groceries away. “And where are the kids?” I ask, looking around my parent’s living room. I leave Shepard alone with my siblings for thirty minutes and somehow he gets turned into me.

My parents are out of town for the weekend. Mom desperately needed a break, and I think the whole ‘dad joining a cult because he felt inferior’ thing made them both realize they needed to work on some things. So they took a short vacation, and asked me to watch Pacey and Pip. (Priya is at Watford, where Pacey should be except he got suspended this week). I should have said no when they asked me to babysit, but Shepard loves kids, and I felt bad for my parents.

Shep tells me Pacey’s on his Xbox and Pip’s napping. At least we should have time to figure out this body swap thing without distraction.

“How did this even happen?” I ask Shepard.

He dodges the question by talking about all the interesting “experiments” we could do with this opportunity.

“Like, haven’t you ever wondered how much of you is body and how much is soul? We should test some things—see what’s different about you and me-as-you. Test pain tolerance or brain structure or how neurons fire. Do I have your brain, like structurally? I don’t have your memories or anything. But your brain is part of your body, so you’d think in a body transformation, I’d get your brain, but maybe I still have mine. Maybe it’s all my body, just glamoured to look like yours. It’s fascinating.”

He’s pulling me in with all these interesting possibilities. “This is fascinating. We could try brain scans.” I’m pacing between the kitchen counter and the fridge, putting food away as I think. “There’s a spell for X-rays but I don’t know of any for MRIs or fMRIs. If we had time we could visit Dr. Wellbelove, maybe even try some genetic testing. You know some magicians have hypothesized that magic is genetic but-” I stop moving “-no, we don’t have time. I don’t even know what happened to you, body transformation spells are extremely dangerous.”

He looks sheepish. “Look at me, I’m fine! Can’t we think about all the possible magickal discoveries we could make?”

He must have done something really stupid.

“Come on, did you get cursed? Read one of my mother’s books that I told you not to open? Stare at that one family portrait in the hallway too long?”

“What happens if you stare at the family portrait?” He asks, looking curious and concerned.

“Doesn’t matter if that’s not what got you like this,” I say waving a hand.

“Okay.” He shakes his head then steps closer to me. “We could do some other experiments…” Shep tries to give me a suggestive look but it’s terrible on my face. Merlin, I hope I don’t look that bad when I’m trying to be sexy.

I will admit I’m not above the idea of “experimenting” with my clone, as Shepard is suggesting we try. It would be useful information to have, but this isn’t the same. It’s not me, it’s Shepard who looks like me. It’s too off-putting. And he does not know how to make my face look sexy.

He moves to kiss me, but I duck out of the way. He pouts at me.

“Tell me what the hell you did to get like this,” I say firmly.

“Fine! Fine… you’re not going to like this,” he says, as if there’s any scenario where Shepard looks like me that I would like. I mean, it is fascinating, but spells that can transform someone’s body this drastically are highly dangerous and mostly illegal. There’s also the fact that it’s extremely weird to be dating someone who looks exactly like me, I don’t know how long things could last if we don’t find a way to reverse this.

He leans against the kitchen island. “See I was showing Pacey this tiktok about a cool marble trick and then we started scrolling through my For You Page and there’s this audio that I’ve seen tons lately, you know because I end up on trans tiktok a lot…”

I’ll never understand tiktok. The first time Shep said “trans tiktok” and “gay tiktok” to me I thought he meant there were separate apps for different parts of the LGBTQ community.

“… and I agreed, the phrase ‘I’ve got a chick’s body’ does seem like it has great potential for a spell.”

Of bloody course. I try not to be an alarmist but at this point the internet truly is going to be the death of sustainable spells. Not to mention the general destruction of everyone’s attention spans and sanity.

“So you let Pacey cast a made up spell from tiktok on you, with no idea how it would turn out and no reversal spell in mind?” I can’t even find it in me to be shocked. I’m just trying to figure out which one of them I should spell into oblivion first.

“Okay yes.” Shep sighs. “But I haven’t gotten to the interesting part. See, you’d think the spell would turn me into a female version of myself, but I’m you, why is that? My theory is that it’s because the line is originally from a live action Scooby-Doo movie—I realized that the first time I heard it. However, I thought it was from this one scene where the gang’s like souls, get mixed around in each other’s bodies. So I was imagining that the spell would change me into a specific woman, like you. Even though it’s actually from a different scene where Shaggy drinks some potion that gives turns him into a chick. So that’s weird right? Are there any documented cases of a spell’s result changing based on the spell receiver’s thoughts? Or maybe Pacey was also  imaging I’d turn into you and that’s why I’m you and not a female version of me.”

“Ugh, there’re two of you now?” Pip groans from the doorway, holding his stuffed moose in one hand, and an empty glass in the other.

“You’re not done napping already, are you?” I ask, this is going to be hard enough without my siblings needing attention, I was hoping he’d sleep longer. “Go back upstairs and sleep for longer.”

Shepard takes the glass and fills it with more water for him.

“I’m only going to let one of you boss me around,” he says, crossing his arms, “so which one is the real Penny?”

“I’m Shep, we just messed up some magic. Do you want leftover pancakes?” He asks, opening the fridge. At least one of us is good with annoying little children.

When Pip’s back in his room, eating pancakes, I try all the usual spells for reversing on Shepard. None of them work.

Shepard tells me he really doesn’t mind being like this for a while, but I mind. I don’t think he realized that a while might be forever if we don’t find a solution.

I march up to Pacey’s room demanding he figure this out, considering it’s half his fault Shepard is stuck like this.

“The Normal didn’t say I had to think of a reversal spell when he said I could cast on him,” Pacey shrugs; refusing to take his eyes off the game he’s playing. “So it’s kind of on him.”

I want to strangle him. I would if I hadn’t promised my mom she’d return to two children who were alive and not seriously harmed in anyway. Maybe I could convince her a ruptured trachea doesn’t count as serious harm.  

“You know, that was totally on me for not thinking this through, but think about it this way, bud.” Shep says, leaning on the wall next to Pacey’s telly. (Shepard’s casual lean really doesn’t work in my short pudgy body) “If we figure out a reversal spell, then you’ll have your whole eighth year spell project in the bag, right?” He smiles at Pacey then looks to me for approval, like we’re doing some kind of good cop/bad cop routine.

Pacey rolls his eyes. “I already have three potential spells for the eighth year project, and this one would be a terrible candidate.”

“Pacey Bunce I swear to Stevie Nicks if you don’t-”

“I wasn’t finished yet,” he cuts me off, annoyed. “Luckily for you, one of my potential spells might work for this scenario, and your Normal could give me the dramatic transformation I need to be sure that it works.”

-

Shep stands in front of the bathroom mirror, still looking exactly like me. I sit on the edge of the tub, nervous to let my brother cast another experimental spell on Shep. Pacey stands in the doorway, pointing his wand at my boyfriend’s reflection.

“When will my reflection show-”

The magic starts working before he finishes the phrase. I stare at the mirror. It ripples like a puddle in the rain. I turn my eyes to Shepard and his form is rippling too. When the mirror settles, Shepard it back to being himself, in his own clothes.

“Oh thank Merlin,” I exhale.

“Told you,” Pacey says crossing his arms and looking smug.

Shepard grins wide at his reflection, and then at me. I stand to check it really worked and that he’s okay.

He seems to be fine, and he looks normal, though something’s a little different about his torso, maybe it’s his chest? I’m not sure.

Shep ducks down to kiss me, so I reach up to meet him. His lips are soft and his.

Pacey groans something from the doorway so I quickly spell the door the slam in his face. Louder complaints come from the other side of the door but I ignore them.

I put a hand on Shepard’s jaw to pull him into a deeper kiss but something different.

“You wanted sideburns?” I ask, rubbing my thumb across the new coarse hair on the side of his face.

“Huh,” he says, reaching up to feel the other side of his face. “I don’t know if I actively wanted them, but I’ve never been able to grow much facial hair, so that’s cool.” He leans over the counter to get a better look at his facial hair in the mirror. “They look kinda sick, right?” he asks, smiling even wider.

“They look nice,” I agree after some consideration.

“I wonder if I can grow a mustache now,” he grins.

I don’t hate the idea.

Chapter Text

“Is that take away?” Baz asks when he spots the plastic bag in my hand.

“Yeah, we had like a lunch date. You want some of the leftovers?” Simon says, removing his heavy coat and stretching his wings.

“You took my boyfriend on a date?” Baz turns to me, a playful eyebrow raised. Simon wraps him in a hug and reaches up to place a kiss on his jaw.

“He was hungry so we stopped at that little café a few blocks away and I got him some food,” I shrug.

“That’s his favorite place. Wait, am I being cucked right now?” Baz asks dramatically, eyes moving between me and Simon.

Simon laughs, pressing his face into Baz’s chest.

“I didn’t sleep with him!” I say, maybe too defensively. I’m still not entirely used to Baz joking with me.  

“Yet,” Simon adds suggestively.

I can’t help the snort that comes out of me.

“You should watch out Basilton: Shep did hook-up with a mermaid once, he probably has a thing for scales.” Penny says casually, without looking up from her book. She can’t hide her mischievous little smirk though.

I turn on my heels to face her.

“You are evil,” I gasp, but she knows I don’t actually mind. I can’t keep the smile off my face that comes just from looking at her, curled up on the couch in a long tee-shirt and purple knee-high socks.

“You met a mermaid?” Simon asks excitedly, his tail wagging behind him. “Wait, you… met a mermaid?”

“Yeah,”

“Are they- do they have- I mean like how does that…” his whole face breaks out into a blush, “…work.”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” I reply coyly. I wouldn’t mind explaining, but Mista is still my friend, and I don’t think they’d be cool with me explaining it.

“You already tell people you had sex with a mermaid, how is that not kissing and telling?” Penny points out.

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and then tell in detail how the genitals of his partner work.” I amend, “And you’re the one who brought it up, not me!”

Chapter Text

Sunlight peaks through Niamh’s blue curtains, and dances across her carpet. It’s a lovely afternoon. I set the tea tray on the little table next to her sofa and turn on the telly. I don’t bother searching for a show I like. I try to go about it all casually, as if this is normal. As if I’m used to seeing my girlfriend naked and sprawled out on her coffee table, waiting for me to decorate her like my afternoon tea tray.  

It feels a little surreal. I was worried when I’d first brought this up Niamh would think it was silly, or worse, perverted and gross. But she didn’t. She’s been so understanding and supportive of me exploring my sexuality. And I’ve learned she’s also into the idea of being used like a piece of furniture sometimes.

I place a doily on her stomach, then set the teapot on top of it. Her abdomen muscles flex under the teapot. Her breath becomes much shallower in an attempt to balance the piece of china. I take a moment just to watch her, listen to her.

When it seems Niamh has got the hang of that, I move on—placing the sugar bowl on one hip, and the creamer jug on the other. They tilt slightly with the shape of her curves, but they’re steady. Next comes a plate of scones on her left thigh. She doesn’t need to focus on balancing that, her thigh is wide enough to hold it. After the scones is small plate of cucumber sandwiches lower on her left leg. Then I put a saucer of jam just above her right knee. Her legs are bent off the table so her feet touch the floor. Finally I set my tea cup and saucer in front of me, on Niamh’s thigh, as close as I can get it to the bush of curls between her legs without knocking into the sugar bowl.

I can’t help but be thrilled by the sight in front of me. Niamh’s stunning like this; I brought out the nice tea set for this occasion. Her strong body covered in delicately designed china does things to me. Desire swirls in my stomach and up to my throat. And I was right: her legs are thick enough to serve tea on. I’m practically drooling at the thought.

Niamh’s tense, doing her best not to move or shift any of the items I’ve placed on top of her. Her eyelids are almost closed, in concentration or pleasure I can’t quite tell. Maybe a mix of both. She’s so good for me.

I try to go about things casually, that’s part of the game. She acts like a piece of decoration; I act like that’s normal, and not lighting me up from the inside.

I start with one of the sandwiches, too excited and a little shaky to pour tea at the moment. I move my gaze to the television, but I couldn’t tell you what’s playing. Even when I’m not looking at Niamh I’m thinking about the fact that she’s beneath me, sitting so still for me, being so nice.

I finish the small sandwich, and go for another. Then I move for the tea. I lift the pot off Niamh’s stomach, and she sucks in a breath. Her skin beneath the doily is pink from the heat of the tea. I want to kiss her warm skin there. I want to press my cheek into her stomach and let her warm me up.

I pour myself a cup of tea, and place the pot back on Niamh stomach. She tenses again—muscles move beneath a delicious layer of fat.

I put sugar in my cup, and stir it. I tap my spoon on the edge of the cup once, twice. I bring it to my lips. It tastes of metal, and a hint of earl grey. I swirl it around my tongue. I don’t look, but I know Niamh’s eyes follow the movement. She’s always staring at my mouth.

I take the little silver spoon out of my mouth and place it face down over Niamh’s clit. She jolts the tiniest bit. I can’t help the smirk on my face. I make sure the warm metal cradles her clitoris. It’s the perfect fit. I press against the back of the spoon just slightly with my index finger. Niamh hums, her eyes squeezing shut.

She’s going to be so pissed when she realizes that’s all the attention I’m giving her cunt for a while. The thought brings me some perverse pleasure.

I return my focus to tea. I lift the cup to my lips and take my first sip. I drink the tea at a leisurely pace. I make sure not to neglect my wonderful girlfriend though.

I run my fingers up her sternum, acting as if I were absent mindedly running my hand over a regular piece of furniture. Niamh loves being touched here. Sometimes when we lay in bed I'll run my arm up her chest, press my forearm to her ribs. She says she loves the weight of me on her like that.

I press the heel of my palm against her. Niamh hums with pleasure. I run my other hand through her short hair, and scratch at the sides where it's buzzed. 

She sighs—the milk jug bumps into the teapot. I pull away from her.

Niamh pouts. Her eyebrows furrow down, almost touching the top of her giant nose. She's trying to look fierce but it doesn't work on me anymore.

I pinch one of her pink nipples, then roll it between my fingers. She glares at me, and stays perfectly still—refusing to give me a reaction. She’s determined not to mess up again. It fills me with pleasure. And I desire to see just how far I can push before she does slip up.

I pick up me teacup again and stroke her thick thigh with my other hand. Niamh’s hair here is lighter, and softer than it is on the rest of her legs. I love it. Sometimes I can’t resist tugging at her leg hair with my teeth.

Her leg relaxes a bit under my soft touch, until the saucer of jam shifts, and she realizes she almost lost it. 

I hear her suck in a breath and engage her muscles again. I laugh a little and she frowns at me. I move my hand to her knee.

Her hands clench into fists at her side. Her knees have always been a weakness of hers. She gets all soft and mushy whenever I place a palm on her knee. (That was how I got her to stay the night with me the first time. Niamh was nervous, and convinced I didn’t actually want her to stay, but I put a hand on her knee—not thinking about it much—and she melted.) This time though I feel her tense at the touch.

I decide to give Niamh a break and stop touching her. She looks torn between relief and telling me to put my hand back. My smile widens.

I think it's time for a scone. I pick one off the plate and dip my butter knife into the saucer of jam. It's a lovely strawberry jam Niamh bought for me. She’s exceptionally talented at finding me the best gifts. I’m not usually that fond of jams or jellies but this one is divine.  

I spread too much jam on the scone, and catch a bit rolling down to my wrist with my tongue.  

The scone tastes delicious, and the jam is amazing. I see another glob of the red jam running down the side of the scone. I don't stop it; I just wait for the sweet jam to fall off the scone and onto Niamh.

“Oops,” I say, as the jam sticks to the dark curls between her legs. I scoop up the drop with my thumb, and then lick it off. “I think I missed a spot,” I say though there isn’t any jam left. Slowly I circle her lips with a finger. The lid of the teapot rattles with Niamh’s shaky breath.

“Careful,” I whisper to her before dipping my finger inside her. I can tell Niamh’s struggling between relaxing into my touch and staying stiff enough to keep all the dishes from falling. I crook my finger up, barely brushing her g-spot, just to torture her more. She’s so warm and wet and soft. It’s addicting. I pull my finger out and a string of fluid stretches between me and her cunt. I lick my finger like I did when it was covered in jam. I let out a (slightly performative) moan at the taste.

Niamh groans, which just stokes my arousal. It’s a struggle not to reach down into my pants. I squeeze my thighs together for some relief but it’s not nearly enough.

I press two fingers into Niamh instead; she's turned on enough that she can take them easily. I love when she gets like this: so wet from the tiniest amount of touch. 

I pull my fingers out and push them back into her cunt. She's focusing so hard in staying still for me. I pick up the pace but keep my thrusts shallow. She's started sweating. I circle my thumb around the spoon over her clit.

Niamh barely reacts; she’s gotten better at staying still, balancing all my nice china despite my ministrations. It’s unbearably sexy. I don’t know how long I can play this game of ours without shoving all the dishes to the floor and properly fucking her.

I push the spoon out of the way and press my thumb against her clit as I move my fingers deeper, reaching her g-spot again.

“Please,” Niamh whines in a deep voice.

A grin breaks across my face. The heat in my core grows into a burning fire.  

We agreed on this: Niamh wouldn’t speak unless it was to tell me to stop, or to beg me to move forward.

I didn’t think I would get her to the point of begging. I thought surely she’d get tired of it and want to stop, or I’d be too turned on to keep up the scene before Niamh would beg for more.

I hum playfully. “Do you think it’s time for dessert already?” I ask, punctuating my question by circling my two fingers inside of her.

Niamh nods. She does it slowly, and small enough not to disturb any of the china. That’s not enough for me though.

“What was that?” I ask. I press my thumb hard against her clit. It hurts her in a way I know she likes.

“Yes,” she exhales.

“Perfect.”

It’s a process, taking all the china off of Niamh. And even though I’m moving as fast as I can she won’t stop groaning impatiently. I can’t blame her; she was so good and controlled for this entire scene.

I tell Niamh that: how good she was for me, how sexy it is when she has that much control over her reactions, how pretty she looked holding all my nice china so well.

When I take the teapot off, which is the last item left on Niamh’s body, I kiss her lips softly. She sighs into my mouth. I hover over her, moving down her body with kisses. I press my cheek into the warm patch of her stomach where the teapot was. Then I kneel between her legs, pushing her knees apart move to make room for myself.

Niamh props herself up on her elbows to look down at me. She’s looks so handsome. She looks like something I’d like to devour.

I smile at her.

Time for dessert.

Chapter Text

Simon’s already cum, twice. But he wants more . And Baz hasn't come yet. Simon leans against Baz, face nuzzled into his neck, cock softening between his legs.

Lamb is at his back, slowly he pulls out. His cool forehead presses between Simon's shoulder blades. His hand pets the base of his tail. Simon purrs at the feeling.

“Baz,” he whines into his lover’s skin. “ Please , now.”

Baz has been putting it off, distracting Simon with earth shattering orgasms, hoping that will be enough. It’s not. Simon will not give up until he gets what he wants. He’ll stay on this giant red crushed-velvet couch of Lamb’s until he starves to death if he has to. 

Baz doesn’t respond, but the look on his face is enough to let Lamb know the other vampire shouldn’t be pushed tonight.

“Simon,” Lamb whispers, leaning between the younger man’s wings to get closer, “we can give it to him.”

“What?” Simon asks, leaning back into Lamb's chest. He doesn’t understand how that’s different from what he’s trying to do. The issue isn’t Simon’s lack of giving; it’s Baz’s lack of taking.

Lamb presses in more, his lips scrap against the sensitive skin of Simon’s ear. He whispers quiet enough that Baz can’t listen in, even with his vampiric hearing.

Baz worries his bottom lip, concerned about what plot the other two are thinking up. 

“After I’ve drank my fill, I’ll give some to you. Hold it in your mouth, give it to Baz,” Lamb whispers.

Simon whimpers at the thought. He's never given blood to Baz like that. A thrill runs down his spine at the image that Lamb’s words conjure.

He tells Lamb he wants that. 

The vampire moves to sit at Simon’s side and straddles his thigh. and presses his cool lips to Simon’s cheek. Simon turns his head to pull Lamb into a real kiss. 

Lamb breaks away after a moment, to give Baz some attention. He sits in front of them, picking at his nails in his lap, anxious about what they aren’t telling him. 

Lamb taps his chin up with a finger, and stares into Baz’s deep gray eyes. He relaxes a little when Lamb gives him a smile. Lamb leans down to kiss him. Baz sighs against his lips. 

“We’ll take care of you, okay?” Lamb says, running a hand through the other vampire’s hair, it’s a little greasy from their activities. 

“Okay,” Baz replies, deciding to trust his lovers. 

Lamb offers him another reassuring smile and returns his attention to Simon. 

He runs his hands along the planes of Simon’s shoulders, and chest. He presses kisses all along his neck. Simon moans at the touches, desperate for what comes next.  

Lamb settles on the spot he wants to bite, scars from their last encounter sit just below it, they nearly blend in with the myriad of freckles on Simon’s skin. Lamb breathes in a deep breath through his nose, taking in the scent of sweat, and Simon’s green apple shampoo–beneath that is the sweet smell of his blood, and that campfire that seems to always be just below the surface of Simon Snow. 

Lamb asks Simon if he’s ready, and when he has his answer, he sinks in. 

His fangs pierce Simon’s neck with confidence. Lamb can sense when he’s taken enough for himself but not too much for Simon to handle. He’s had centuries to practice. Baz’s approach is less refined. When he drinks from Simon he becomes this scared deer, yet at the same time a ravenous wolf. He’s afraid and disgusted and so desperately hungry in a way Lamb has forgotten how to be. 

Baz watches as Lamb pierces Simon’s skin. His eyes flit between the look on Simon’s face, and the bob of Lamb’s Adam’s apple as he drinks. 

Simon feels Lamb’s fangs as they drop from his gums, and scrap against Simon’s sensitive skin. He tries not to pull away from the sensation, it’s too soft. The bite itself is anything but soft. Sharp pain lights up Simon’s brain as white teeth cut through his skin and fat and muscle. The first moment is the worst, but even that pain Simon finds pleasure in. He does his best to hold still for Lamb, despite his body telling him to pull away, and to lean in closer. 

After a moment the venom starts working. A cold heat courses through his veins. It feels like something Simon’s never been able to put into words. (He’s always been shite with those.) It feels good.

He feels light, as if he could float away. As if his whole body were made of nothing more than electricity and clouds.

Lamb's hand on his shoulder keeps him grounded. The feeling of his fangs buried deep is a constant source of pain and pleasure. It's dizzying. 

Baz can’t do anything but watch. Conflicting emotions twist up his chest and his head. 

He wants Simon to feel good. He wants Lamb to give this to him–he wants Lamb to enjoy himself. They do care for each other. He’s not the villain Simon and Baz once thought he was, he’s simply a vampire who doesn’t hate himself. That used to infuriate Baz, who’d grown up thinking the only way he could atone for the sin of existing as himself was to hate who he was. It angered him to see someone be like him and enjoy it; he’d never been allowed to do that. 

A part of him still feels dirty, evil , for witnessing a vampire feed and doing nothing to stop it. But he knows it isn’t harming Simon. Crowley, he’s seen the way Simon begs for it, and he’s seen the blissed out look on his boyfriend’s face enough times to know a bite is no harm to the man.

Simon's currently melting into Lamb, too blissed out to do anything beyond whisper nonsensical pleeds. 

Perhaps worst of all, Baz is jealous when he sees his lovers like this, sharing blood and pleasure. He shouldn’t, he knows this. He could be on Simon’s neck tonight if he gave in to the begging. It could be him the next time Simon wants this. (And there will be a next time. Baz didn’t used to believe that; he was sure after a few bites Simon would realize how disgusting Baz truly is and leave for good. But he didn’t leave, and he promises Baz he never will.)

He’s not upset with Lamb for taking Simon’s blood, he’s upset with himself–both for wanting to bite Simon, and for not allowing himself to do what he so deeply wants. His gums itch as the scent of Simon’s blood seeps into the air, but Baz refuses to give in–to take what he wants. Not tonight, he can’t tonight. 

And Baz is undeniably turned on by the sight in front of him.

Simon sits flushed and pretty in front of him. His blue eyes are half closed, that look of bliss has always been a weakness of Basil’s. Simon pants lightly, his stomach rising and falling with each breath. Baz loves the weight he’s put on there, loves that it means his boyfriend no longer has to worry about not getting enough to eat, or trying to save the world while running on empty. His big scaled wings flutter absentmindedly behind them.  Light filters through his wings and paints Lamb in this soft orange. 

Lamb’s eyes are closed in bliss and concentration, his normally perfect hair messed up from Simon’s earlier tugging. He’s fit, masculine in the way John William Waterhouse’s painted men are. He’s beautiful. That’s something Baz allows himself to appreciate fully now. 

Baz reaches a hand down to grasp his cock. He groans at the contact. He’s been hard for so long now, he’s desperate for relief. 

Lamb is almost finished, Baz can tell when he starts to slow his drinking and savor Simon's blood. Lamb hums against tan skin and it pulls a pathetic whine from Baz's throat. 

Simon doesn't notice, but Lamb looks up through his long lashes and auburn hair, mouth still attached to his lover's neck, and grins as much as he can in that position at Baz. It makes him whine again louder. 

Simon pants out his name, and then Lamb's. The sound goes straight to Basil's cock. 

When Lamb has had his fill he takes a little more from Simon’s willing veins, but doesn't swallow. He pulls his fangs out carefully. Then he licks at the wounds on Simon's neck, careful not to spill the blood in his mouth. It tastes warm and rich, like letting a piece of fudge melt on his tongue. 

He presses a kiss to Simon's freckled cheek, then gently turns Simon's neck so that they face each other. 

Simon pushes up to reach Lamb’s lips, eager to do as he was asked. One of Simon’s hands reaches to cup Lamb’s pec. Lamb opens his mouth, half kissing, half pushing the blood to Simon. Simon opens his mouth, taking the warm liquid, doing his best to hold it all and return the kiss. 

Lamb’s lips are cool and pink. He hums when Simon runs a hand through his hair, and scratches at the nape of his neck. Simon’s tongue pushes past his lips, deepening the kiss and searching for fangs. He can hear Baz reprimanding Simon for this in his head, but Lamb doesn’t stop the man. All he finds is regular teeth. 

Lamb chuckles at the slump in Simon’s posture when he realizes the fangs aren’t there. After so many centuries, Lamb has complete control over himself, even with a mouthful of deliciously sweet blood. 

When Simon has taken all he can into his mouth, Lamb slowly breaks the kiss. Simon’s blue eyes look up at him, he tries to smile, but quickly realizes he can’t do that with a mouthful of his own blood. It’s equal parts amusing and maddeningly attractive.  

Lamb hums. "You did so well, sweetheart," he purrs against Simon's cheek.

The other man beams at Lamb for his words of praise. His tail thumps happily against the cushions. 

"Now be a good boy, give it to Baz," he says before placing a slightly bloody kiss on Simon's neck, where the puncture wounds are already healing up. 

Simon nods and shuffles on his knees the short distance to Baz. He kneels between Baz’s pale legs.

Lamb is sated, and content to let the other two finish while he rests. He knows Simon will be gentle and give Baz what he wants. He watches them though, curious to see Baz’s reaction. 

The other vampire is too stunned to speak, or move. He just stares at his boyfriend, at the bit of blood threatening to spill out of the corner of his kiss-sore lips. HIs pupils dilate when it clicks in his brain what’s happening.

Simon, sits on his knees, between Baz’s long legs. He leans down to reach Baz’s mouth. He pulls his black hair to tilt the other man’s face up. Baz whines when Simon opens his lips the tiniest bit to let drops of blood fall into his mouth. The taste is so sweet like moist chocolate cake, and caramel popcorn. It’s mouthwatering. 

His fangs drop. Baz wonders why he tried refusing something so good. He wonders how he ended up with two people willing to be so good to him, to take care of him.

It’s slightly awkward for Baz to crane his neck up and swallow, but that doesn’t stop him from gulping down the sweet blood Simon gives to him. He feels like a man in the desert, finally finding an oasis. He moans at the taste. It’s embarrassing. It’s thrilling, letting Simon know how desperate he is for this.

The blood settles in Baz’s stomach, warming his core. It makes his ache for more. The hand on his prick moves faster. 

When there’s no more blood to drink, Baz pulls Simon by the back of his neck into a brutal kiss. Simon growls against him, kissing back with equal intensity.

“Was that good?” Simon asks against his lips, searching for any sign of regret or discomfort.

Baz doesn’t bother answering with words. He rubs his prick against Simon’s thigh, and pulls at the base of his tail. He can’t focus on doing much with the tail though, Simon’s hand demands all of Baz’s attention. Simon always had all of his attention. 

Simon smiles, then kisses Baz’s jaw. 

“Love you,” he pants. 

All Baz can do is whine, and squeeze his cock. 

Simon bats his pale hand out of the way and tugs on Baz firmly. It pulls a moan from Baz’s throat. He presses sloppy kisses against Simon’s collarbone. 

Simon leans back for a moment, lets some red tinted saliva slip between his lips and drip onto Basil’s cock. A pathetic sound leaves Baz’s mouth when he sees what Simon’s done. 

Simon grins. He rubs it around the head of Baz’s cock, mesmerized by the sight. He’d like to see Baz covered in blood. He’d open up an artery, give Baz all he could drink and so much more, until he was drowning in it. Until all that was inside Baz, and on him, and around him was Simon . 

Baz squirms, unable to sit still under Simon’s ministrations. 

Baz slumps against Simon’s chest. He’s close, Simon can tell by the way he pants against Simon’s warm skin. He can feel his fangs scrape so lightly over the skin of his sternum. Simon speeds up his fist. His tail wraps around Baz’s middle and pulls him closer. 

“Are you going to cum?” He asks, nosing at Baz’s hair.

Baz manages to nod. 

“Yeah?” Simon asks, but he’s pretty sure of the answer. “You want to be nice for us and cum all over me?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Baz chants. He feels as if he’ll die if he doesn’t. 

Simon keeps his hand steady, he moves Baz’s hair off his neck, finds the old scar there, and fits his teeth over it. He doesn’t bite, he’s gentle, always gentle with Baz. He holds Baz in his mouth, warms him up. Hoping Baz knows he isn’t afraid and he isn’t disgusted. He loves all of Baz, even the parts Baz hates. He tries to tell him that with his mouth over the old bite scar. 

As soon as Simon’s teeth are on Baz’s scar, he’s done for. He gasps against Simon and spills out. Spunk covers Simon’s hand and his stomach. 

Baz is boneless. He is full and drained and so happy. He can’t move. Maybe he’ll never move again in his life. 

Simon rubs soothing circles on his back. His tail loosens around Baz and Simon positions them so they’re laying next to Lamb on the sofa. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, but they can all fit on the large velvet couch. 

“You’re okay?” Baz asks, when his brain finally comes back online. He props himself up to lean over Simon and check on him. 

Simon lets out a breathy laugh. His wings shake against the back of the couch. His face glows with joy. “I’m fine. I’m always fine.” He tucks a strand of long hair behind Baz’s ear. 

Baz smiles softly. He lays down again. Then he turns to his other side, wraps an arm around Lamb’s form. 

“Thank you,” Baz whispers against Lamb’s cool lips. 

Lamb smiles, and returns the kiss, without opening his eyes. He tastes hints of Simon’s blood, and the cool refreshing taste of Baz. He’s proud of Baz for letting himself have this tonight. He knows how hard the other vampire is on himself.  

In a moment he’ll get up. He’ll clean himself and his two lovers. And then Baz will insist they get food and drink for Simon, lest he pass out from blood loss, while also refusing to get the supplies himself, because he’s useless after sex. (Lamb knows how to take care of someone after a bite, he doesn’t need reminding.) (He doesn’t mind Basil’s fretting though. He understands how much he worries about Simon.) Simon will reassure Baz when his anxiety and self-loathing kick in. And they’ll all move to the bed, a place better suited for three grown men to sleep than this red sofa.

But for now, Lamb rests his head on Baz’s shoulder and lets himself enjoy the feeling of human contact, and the feeling of warm blood in his stomach, and the sound of all their breaths slowly calming down.

Chapter Text

The room is dark when I walk in with a plate of food for Davy. I made dinner an hour ago but he never came out to the dining room. He’s so absorbed in his research he must have forgotten to get up and eat, or turn on the lamp. I thought the prophecy studying would lessen once I was pregnant but Davy’s been even more invested in reading myths and old books to make sure everything goes well. It’s sweet how dedicated he is to our child. 

I gently knock on the door frame and he looks up from his notes. Davy’s got that mad look in his eyes again. 

“Lucy,” he says, standing and pulling me into the dark nursery. 

Well, this room is supposed to be the nursery–Davy still has his desk, books, and papers scattered everywhere. At least we got the crib put in yesterday. 

Davy says he needs room for his research, and the cottage only has two bedrooms so I understand, but I want the baby to have it’s own space. And I’ve always wanted to decorate a nursery. I’ve always wanted a child. 

“I’ve finally found the missing piece,” Davy beams, holding me tighter in his arms. 

I take a moment to relax in his hold; carrying this child has been more draining than I was expecting, and I’m barely half way through. I can hardly manage to get out and feed the chickens every day now. I’m so tired. 

“I thought you had all the pieces,” I say against Davy’s firm chest. It’s comforting to be held. His arms squeeze me tighter. 

“I had the pieces to make him The Prophesied One, but now!” He twirls away from me and gestures at the papers he has stuck to the wall. He lets go of me so fast I have to clutch the crib to stop myself from falling over. I’ve been dizzy lately, but that’s normal.

“I can make him powerful .” His grin widens, taking up almost half of his face. “It’s all in the modern myths, Lucy.” Davy makes a sweeping motion towards the wall covered in paper, then picks up a notebook he’s written in. I don’t know how he can read anything when the only light in the room is coming from the screen of his personal computer. “This-” Davy slaps the notebook in his hand, “This is where real power is.” 

He strides over to me, boots loud on the wood floor. He places a hand on my belly. 

“He’ll be the greatest mage of our lifetime,” Davy whispers against my hair, “Possibly the greatest mage to ever live.”

(I’ve given up pointing out our child could be a boy or a girl to him, it’s not like it matters much really.)

Davy’s blunt nails press into the fabric of my shirt. We’ve already been able to feel the baby kick, but it’s still now. 

“And, he will be ours , Lucy,” Davy grins at me, eyes wide. “He’ll be our mage.”

I smile back at him. The baby will be ours. Above everything else we’ll have a child to love and care for. Davy knows that, deep down, even if right now he’s focused on the prophecy. 

I lean up to kiss him. Davy’s mustache tickles my upper lip. 

It’s only a moment before he pulls away. 

“I love you,” I say against his lips. 

Davy smiles briefly before stepping back to his desk. I put the plate of food next to his work, hoping he won’t forget about it. 

His stuff will be out of the nursery by next week, Davy promised me. And we’ll paint these walls yellow, I’ll hang up that painting of roses my grandmother gave to me years ago. And in 4 months we’ll have a baby. Things will be good.

Chapter Text

It’s nice being back in Hampshire for Christmas. The magic returned last year, and my family has settled in once again. 

I’m sitting on the floor of my old bedroom. Dinner went well, and I stayed up late talking with my parents while Simon entertained the kids. Swithin screams with joy when Simon takes him flying (Though he never gets more than a foot off the ground while holding him). It’s sweet. Simon’s great with all of my siblings. I think he wants kids, not now, but eventually. 

I yawn, socializing with my family always makes me tired, even though it’s not tense, disapproving conversations like it used to be. The oriental rug scratches my palms. 

Simon comes in from the bathroom and takes his place next to me. He stretches his back and his wings stretch and flap behind him before settling. His tail finds my wrist and curls around it. I smile. 

Simon stares at the dying embers in the fireplace before adding a few logs, and gently blowing fire on them. He can do that now: breath fire, and blow smoke out of his nose. I think he could always do that, I mean after he magicked himself wings and a tail, we just hadn’t realized it until recently. 

I nuzzle into his side, taking in his warmth and the heat from the fire. My face is too hot from the flames, so I turn away from the fireplace kiss to my favorite mole on Simon’s neck. I can feel him smile. 

It’s hard to believe that we’re here again, on Christmas eve. The first time I kissed Simon Snow in my bedroom, on the floor by the fireplace, I was certain there wouldn’t be a next time. I was certain whatever was happening between us couldn’t last. 

But here we are. It’s been years and Simon is still here. We’re still trying. 

Simon turns to kiss me on the mouth. His lips are so hot they almost burn. I wouldn’t pull away if they were burning me. After a few moments I cool him down to his normal temperature. 

He licks my lips, asking a question. 

I open my mouth, letting him deepen the kiss.

Simon places a hand on my cheek–his other arm cradles the back of my neck. He’s so good to me, so gentle. 

I press against him harder, I dig my nails into the spike at the end of one of his wings. Simon shivers. 

Slowly, he presses me into the carpet. The fire beside us crackles. Were I human I wouldn’t be able to see his lovely blush in the dim light. 

My back arches up into him, my hair rubs into the rug. 

Simon holds himself above me, like he did the first time we were here. I lean forward to reach his lips. I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking. If he remembers doing this before, if he knew I’d do anything to keep him with me that night, I’d cross any line. 

Tonight he doesn’t make me reach for very long, he lowers himself so I can lay fully on the ground. 

I run a hand through his curls; they sparkle and dance in the flames.

Simon kisses my nose, then my jaw, my ear, my neck. I sigh. He moves back to my lips, but yawns. 

It makes me laugh. 

He smiles at me, brighter than any fire could hope to be. I can’t help but fall more in love with him. 

“Do you ever think-” Simon’s face sobers “-you ever think what might have happened, that night? If we-if I hadn’t figured things out in time? If you…” 

I shake my head. “I think it was meant to happen the way it did,” I say. 

“But what-I mean-”

I take a page out of Simon’s book, and shut him up with a kiss. He’s so warm, and pliant against my lips. 

“I thought you told me you don’t think about things you can’t change?” I say, against his lips, raising an eyebrow. 

He rolls his eyes at me, then rolls his body to lay next to me. “Thought you said that was stupid.” 

“It is,” I maintain. 

He scoffs, a bit of smoke billows out of his nose. It’s strangely attractive. (At this point I really should stop being surprised that anything Simon-related is attractive to me.)

I can tell he’s still bothered by the what-ifs of our first kiss. I’ve thought about it too, where I would be if Simon hadn’t stopped me from burning myself with those trees. But he did stop me, and we’re here, no point in making a worse story for our lives in my head. 

“Hey,” I say, nudging his shoulder with mine. “We’re here, together, that’s what matters.”

He nods, blue eyes staring into mine. He smiles with one corner of his mouth. 

“I just don’t want to lose you,” he says in a low voice. He used to say things like that as if he were scared it’d happen any second. He says it now as a confession of how much I mean to him, not as an expression of fear. 

“And I never want to lose you,” I say, pushing his curls off of his forehead, his tail still wrapped around my wrist. I bring it to my mouth to kiss the leathery scales there. 

“I would appreciate losing the possibility of bruising my spine on this floor, however,” I groan, moving to get up off the floor. “Let’s go to bed.”

“You’re not going to bruise your bloody spine by laying on the floor,” Simon says condescendingly, but he’s still smiling. 

“You never know-” I stand up, brushing imaginary dust off my pyjama pants “-I’m an old, fragil man, Simon the slightest pressure to my spine could send me to hospital.” 

He laughs at this. 

“You aren’t even thirty!” 

I just grin, and climb under the blankets on my old bed. Once the heat from Simon and the fire leaves me, I realize how cold it is under here. 

“Come on, come to bed,” I say to Simon.  

He shakes his head, not looking away from the fire. He does that more now too, watches fire, and asks me to make them in my palms sometimes. 

I huff. 

“Let me watch the fire,” he says. 

“I need warming up,” I pout. 

Simon lets out a deep sigh, but he gets up from the floor, 

“You are so fucking needy,” he groans, pulling the covers back to get beside me, but he’s still smiling.

I shove my nose into his chest and my hands around to the base of his wings. His warmth seeps into my skin, settles into my bones. 

He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Once you’re warm I’m watching the fire until it dies.” 

“Okay, love.”